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[Session]; POTW II vs. Maggie McIntyre
Topic Started: May 24 2016, 10:05 PM (53 Views)
Indrid Calder
EWA World Heavyweight Champion


The room is deathly still. There is a window and a few rays of late sunlight filter in through it, alighting on a nameplate on an oaken desk. The nameplate reads “Dr. Charles Pope.”

The EWA-appointed psychologist is unremarkable in appearance, just an older man with a graying beard and horn-rimmed spectacles. The only sound in the room is the soothing whoosh of the central air through the vents. There are trees beyond the room’s sole window, towering elms and oaks, creating a sort of canopy with the intention to give his patients a calm, safe place to unburden themselves of whatever is troubling them.

Sometimes Dr. Pope starts off with a joke to lighten the mood. Other times he just poses an anti-inflammatory question to get the patient to open up, and the majority of the time, that’s all his patients need to do. They just need someone to talk to. They need someone willing to listen. These are the usual tricks of the trade.

For the first time in his tenure as a licensed psychologist, Dr. Pope has absolutely no idea how to engage with the man that sits on the leather chair across from his desk.

Dr. Pope takes him in, his antiquated soot-gray suit, his pressed gray slacks, his boots the color of trodden cinders, smeared ash. The man has not spoken a word since he sat down in that chair. He simply crossed his legs, poised, almost cat-like. He stares, and his eyes seem to burn into Dr. Pope’s own eyes. It’s a cutting sensation, like knife-blue irises drilling down into your mind and making you feel an incredible sense of discomfort.

Dr. Pope has dealt with remorseless sociopaths. He has dealt with paranoid schizophrenics. He has sat across from suicidal neurotics and mentally ill individuals of all shapes and sizes during the course of his career.

Never a man like this.

There’s an inherent, unspeakable wrongness about the presence of this man in his office. Strange word associations enter into Dr. Pope’s head from almost nowhere at all, words like “outsider” and “unknowable”.

Dr. Pope: Well, Mister…uh…Calder, it’s good to finally make your acquaintance. This office is contracted to service the needs of all the Warriors employed in the EWA, and although we have a file on each competitor, only a few have sat down with me for personal sessions thus far. I understand that you…requested this session?

Calder: Correct.

Dr. Pope: Good. That’s good. I’ve taken a look at your file, and I notice some…abnormalities. I’m sure they’re just clerical errors. We don’t have financial records for you. We don’t have a social security number. You don’t have any registered forms of government identification. We typically have fingerprints on file as well, but yours…seem…unique. They show up in our system as just looped, twisted spirals. It almost looks like…you somehow cut or burned off your own fingerprints.

Calder: What a conundrum, Dr. Pope.

Dr. Pope: Can you shed any light on that conundrum?

Calder: Does your cat shed, Dr. Pope? I notice three white hairs on the shoulder of your suit jacket. Those hairs stink of comfortable suburbia and minivans and predictability. Perhaps you should invest in a lint brush.

Dr. Pope looks up at his shoulder, noticing three infinitesimally small cat hairs there, almost impossible to notice, but this man noticed, this Stranger…seems to notice many things that others don’t. He brushes his shoulder off before continuing.

Dr. Pope: You signed your name at the reception desk as Ignatius Coalfield. Are you aware that you did that? I assume that’s just a nickname…or an alias. Is Indrid Calder your birth name?

Calder: It’ll serve.

Dr. Pope: Either it’s your birth name or it’s not, Mister Calder.

Calder: Most of my names are lies.

Dr. Pope simply stares at Calder, flummoxed by this man and his cold, almost mechanical responses.

Dr. Pope: What brings you here today, Mister Calder?

Calder: Those trees outside of your window…they’re beautiful, Dr. Pope. They’re old. How old do you think they are?

Dr. Pope: I don’t know, Mister Calder. I’d guess that they’re very old. Ancient. They’ve been here long before this building was ever built.

Calder: Oh, I know.

Something about the way Calder just casually says this last line sends gooseflesh breaking out across Dr. Pope’s arms.

Outsider. Unknowable.

Dr. Pope: I understand that you’ve recently joined a group within the EWA wrestling organization. A group called HATE. What is your reasoning for joining a group seemingly devoted to extreme, murderous violence?

Calder: Probably because extreme, murderous violence is loads of fun. You should try it sometime, Dr. Pope. Very cathartic. Purges the soul…

Dr. Pope: These men you’ve aligned with…a William West and a Prudence Collins…how would you describe them?

Calder: Allies. Visionaries. Friends.

Dr. Pope: On rare occasions you make mention of someone or something you refer to as the “Horseman”…is Mister Collins or Mister West this aforementioned Horseman?

Calder laughs. It’s a hollow sound, seeming to suck up all the white noise that surrounds them.

Calder: West and Collins are allies and equals, Dr. Pope. They are my HATEful brethren. The Horseman…is something else entirely. The concept of the Horseman is beyond your comprehension for now. When you hear the distant hoofbeats, you’ll know. Just listen, Dr. Pope. You have to know how to listen.

Dr. Pope finds himself listening. He notices something has changed. The central air has shorted out, and no fresh currents come down through the vents. He begins to sweat.

It starts small, a few beads of perspiration along the back of his neck. It escalates, the pores on his face seeming to open as droplets of sweat emerge along his flesh. He tugs at his collar, staring up at the silent vents.

Calder: You’re sweating, Dr. Pope.

The wind has picked up outside of the window. The trees are swaying, the branches bending, leaves flying wildly, some of them smacking against the glass of the window with dull, hollow thuds. The AC has never broken in his office before.

Dr. Pope reaches for a box of tissues, his trembling hand knocking the box over for a moment. He finally seizes on a few tissues, wiping at the sweat along his cheeks.

Calder: Your brow is glistening, Dr. Pope.

Dr. Pope feels it now. Moisture seeping down from his forehead, catching in his eyebrows, little droplets of sweat falling onto his glasses and smearing his vision. Why is it so damn windy outside? The forecast called for a mild, sunny day. Why is he sweating so profusely?

Calder: Feeling toasty, Dr. Pope? You don’t look well. You look a little overheated. Perhaps you should go the restroom…and mop the sweat from your face.

Dr. Pope rises unsteadily to his feet, accidentally knocking his swivel chair down as he gets up. He reaches down to right it, noticing that the front of his dress shirt is drenched in sweat.

Dr. Pope: That uh…might be a good idea. Will you excuse me? We can continue our session afterwards. We can…uh…pick back up where we left off.

Calder: By all means.

Dr. Pope stumbles towards the door while wiping at his glasses with tattered tissues, and he closes the door silently as he heads down the hall to the restroom.

As soon as the door closes, the AC unit starts back up, smoothly, the cool air currents filtering down once again.

The wind dies down outside of the window, the leaves no longer smacking against the glass.

Indrid Calder rises once he’s alone in the room.

He walks behind Dr. Pope’s desk and seats himself at the man’s computer. He begins scrolling through files, familiar names featured on the EWA roster. He notices several files marked “session notes” for men like Chris Kage and Alexander Haven. He is not interested in files pertaining to The Youth. Not yet. Not until it’s time for Mister Haven to pay what he owes. Not until it’s time for Mister Haven…to fulfill the covenant.

Calder moves the mouse overtop two particular folders.

Dossier: Cal “Dredd” Rayner

Dossier: Maggie McIntyre

Calder produces a slim black USB flash drive from his pocket and inserts it into the computer’s USB port. He copies both folders to the flash drive before exiting out of the filing system.

The flash drive vanishes into the inner pocket of his vest, and Calder casually strolls out the door with his suit jacket slung across his shoulder.

By the time Dr. Pope returns from the restroom, his office is empty…and The Stranger is gone.

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I feel so close to you, Maggie.

Do you feel it too?

A part of you does.

Michael is safe. Michael is nice. Michael is good.

I am not safe.

I am not nice.

I am not good.

You can let Michael hold you tight, those pure, feathery archangel wings caressing you…or you can take my hand and live deliciously, live in dark spaces, a newly made creature, all wild sable hair and unrestrained power.

There’s HATE in you, Maggie.

When I placed my tongue across your neck and tasted your skin, I tasted it inside of you, buried, hidden, waiting to be unearthed. Look deeply in the well of yourself.

What do you see?

What do you want to be?

When I look at Dredd, I don’t see an obsolete fossil. I don’t see an old man past his prime. I see a raging, colossal dinosaur that is likely the last of his species. I see how rare that is…how special that is. A freakish monstrosity from a bygone era, something with unfathomable strength and potential that just needs to be released.

I want him.

When at look at you, Maggie McIntyre, I don’t see an untested greenhorn. I don’t see a rookie still learning the craft. I see passion that burns in the braziers that are your eyes. I see wildness, walled up wildness, and I’ll do everything I can to tear down those walls. Innocence is boring. Be wild. Be bold. Be a screaming banshee with sable hair, willing to fuck with force, to fuck with ferocity, to fuck the very world you walk upon until orgasmic earthquakes send fissures underfoot.

I want you too.

Do you want to know what waits behind the black door?

Do you want to hear hoofbeats and a voice like thunder?

Do you want the world—the whole world—to remember the name Maggie McIntyre?

Let me guide you.

Let me have you.

Take my hand…

I’ll show you strange wonders.

Forbidden wonders.

Buried desires.

HATEful revelry.

Don’t you want it, Maggie?

Don’t you want it?
Edited by Indrid Calder, May 24 2016, 10:14 PM.
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