The Artiste is sitting on the bar of the
'H', gazing down at the city below. An
empty bottle of Jack Daniels lies
below the sign. Picasso has been
here for some time.

'The tag belts get retired at Fusion,'
he begins, hesitantly, and slightly
slurred. 'The ones The Elite never
lost, at any cost. And what a cost it
was. I don't know when Dirge will
wrestle again, if he ever does.. And
I'm very pissed off at the whole
scenario.'

'I'm not pissed at Dirge's broken
arm. He understands, and so do I. If
we had taken it easy on each other,
we would be debasing ourselves. A
real competitor never lets up, under
any circumstances.'

'No, what pisses me off is that the
whole match was set up so
Sickness could get herself off on it.
There was nothing sporting about it.
We were forced down that road, and
she knew someone would get hurt.
Did you like it, Sickness? Did you like
watching your enemies fight each
other, while your boys sat in the
wings and watched. It was a win-win
situation for you.'

He shakes his head. 'Of course you
probably didn't expect Keith to get a
small measure of revenge later on.
That was simply wonderful to watch.
But you know, milady, that didn't
begin to make up for the pain that
Dirge went through. So you have a lot
of suffering ahead of you before I'm
satisfied. And if I ever get my hands
on you, I'll make Keith's chair chot
seem like a lover's caress.'

'In the meantime, I get to dish out
more pain to Oblivion. I've already
beaten Hollow. As part of the Elite,
I've gotten four of your members
fired. So my next trick is to take out
the Gol. The crown jewel of Oblivion.
The perennial championship
contender. Rarely a champion, but
always a contender.'

'I'm a champion, Gol. I've been one
in Mercury, and I've been one long
before I joined Mercury. And I will be
champion again before long. And
you, the contender, are destined to
put up a good fight, put on great
matches, and fall short of the
ultimate goal, over and over again.
Don't take it too hard when you lose
at Fusion, my friend, because it's not
your fault. It's just the natural order of
things.'

Picasso sort of jumps/falls off the H
and makes his way back to the car.
Perhaps he'll stop in at Valhalla
before heading home. It's just after
midnight, so things should just be
picking up there.

(fade out)