Dirge and Brimstone are calmly pacing down the arena hall after defeating Blaze McCoy and Scott Royal. A quick high five and Brimstone heads off to the showers. Dirge has a moment to spare for the fans as he walks up to the coffee machine.

fan: Dirge, that was great, I think one of Scott Royal’s testicles bounced off my temple as it sailed into the cheap seats! Do you think Michael Gabrielle would eat it like a grape while Gravity stood over him and made him do tricks like begging and eating sausage?

Dirge opens his mouth as if to speak, and then closes it again, eyes darting side to side, actually at a loss for words, but clearly amused. He pauses and right before turning around…

DIRGE: Picasso, what are you doing here?

The Artiste pulls off a pair of expensive sunglasses and gives his friend and teammate of many years a warm handshake and a mock punch to the ribs

VINCENT PICASSO: You know how it is, you bust your neck for a company and they don’t even invite you to their new inaugural show. I think I got some hate mail from Pariah, too. I received a mysterious envelope with white powder in it, and “I hope you choke” scrawled on a ripped tissue.

DIRGE: I don’t know, that sounds more like your mom. She’s always thinking of you.

VINCENT: So look at you, first match back and you walked through it without even a scratch. You must have really done a mindjob on Royal with that whole “exhume/re-bury/desecrate” business. He didn’t look like he was all there, totally preoccupied, and so was Blaze.

DIRGE: Royal didn’t bring his A game because we took it from him. And Blaze was not present, and I would know because we’ve had battles before. But tonight wasn’t even a workout. After Brimstone did the work of scrambling his brains, the rest was just academic. It was good to get in the ring with an old enemy, and good to run through him, but I hope this isn’t the best they’ve got. I hope this isn’t the best Mercury’s got. And after looking at the other competitors tonight, only the ones I expected to perform, did.
But I’ll take their measure soon enough. I’ve looked at all of them Vincent, I’ve scouted all the wrestlers, and I don’t see it. There’s no fire. Some say they’re here for the belt, some say they’re here to cause pain, some to prove that they belong. But its all empty. Hollow. Just rhetoric. The same old lines and the same old whine. This is pissing me off. I came here to COMPETE. I came here to evolve, and force change in people. Well. It looks like I have my work cut out for me. When something is broken past the point of repair, it’s time to burn it and scatter the ashes, using them to fertilize a new seed. REMAKE. I’m disgusted by this laziness, this cowardice, this weakness. They need new energy. And the price of using energy is ENTROPY.

Dirge has been steadily increasing himself. His volume keeps rising, his movements more kinetic. The Artiste is glad to see that Dirge isn’t taking things easy.

DIRGE: Tonight was an example. Its time to move on and run over whatever piece of damaged goods Mercury decides to send my way for recycling. I’m putting this behind me and getting ready for the next character assassination I’ll be responsible for…

Dirge is tapped on the shoulder by a large hand. He looks to Brimstone and then to the paper he’s barely managing not to mangle. The cheap stock paper is somewhat see-through , and certain things can be made out. Championship challenge bracket. Gimmick match. Harbinger. And then…..

DIRGE looks up, straight into the camera.

DIRGE: I guess I’m not putting tonight behind me just yet. (His eyes seem to intensify with a barely perceptible narrowing of the lids) Scott Royal. It looks like we have some unfinished business. Do you know what you are? San’Greal is what I’ll call you. Royal blood. Shell. Container. A symbol of healing and rebirth. Which your groin will need. Well it just so happens you’ll be running into a Crusader for the second time. A living, breathing Knight of Entropy on a grail quest.
And I have a container symbol of my own. You’re getting put into a Crucible. No room for finesse. I’m going to melt you down and let the world see what’s left. You’d better figure it out before you get into the ring with me. What’s Scott Royal made of?
Figuratively. Literally. We’ll know the answer to both.

The fans around DIRGE, BRIMSTONE and L’ARTISTE are hushed. The three men look like lions that just caught a whiff of gazelle nearby. The camera backs away, and the image fades.

END TRANSMISISON