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The Epic of Deacon Summers; Book 10: Heroes et Scelerati
Topic Started: May 1 2016, 10:04 PM (22 Views)
Deacon Summers

Wise and great Bastet has sent her messengers to me. They have allowed me to see what is written in the Book of Thoth, which holds the secrets of the universe, in her charge for safekeeping. It holds all knowledge, of what was, what is, and what is yet to be. The Mother of Prophecy requests that I divulge these secrets before the Great Barge makes its trip around the Earth once more.

It tells me of a son of Olympus, meeting a champion from eras past, one who also knows the taste of divinity. Of his challenges, one comes in another of divine birth, the son of the Jade Emperor of the Celestial Bureaucracy. Others come from the realm of mortals, the ones known as the Stranger and Dietrich. The book is unclear as to whether he overcomes these challenges.

It appears Bastet wishes some things to still be kept secret.





April 23, 2016
Stegeman Coliseum
Athens, GA


Deacon briefly wondered how much money it had cost the promoter to book the show. It was a decent crowd, nowhere near the 10,000+ seating the coliseum could fill, but he knew it couldn’t have been cheap to take the basketball stadium of the Georgia Bulldogs for an evening.

He took a swig from the wineskin strapped to his torso, offering some to Brietta Corrado, sitting next to him. She declined.

“You sure?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Deacon took another swig.

“You’ve told me about seven times since we left the hotel, Deacon, I think I get the picture.” She crossed her arms, her wrists still taped up halfway up her forearm. None of the cuts were fresh, at least.

He turned his attention back to the ring. Manslaughter, an imposing figure in an orange prison jumpsuit, was laying boots into a smaller, but more physically impressive man by the name of Scott Free. Both were decent wrestlers (with Manslaughter being more of a brawler, and Free kind of reminding Deacon of Ainsley Lake), but so far the match had been nothing exciting.

His attention was pulled by a bustling next to him, as a large man with a powerlifter’s build, a mop of curly gray hair, and a long but neatly trimmed gray beard sat down next to him. His skin was tanned, his torso like an oak cask nearly bursting. He had a large tub of popcorn and an extra large beer in his massive leathery hands, and he watched the ring intently as he put the tub on the floor next to him. Deacon acknowledged him for a minute, then looked back at the ring.

After a few seconds, the man spoke. “Good match so far, huh?”

“Eh, Manslaughter seems a little sloppy, but he’s got potential. That Free kid, though… he could be something.”

“Oh, he will be, I guarantee it.” The man took a large gulp of the beer, following it up with a handful of buttery popcorn. He didn’t wait to finish it before he spoke again. “Hey, you’re that Deacon Summers kid, right? From the EWA?”

Deacon smiled politely, offering his hand. “Yeah, that’s right. Still not used to people recognizing me, if you can believe that.”

The man shook his hand with a smile, still crunching popcorn in his mouth. “No, I believe it. Really nice job in that match with Mirage. Shame about Robertson, though. Tough loss.”

“He’s clearly my nemesis now, since I’m 0-2 against him. There’s always next time, though. At least it wasn’t for the belt.”

“That’s true. Well, good job with that anyway.” He took another gulp of his beer, washing the popcorn down. “Oh, uh, and nice work with that giant in Boston. I mean, I realize you didn’t personally kill the thing, but your bravery in taking it on with just the Irish lass with you was well recognized on Olympus. Your dad was pretty proud of you. I’m guessing he probably forgot to tell you so.”

Deacon slowly turned his head to face his beefy new friend. He looked at Deacon with a massive smile on his bearded face. “Who… are you?”

“Right now? I’m Al Amphitryon, professor of sports medicine at the University of Georgia. You’d probably know me better as Hercules, or Heracles if you actually know the difference between Greek and Latin.”

“Wait, like the Hercules?” Brietta leaned over Deacon, wide-eyed.

“Are there others?”

“What about the one that wrestled in the 80s?”

“Isn’t he dead?” Deacon added.

“Yes and no,” Hercules said. “That was one of my avatars. I gotta be honest, I miss the ring a little.”

“So my dad said he was proud of me? Why couldn’t he tell me himself?”

Hercules chuckled. “Let’s be honest, kid, your dad sometimes has a tough time remembering to put his toga on in the morning. I’d figure a party animal such as yourself would understand that.”

Deacon shrugged. “I dunno… I’ve never really had a family, so I guess when I found out I expected it to be a little more… conventional.”

Hercules put a massive arm around Deacon’s shoulders. “Listen, cuz, because here’s the truth about it. Our family is conventional in all the wrong ways. Shit, my dad’s a philanderer and his wife knows it. She sent vipers to kill me when I was a baby. Let me tell you how awkward that is at Thanksgiving dinner, y’know? But I promise you, you will never find a group of people more proud of our family members’ individual accomplishments. That’s what being an Olympian is all about. And you are the EWA Atlantic Coast Champion. That’s an accomplishment. I guarantee you, your dad is probably bragging about it to Eris right now.”

“Thanks,” Deacon said weakly, Hercules’ grip on his shoulder painful. “So are you the reason why this company’s here?”

“Oh, yeah, me and the dean go way back… he basically caves to any demand I have. And I wanted a wrestling show. So here it is.”

Both men looked at the ring, as Manslaughter brought Free up for a powerbomb, but Free reversed it into a hurracanrana. Hercules cheered, accidentally throwing a little bit of popcorn into the air.

When “March of the Volunteers,” otherwise known as the Chinese national anthem, hit the speakers, Deacon and Hercules were equally confused.

“What the fuck? They’re in the middle of the match,” Brietta said, looking to the entrance. Scott Free looked out, completely baffled, and as Manslaughter got to his feet, he also seemed taken aback.

“This doesn’t look right,” Hercules said. “I think someone’s going off script.”

An absolute beast of a man, at 6’10” and probably somewhere in the vicinity of 300 pounds, stepped out from the curtain, frothing with rage. He was wearing a military uniform (Deacon guessed probably for the PLA) that barely contained his massively muscular body. His face was beet red, all of the hair on the top of his head shaved off, but with a beard that came halfway down his torso. A smaller Chinese man, balding, in glasses and a suit and tie, followed after him, the Chinese flag in his hands. The crowd started off quiet, but as soon as they exited, the boos started.

The soldier marched forward, eyes focused on the ring. He ignored the ringside fans, and stepped up on the ring apron with a mission. Scott Free tried to fight him, throwing a punch at his head, but it barely registered, and soon Free was sent over the top rope with an INSANE belly to belly suplex. Free flew ten feet from the ring, landing on his back, and rolled over, clutching his shoulder.

The soldier slid into the ring, and Manslaughter immediately started kicking him as the referee called for the bell. The soldier stood up, only about three inches taller than Manslaughter, but shrugging off his blows as if they were nothing.

“Wow, and he’s really slugging him, too. Those are some serious potatoes.” Hercules started to look worried. “He’s not just going off script, he’s going WAY off script.”

The soldier screamed in Manslaughter’s face, before turning him around and dropping him to the mat with an Omega driver. Manslaughter crumpled, and the soldier scooped him up like a ragdoll, tossing him over the top rope and out of the ring like a bag of discarded trash. The smaller man came in with the flag, handing the soldier a microphone. He also kept one for himself.

“Shit, I know this guy,” Hercules said. Before he could continue, an angry voice rang through the PA.

“DEACON SUMMERS,” the soldier said. What followed was a stream of what Deacon could only assume was Mandarin Chinese. It was enough to get his attention. Deacon stood up in the crowd.

The smaller man pointed, putting the flag in the turnbuckle. “There he is! Imperialist dog that he is! Deacon Summers, Guan Yiping, hero of the People’s Liberation Army and son of the Jade Emperor Guan Yu demands you confront him! You claim to be a god of Olympus? We will show all of these people what Olympus is worth! A true god would never allow himself to be beaten like a dog! Especially against someone as weak as Martin Robertson or Marcus Mirage! Guan Yiping would tear their arms from their bodies!”

“Really? In the middle of the ring? I’m thinking probably not.” Deacon was talking back to the man, but since he was a couple of rows back, he probably couldn’t hear him. He started to move forward, but Brietta put a hand out.

“Nah, I got this.”

“You sure?” Hercules had stood up as well, but Brietta nodded.

“I’ve been itching for a fight since we left Mexico.” She started to walk toward the ring, pushing fans out of the way.

Guan let out an endless stream of Mandarin, and his manager translated. “So that is what the Olympians do? They let their women fight for them? No wonder Martin Robertson beat you. You are a weak coward! Send your bitch to take on the new God of War! See where it gets you!”

Brietta hopped the guardrail with a smile, her lithe sinews tensing. She looked back at Deacon, sliding something out of the tape on her wrists.

A small obsidian needle.

She hopped in the ring, the smaller man still screaming at her. “You are nothing to the God of War! You insult him with your presence! You could not possibly--”

Brietta cut him off with a hand around his throat. She pulled him toward the ropes, lifting him up, and tossing him to the floor outside with a chokeslam. The crowd roared. Scott Free was barely getting up, but was watching intently.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Brietta said, “shall we start this?”

Guan said something in Mandarin.

“Speak English, fuckface, I know you’re capable.”

“I will not again sully my mouth with your barbarian pig-speech,” Guan spat at her. Before she could respond, he landed a huge right hand to Brietta’s face. She crumpled to the mat, staring back at Deacon with a smile, and dragging the stone razor across her forehead.

Scott Free watched in awe.

“That’s bad,” said Hercules. “That’s real bad.”

Deacon was confused. “What, blading? It’s whatever, she’s dealt with worse.”

“No… she’s Aztec, man. She’s not blading, she’s making a sacrifice. She’s using divine abilities in front of all these people. That is not going to go well for her.”

Brietta stood to her feet, looking back at Guan, sliding the stone into her pocket. “You want to try that again, Red?”

Guan gritted his teeth, angry. He charged at her, swinging his fist again.

Brietta caught it in her hand, shaking her head, blood dripping off of her nose. She kicked him hard in the gut, dropping him to the mat with a facebuster.

Guan got to his feet almost immediately, and she locked up with him. Guan tossed her to the corner, and as she impacted the turnbuckle, so too did Guan’s shoulder to her midsection.

The force of the blow buckled the ring post, and the top two ring cables snapped. Hercules jumped to his feet. “Kid, we gotta stop this, like now. They’re gonna take the whole stadium down if we let ‘em.”

“What do I do?”

“Hey!” A voice came from Deacon’s shirt. “Say something to get the crowd riled up, and pull her out in the chaos! You’re divinity, act like it!”

“Fortune? What the hell are you doing in there?”

“We’ll talk later, Herc, just do it!”

Guan picked Brietta up by the head, wrapping a ring rope around her neck. He pulled himself up onto the apron, pulling her up with him, hanging her. He screamed something more in Mandarin.

Scott Free hopped onto the apron, grabbing the flag from the corner, and slamming it across Guan’s back. Guan barely felt it, but the flagpole snapped. Deacon hopped over the guardrail, grabbing Guan’s microphone off the floor. Guan turned, dropping Brietta to the floor, and charged immediately toward Scott. He leapt off the mat, turning into a capoeira kick that landed on Guan’s head.

“Everybody! That Chinese dude said Georgia Tech rules!”

Deacon yelled at Scott to run, as he ran around the ring to Brietta. Trash started flying into the ringside area, a soda cup bouncing off the head of Guan Yiping. By the time Guan was able to see through the stream of trash (which seemingly avoided Deacon completely by accident), the three were halfway down the ramp, and a ring crew was out, trying to fix the broken ring. Security poured out, trying to keep Guan from tearing down the ramp.





“Thanks. You were awesome,” Scott said, beaming despite the bruising on his face. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you right now.”

He was leaning up against the wall in a dressing room, Deacon and Brietta with him. Deacon was putting a butterfly bandage on the cut on Brietta’s head, her face still coated in blood.

“No problem,” Deacon said with a smile. “Sorry you had to deal with it.”

Free’s face soured. “Not you, dipshit. I was talking to her. You’re, like, amazing. The way you beat him like that out there? I ain’t never seen anyone take on Guan like that.”

“And you probably won’t again,” Brietta replied. “I’d be surprised if he doesn’t get fired for that stunt.”

“Where are you guys going from here? I don’t think I want to work with these guys anymore, either.” Scott had moved over to Brietta, getting a little close for her comfort.

She put a hand up, stopping him, before wiping the blood from her eyes. “Back off, man, I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh my god, no fucking way. You’re this awesome, AND you’re gay, too? I swear, I don’t meet nearly enough of us on the road. There’s so much I could learn from you.”

Deacon smiled weakly. “Look, Scott, we gotta get going. We need to get on the road tonight.”

“Aww, you’re riding with this guy?” Scott looked dejected. “Wait, you’re with the EWA, right? Awesome. Cool. Thanks again, Brietta! Wow.” Scott slung his bag over his shoulder, quickly exiting the room.

“What the fuck is his deal?” Brietta shook her head.

“His deal is you pissed Fate off.” Deacon put another bandage on, staunching the blood flow. “Herc was telling me about it. You can’t be doing that whole ‘sacrifice’ thing in front of people. This is what happens.”

“Lesson learned, I guess.”





At the hotel
Athens, GA


Deacon opened the door to the hotel room, but there’s no way he was prepared for what he found.

Elsa and Blacktooth stood over what remained of the bed. Blacktooth was wearing just his jeans, with Elsa in her suit pants and a bra, her braid loose and unkempt. The mahogany headboard was broken.

Splintered, in fact.

Deacon looked at them, then back to the bed, then back to them. “That was a solid wood headboard.”

“Yeah,” Blacktooth said.

“Mahogany. Strong and thick.”

“Mmhmm.” Elsa was turning red.

“How the fuck did you do that?”

Blacktooth and Elsa couldn’t look at each other.

“Yeah, so, you have the scratch to pay for this, right?” Blacktooth said, looking down.





Another hotel
Athens, GA


Guan screamed in Mandarin, punching a hole in the wall. It had been concrete. It was now powder.

Please,” the smaller man, the man who had been with him in the ring, pleaded, also in Mandarin. “We cannot afford to pay for the damages in every hotel room we go to. The Republic will only accept so much.

You think I give a damn about the Republic, Hong?! I am no mere pawn of the state to be used as they will! I am the son of the Jade Emperor! And I will not be disrespected by some brown cunt with a blood fetish!” His skin had turned bright red, and he tugged on the long beard. “Fuck the People’s Republic, Hong. I fight for them because it is convenient. Because they give me an enemy. But now I see a true enemy. Someone actually worth battling. I will not be denied my victory.

Be careful how you speak, Colonel Guan. The Republic has ears everywhere.

Let them listen. I have millennia’s worth of my ancestors guiding me, not Mao’s Little Red Book. They will find I am not so easy to erase.

Hong put a hand on Guan’s shoulder, trying to calm him. “Of course, Colonel Guan. But you and I know well that the state will not come to take you face to face. Think of the story of Lu Bu… it was not skill in battle that took down the greatest fighter of his generation. It was crafty tactics and deception. These are things the Republic knows well.

Guan’s face started to cool, the red color starting to fade, but never leaving completely. “Yes. Thank you, Hong. Your counsel is always wise.” He stepped over to a small shrine, with a jade statue of Guan Yu at its center. “I must meditate on your words, and allow myself to calm down. Then we can formulate a plan to defeat that Atzlanti woman.

Hong took a deep breath, looking down at his phone. He is becoming harder to control, his text said, and we may need to eliminate him soon.





(The camera finds us in front of the reflecting pool by the Washington Monument. Deacon sits on a bench, the monument in the background.)

Deacon Summers: If you had told me at Asylum that I’d be picking up gold in the next two weeks, I’d have laughed in your face.

But that’s just how things go sometimes, right? I mean, it didn’t take long after for me to be eliminated from the Path of the Warrior tourney. It sucks, but I guess Fate thinks me and Martin are gonna have an interesting story.

But that’s the thing about stories. They have certain elements that are common. They have heroes, and they have villains. They have redemption arcs, hero’s journeys, wheeling and dealing, skullduggery.

But there are always heroes, or protagonists, and villains, or antagonists.

Sometimes, they have more than one of each.

But as I walk into this triple threat match, it’s obvious I’m the only hero here.

Because as much as my opponents might like to talk about my devil-may-care attitude, I actually do care what happens in the middle of that ring.

I’m not just here for a paycheck. I’m here to make something of myself. Something I never used to be.

There was a time when yeah, all I would’ve cared about was cashing that check and heading down to the casino. When I would’ve gambled it away and slept in my car. Until the EWA, I never worked an honest job in my life. Everything was a game.

It’s different now. It’s not a game. It’s a story.

And I am determined for my story to be one that will go down in the pages of history. I will be remembered as a hero in a dark place. While the Youth and Team Draven fight for control, while the Shinyas and Calders of the world try to darken the skies, I stand as someone who rises above it all. Who fights for what he believes is right. Who fights for the EWA Atlantic Coast Championship, to elevate it so that its legacy is bright.

Someone who will take it out of the Devil’s Playground and into mine.

Dietrich says I don’t like to stay down when I should.

But that’s the thing, Dietrich. I don’t stay down because I can’t.

It just wouldn’t make for a good story.

And while I may face setbacks, and others may try to keep me down, my story ends with my hand raised high.

You want an extra paycheck. Indrid wants to see everyone rot.

I want the EWA to thrive. I want it to be a place where competition is valued more than theatrics. Where people can see that it doesn’t take Maury Povich pregnant woman tricks to succeed. Where you can be a charismatic personality and a talented wrestler, and not have to stab people in the back to get to the top.

I’m proof so far. I intend for it to stay that way.

And in order to do that, this week I have to take down my villains. It’s nothing personal.

It’s for the good of the story.

(Fade to black.)





And so Bastet’s vision ends. Too much knowledge of the things to come were not meant for us mortals. But if you listen, Bastet’s children will whisper sacred truths in your ear.

Listen close, children, and the answers will be given.
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