Take in a deep breath with me. Draw in a big whiff of the world through your nose, and then let it out slow.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
What do you smell?
Air, right? Just plain ol normal air.
But that's not normal air, that's not healthy air, that's just what you're used to. It's filled with filth, filled with pollution, filled with extraneous CO2 that really shouldn't be there. Maybe you can smell the mold and mildew from cheap drywall. Maybe there's that faint burnt plastic stench that you can never quite clear out of your household appliances. Maybe there's that 10 percent floral, 90 percent nose-rape scent of an air freshener that's twice as strong as it needs to be.
Take a deep breath and you'll smell all the ways that corporations are fucking you. Fucking you right in the nasal passages. That mold and mildew? That wouldn't be there if your house wasn't built by the lowest bidder, using the cheapest materials, with the minimally skilled labor possible, all assembled to the barest of standards and codes.
They didn't pour the concrete right, letting the water seep in through your basement. They didn't put the vapor barrier in the right place, and now the insides of your walls are a greenhouse. They used the wrong kind of insulation, and now the walls of your home are a breeding ground for pestilence.
That plastic stench? That's the scent of the best labor twenty cents a day can buy in some overseas slum, pieced together with parts put together in some third world country. But it's made in the USA, because somebody spends five minutes screwing in the pieces that make up your toaster oven.
And that's all you can afford, the cheapest of electronics in the cheapest of houses. Why? Because corporations want to be free. Free of restrictions. Free of limitations. Free of pesky little things like human rights, of outside oversight, and of government regulation.
They're people now, you know. The corporations. The tobacco company that wants to get the kiddies involved in vaping their way into bubblegum-flavored addiction and servitude to their bottom lines have the same rights you do. In fact they have more.
Freedom of speech! The corporations have it! They can give all the money they want to politicians, because spending your money is a form of speech!
Religion! Ronald McDonald can have religion! Don't like what ten percent of the population does with their dangly dorks and hoo-hahs? Why, you don't have to employ those people because a thirdhand translation of something a bunch of goatherders wrote several millennia ago says in seven whole places that that kind of sex is bad! It's Lot and his daughters, not Lot and his sons!
Now that we don't have entire wards of iron lungs for the poor souls that can't breathe, now that we're ten decades removed from having eradicated Polio, and your tie has started to choke off oxygen to your brain and you think that vaccines are the decanted semen of Satan, meant to steal the souls of the recently born? Hey, the Clown doesn't have to pay for that particular portion of your healthcare!
The Clown needs more ignorant bodies to fuel the grills, run the cash registers, and to be ground up to make the Soylent Pink nuggets that fuel the nation, so the world needs to have as many babies as possible! If you've got your tubes tied? Fired. On the pill for devastating cramps as disfiguring acne? Tough, you slut, get knocked up and have some beh-behs! Got a budding sproglet implanted in your ovary instead of your uterus that's never going to survive and will take you down with it to Hades if it isn't removed? Hey now, that demonspawn's got just as much right to live as you, our corporate religion believes that it'd be murder, so you're on the hook if you want to kill your killer before it kills you!
People seem to think that neutering regulation, letting the corporations run free, and worshiping the free market as an all-powerful benevolent force will fix the world. A world where purveyors of death sticks still deny that cigarettes cause cancer. A world where people think throwing ten billion tons of evaporated shit into the atmosphere isn't going to hurt anybody, even as we enter the warmest period in recorded history.
This is the culture that has created Lenore Price-Mason.
A new dynasty of monarchies ruling over the masses via divine right handed down through the ages by possession of the almighty dollar.
A league of people that believe that they can do no wrong, and that instead of changing their ways to fix a disaster, all they need is a new marketing campaign! A new spin on the situation to make things aaaaaaall better.
Horse shit.
One month ago Lenore was stating to the world that she'd attacked me for attention. For fame. For the boost to her career that would come from, and I quote "Grabbing the biggest dog in the yard and slapping it around a few times."
That I was, supposedly, a freak. A beast that did not belong in professional wrestling. Because I'm different. Because I'm blue. Because I have a tail. Because I can breathe fire. Because I'm seven feet tall. Because I'm not like Lenore and Silas Mason. Because I don't have the continence that Mormon culture would term "white and delightsome."
It's not surprising, it's just pathetic that the most visible person of color on the ULW roster gets targeted and called a freak and a beast and other degrading, dehumanizing terms. It's not because I was incredibly, terribly, disgustingly violent. It was not because I was viciously aggressive in nature.
I was pushed to this. I was taunted, I was tormented, and I was ATTACKED again and again and again. Because I don't conform to Lenore Price and Silas Mason's personal ideals of beauty. Because I was someone different, someone outside their acceptable circle of wrestling families, social clubs, and cults.
I used to be happy. I used to be pleasant. I used to be the silly, wonderful, ridiculous person that spent her time being funny, telling jokes, and making people delightfully confused with my humorous antics.
Then came the corporate assassins.
Then came the Shadow Cartel.
First there was Angel Kash, dim, dense, bimbotacular Angel Kash. The charisma-less robot programmed to go BEEP BOOP KALINDA IS NOT MARKETABLE. BLEEP BLOOP THE DRAGON IS UGLY. BLORPA BORP YOU DO NOT CONFORM TO MASONCORP BIMBO FACTORY IDEALS OF BEAUTY AND ARE A HIDEOUS WASTE OF SPACE.
Angel Kash, who refused to see reason. Who continued to deny reality when it was right in front of her face. Who labelled the biggest draw in the company NOT holding a title belt as a ratings killer.
And then at the tail end of that? When it was shown that poor, pathetic, inept little Angel wasn't going to succeed in the Shadow Cartel's goal of ruining me? In comes Lenore.
In comes Lenore, interfering in my matches. Because I'm a joke. I'm a freak. I'm an abomination that shouldn't be given world title opportunities! That somehow the mere PRESENCE of a seven foot tall, bright blue woman somehow TAINTS and DEMEANS the entire concept of professional wrestling!
This hatred, this vitriol? It's not mine. It's Lenore's. It's on YouTube, you can find her bile and rage pouring forth one month ago in the build for our first match. For the match she lost at Ascendancy.
No sentient being should have to deal with the sort of racist, speciesist, discriminatory bullshit I have had to put up with in my workplace. And it's not stopping.
Professional wrestling is not a place of hugs and hand holding. At its very core two people enter an enclosed space with the intent to attack one another until one of them has been too brutalized to continue. Passivity, timidity, and restraint are not qualities that lead one to success in the squared circle.
For months I have been physically and verbally assaulted for no reason aside from the fact that I'm different, that I'm not a perfectly proportioned skinny little supermodel with a haircolor in the three accepted shades of Blonde, Black, and Brown. Because my skin isn't pale enough for some people. That my physiology is not the same as the manufactured standards of supreme attractiveness of the current era.
I'm not the petite, scrawny little fitness model type that most of the women in professional wrestling are. Right now there are more people in the United States who participated in this years IWC Last Stand Rumble than there are women who approach seven feet in height. I'm in the top one quarter of one percent.
The majority of my life hasn't been spent sitting on my ass in a makeup chair, it hasn't been flipping through fashion books to find the latest hairstyle or the hottest fashions, it hasn't been getting myself cut apart and stapled back together by the Surgeon General of Beverly Hills. My physique isn't meant to be pretty.
My physique exists to facilitate beating the absolutely SHIT out of anyone and anything that stands against me, that stands in my way. And do you know what? In a just world, that's the way it ought to be.
I am a modern day gladiator. I step into the ring with the intent of inflicting violence on all comers. Violence and aggression are key traits that anyone in the business of mutual combat ought to have. Things like spending a billion bucks on plastic surgery, having the physique of an anorexic fashion model, a waist smaller than your head, and tits the size of watermelons should have no effect on the success and promotion of a professional wrestler.
In a fair and just world one would be lauded for possessing traits key to your chosen career.
But this isn't a fair world. Your world is one where money is favored over justice, over fairness, and even over life itself.
Your world is fucked up. This stupid, magic-dead blue marble is without a doubt the most fucked up culture I've ever experienced. And that's saying something. I spent the better part of a decade around elves, for fuck's sake! Dark elves with their gender-based caste system, and they've got NOTHING on you guys for gender discrimination! In your world women are meant to be passive, submissive, obedient, pretty little things.
Just look at Silas Mason, look at how he turns that unhealthy shade of purple-red every time Lenore does something he doesn't condone. When she doesn't act according to his every whim, desire, and command.
And is this new marketing campaign for yourself his idea, Lenore? Or is it yours?
Because while on the surface it's so happy and pleasant, the moment you scratch that brightly colored, fruit-flavored, lemon-scented surface you find the same rotting, fetid shit you've been spewing since the beginning.
Your own words, Lenore. You went into the yard I'm guarding and you slapped me. You slapped me again and again and again. Over and over. You brought your friends along to poke me with sticks and torment me, all so you can look big, bad, and brave.
And then I lashed out, I bit you. Well, not you. I bit the hell out of Mr. Joshua. He'll be lucky if he can ever rub one out to his collection of My Little Pony porn ever again.
You went where you didn't belong. You trespassed. You attacked ME, Lenore. You know damn well where my "penned up aggression" came from. YOU butted into MY matches in the hopes that you could further YOUR career, and you thought by making me angry that you could apply your little board room board games and book learning bullshit to defeat a real warrior.
And I would like to take this opportunity, Lenore. To apologize to you about the way I acted at Ascendancy. I thought that you might actually have a functional heart and soul, that you actually contained the capacity to empathize with the pain of another human being. I thought, rather foolishly, that crippling one Mr. Joshua, smacking Silas so hard he talked normal for thirty seconds, and that out-wrestling you would make you see the error of your ways.
I see now that I was wrong and that Mr. Joshua had to suffer for my errors in judgment.
You see, I don't think you have the capacity for empathy. I don't think you have feelings like normal people do. I think that somewhere along the way somebody ripped out your heart, drained all your blood, and replaced it with an image of yourself in tiny effigy and unadulterated liquid greed.
The only thing you love is yourself. The only thing you care about it boosting your image and having your ridiculous corporation earn more money. You have the GALL to call my presence in ULW a mockery to the sport of professional wrestling when all this is for you is a marketing opportunity.
Each promo, each match, each time you walk down that entry ramp is just another commercial for Masoncorp and for Lenore Price-Mason. You don't give a DAMN about the supposed sanctity of this sport. Because none of you do. None of you soulless, heartless, toxic waste dumping empty suits care one lick about professional wrestling.
To you pro wrestling fans are a bunch of dumb, poor hicks that aren't worth the effort. We get some of the highest ratings in all of television, and yet companies aren't willing to pay but a fraction of the price in ad revenue. Because you think they're morons. Because you think they're cheap. Because you think they're stacked twelve to a trailer and are still driving rusted out old bangers from the 80's.
And now several corporations have managed to make pro wrestling companies PAY FOR advertising on their own shows! Why bother spending the six or seven figures needed to get a 30 second or 1 minute advert on Channel 69 when you can coax Raymond der Vaart into giving the CEO of Masoncorp A PAYCHECK to show up and shill her company on ULW Television!?
I was wrong to think I could make you see reason, Lenore. I know that now. I know that you are not going to change your ways until someone physically pounds the message into your thick skull.
I'm not a machine that you can kick, punch, and jostle until soft drinks and fame fall out.
I am not a toy, placed here for your amusement.
And above all else, Lenore, I'm not an idiot.
All this shiny, happy, helpy, hope bullshit you're spewing this week? I know it's bullshit. You know it's bullshit. The fans know it's bullshit. I don't know who you think you're fooling with this act, and I don't want to know. Honestly, my opinion of humanity can only drop so far before I start agreeing with Eleanor and the Skull and begin a foray into professional supervillainy.
Because I don't roll over and die, because I'm not going to play along with your stupid little game, because I'm not going to just fucking HAND YOU a victory on a silver platter you HAVE to insinuate there's something wrong with me.
Pick somebody else in this industry. Interfere in a half dozen of their matches. Fuck over two of their world title opportunities. I guarantee you that every single one of them with maybe the exception of Doc Gracie are going to be just as pissed off, just as angry, just as aggressive, and just as violent as I've been.
I think you're fucking disgusting, Lenore. I thought that when der Vaart came out and ran down Jason King for wrestling and not being with his wife after the death of their child after her threatened to sue the shit out of Jason for not showing up that I'd heard the worst thing that one person can say to another in this industry.
I was wrong.
Portraying, sufferers of PTSD, rape victims, and the abused as irrational, aggressive, and violent is officially the worst thing that I have heard in my limited time here on this stupid, fucked up world.
And it's not only the words that come out of your mouth that make you look like an ignorant, egomaniacal ASS. It's the fact that words coming in don't seem to linger long enough to leave an impression on your mind while you're trying to figure out what color tie to wear to your next meeting, whereupon you're going to decide if the next order of sticky notes for Masoncorp ought to be yellow and blue, or marigold and lapis lazuli.
In short you don't fucking listen.
Because I've told you, to your fucking face, EXACTLY why I will kick that twelve year old fuckwit you cart around into the gods-damned jumbotron. Because you made this personal. Because you've made it your goal to run me out of this business. Because you and your Shadow Cartel asspals will not give me one fucking moment of peace, happiness, and contentment until I kneel down and suck on the almighty phallus of the corporate patriarchy!
I said it before and I'll say it again, you soulless, empty-suited bitch. You made this into a war, and every single thing you bring down to the ring with you is going to be treated as a fucking enemy combatant. I don't care if you wheel a goddamn playpen full of Downs Syndrome babies to ringside.
I'll drop kick every one of those little fuckers for a field goal, just because they're associated with you.
Your new racist stereotype head of security hauls along his three year old on bring your daughter to work day? If I get ahold of her I'm going to sandwich her between the two halves of the steel steps and walk up and down them until I've cracked every bone in her spinal column.
Your new head of security himself? I'll rip his kneecaps off just for having that ridiculous fucking bowl cut.
Silas? Hell, I don't even need a reason to go after Silas. As long as his mush-mouthed ass can slur some words within earshot of me, I'm going to do everything in my power to crush his fucking larynx for the good of all mankind.
Your fucking secretary shows up at ringside? I'm going to claw her eyeballs out and then break each of her fingers, one by one so she can never type again. Then I'm going to beat her with the ring bell just to hear the lovely dinging sound it makes on impact.
And that fucking 12 year old kid that's going to have about infinity sexual harassment lawsuits slapped on him the moment he reaches the age of accountability? I'll rip him in half, bathe in the blood, and make balloon animals for the fuckin' kiddies in the front row seats out of his intestines.
Why?
Because if I start crippling, maiming, and murdering the assholes who have no business butting into my matches, I have a sneaking suspicion that people WILL FUCKING STOP INTERFERING IN MY MATCHES.
I'm not giving any of your pals the opportunity. If they're out there in that arena, I'm treating them as fucking hostile forces. They're not ULW contracted wrestlers, so I'm not cheating the company out of any future revenue by putting them in the ICU and making them miss matches. In fact I'm doing the exact opposite of fucking over the company, I'm helping to ensure that the sportsmanship and fairness of ULW contests are not compromised by assuring that none of the fucks I demolish will ever meddle with a sanctioned match EVER again.
Oh sure, ULW will probably have to pay their medical bills. But that's the price they pay for not having a secure enough working environment for key members of their staff. If non-wrestlers want to make the suicidal decision of attacking a seven foot tall fire-breathing dragoness than I will joyfully hasten them along to their desired demise.
And because there is no legitimate reason for any member of your entourage to be out there save to interfere in the match on your behalf, I'm perfectly within my rights to attack them.
But honestly, what I'm interested the most in right now is attacking you. Because you're a fucking disgusting disgrace to your own gender.
Because what do you do except belittle all of womankind by insinuating that I'm irrationally angry because I've got a solid lack of Vitamin D in the bedroom. That means dick, by the way. Oh sure she didn't QUITE phrase it that way, but between running me down as a freak of nature who needs to have her brains fucked back into working order, I can be absolutely positive that when she said that she didn't imagine scissoring and rug munching as possibly cures to my supposed ails.
Hell, I'm surprised she didn't go three for three with patronizing feminine tropes by declaring that I am in fact angry because my menstrual cycle just so happens to line up with ULW events.
And I'm not talking about that high pitched, noisy, smoke-spewing thing Serenity rides! Or her fucking motorcycle!
Joke'd be on you, Lenore. Haven't ovulated for the past five years, and it's going to be another fifteen or so until my body's done going from the human model of pregnancy to popping out a hard shelled egg the size of a football every so often. Have Spark get that image of a female lion roaring at a male with the caption I NOT HAS A PMS, because I fucking don't. I'm biologically incapable!
You're my enemy, Lenore. Not because I'm a freak. Not because I'm needlessly violent. Not because I'm psychotically aggressive. And sure as hell not because of all the Men's Right Activist Approved BULLSHIT you've been slinging at me. People like you went and fucked up the Hugo Awards, one of the most prestigious awards given to authors of sci-fi and fantasy.
Because you're just like the Sad Puppies. Facist, racist, sexist.
The only thing you've inspired me to is an even deeper hatred of you, your associates in the Shadow Cartel, and everything that you soulless corporate devils do to kill hope, kill dreams, kill your employees, and in the end kill the whole fucking planet.
Fuck PG.
Fuck sportsmanship.
Fuck artificially engineered fear, fuck promises of false hope, and above all fuck YOU Lenore Price-Mason.
But in the end we agree on one thing. Doing this for the children.
I want all the little tykes in this world to grow up with the knowledge that you don't have to sell your soul to get ahead in life. That you don't need to put up with bullying, that you don't need to put up with being singled out and dumped on because of the color of your skin, because you look different, because the family you come from isn't "white and delightsome."
Sometimes differences can be solved with words.
This is not one of those times.
This is something that is only going to be solved through violence.
I'm going to put your fucking head on a pike, Lenore.
And every man, every woman, and every child watching in the arena or the millions watching at home will be there to cheer me on every step of the way.
Because they're not what you corporate overlords think they are. They're not stupid. They're not dumb. They're not sheep that you can win over just by appearing out of the blue one day with saccharine sweetness, vaguely positive words, and misogynistic bullshit.
They recognize your lies. They see your promises of false hope for the empty promises that they are. The victimized, the downtrodden, and the dispossessed have chosen their side, Lenore. They know where to stand. They've picked their chosen champion.
And it sure as fuck isn't going to be you.
Though me they get to live their deepest, darkest fantasy. Of seizing the soulless bitch that stole away their pensions to pad the company stock prices. Of choking out the emotionless husk that fired them before they could form a union and get leverage against their evil overseers. Of beating the absolute fuck out micromanaging shitweasel that makes every day at the office their own personal slice of hell.
Of grabbing a scum-sucking CEO who will never admit she's wrong, will not acknowledge that she's made mistakes, and thinks that everything can be cured by tossing around her checkbook and applying a new marketing campaign. Grabbing her and leaving her a broken, sobbing wreck as everything that she's worked to build burns down to the ground in azure flames.
Silas World. Masoncorp. New Eden. The Shadow Cartel.
In time each and every bit of it is going to burn.
'Cuz I've got all the fire in the world.
Fire in my heart.
Fire in my head.
Fire in my soul.
Fire.
[Kalinda puts a taloned finger to her chest and to her temple to emphasize the first two points, spreading her arms wide and drawing in a deep breath for the third, and finally spitting a raging inferno of cerulean burnination at the camera, knocking the feed to static.]
And now for something completely different. A black suit, a red tie, hair in a bun, glasses. Probably the last thing that anyone has ever expected me to wear. But here I am. Tailors are a nightmare, but resizing charms are a dime a dozen. Hell, it's the only way I can manage to get clothes around here without paying through the nose for them.
My last shopping trip I sent the shop lady into fits of frothing rage when I went through the store grabbing everything on clearance and going *poke* it fits me now. *poke* It fits me now. *poke* And thank goodness for it, they don't make pants with three leg holes or undergarments that take tails into account.
But you're not here to hear about my clothing situation. You're here to hear about something far more interesting. Like why exactly I'm standing around in a hospital hallway wearing the garb preferred by my sworn enemies.
Not to worry, explanations are coming henceforth!
I grin and give the camera a nod and adjust my glasses.
"Hi!" I say pleasantly, "I'm Kalinda Kriegsdottir. You may recognize me as a professional wrestler and television personality. But I'm here today to inform you about something more important than blasting sweaty men in their underpants in the face with steel chairs."
"I'm here to talk to you about the Esteemed Law Firm of Zombie, Acula, and Wulfmann. These pioneers in arena of the courtroom have been laying the smack down on against unjust laws, regulations, and actions on the behalf of minority clients for decades."
"And now more than ever with new Preternatural-Americans coming out of the woodwork it is important to remind America that even though you've stopped breathing that it's still wrong to deny you service at a cafe, that hurling racial slurs are someone just because of their color of their skin, scales, fur, or feathers is not okay, and that equality and diversity are the tools that make America strong."
I walk down the hallway and stand between a pair of tall men, though they're not quite as tall as me. Their suits are far spiffier than mine, as they're actually tailor made by somebody who knows what looks good, rather than dumb magic warping things to fit comfortably.
To my left is a gentleman in a white suit whose jacket seems to be have suit coat and half lab coat. His brilliant blue tie is similarly outlined with white piping, matching the coloration of his exquisite lucha libre mask adorned with the Star of Life upon the forehead. This symbol, a six pointed hybrid of star and cross with the Rod of Asclepius in the middle is the emblem of emergency medical personnel and ambulances.
On my right is a shorter gentleman with thick brown hair and an equally thick beard, both of which have been tamed by a liberal amount of braids and bands, giving him a sort of savage, Viking-esque look. His skin is a motley mixture of green and grey, his teeth and nails yellowed like old bone, and while well-tailored his suit is quite worn and moderately dusty. His white, filmy eyes regard the camera for a moment. He moves slowly to adjust his tie, groaning out a barely audible rasp of "Brains."
"But Zombie, Acula, and Wulfmann have decided that enough is enough and it's time to enact change above and beyond the grassroots level. They are expanding their practice beyond pro bono work on behalf of the Preternatural-Americans that society works so diligently to dehumanize and deny the existence of."
"That's right, Ms. Kriegsdottir," Dr. Alfredo Acula says in his dreamy Hispanic By Way of Romanian accent. "I am not merely the world's greatest luchadore doctor-lawyer, I am not only one of the utmost defenders of the civil rights of dragons, vampires, zombies, medusae, centaurs, nagas, lamias, gryphons, griffons, griffens..."
I make a wrapping up motion with my hands before the good doctor with the double degrees is stuck exploring all the variations of spelling on kittybirds for the rest of the day.
"...and other assorted fae, undead, and creatures of historical mythology. But I have also expanded my practice, both medical and legal, to serve another sort of sufferer of the oppressive boot of the masses."
"For too long the victims of wealthy professional wrestlers who feel that their vast reserves of cold, hard cash mean that they are above the law. That through the application of bribes, the buying of politicians through campaign donations, and the application of lobbyists can skirt the wheels of justice."
"Beginning this very day I swear upon my grave that every child who has had a basketball ruthlessly kicked away by a man that looks like a walking penis, every referee who has been displaced from his job by a plastic surgery created doppelganger, and every crippled hobo who was virtually shoved in front of a bus by a deluded CEO who thinks that just because she's read "The Secret" she can cure all of society's ills."
"And to that I say to Ms. Price-Mason, if you wish to benefit society, heal the sick, and aid the homeless that the merest application of forceful words and fifty bucks will get you nowhere. The so-called "blight" of the poverty stricken, the homeless, the hobo, the filthy doomsday profit offering to blow you for a bottle of whiskey, these are people without a support net. These are people who have fallen through the cracks. These are people who need a friendly hand to lift them up, dust them off, and get them back on their feet."
"It costs nearly twenty-one thousand dollars for the government to care for a minimum security prisoner, half again as much for maximum security. Throwing such people in the slammer, leaving them on the streets to wither and die, on average it costs nearly thirty thousand dollars on average to simply leave these poor men and women on the streets."
"A simple third of that, ten thousand dollars, is enough to house a single individual for a year, to give them occupational training, and to provide them with proper healthcare and mental services."
"Today we are here to provide an example to the world of how to do good in society, to truly help people, to give them hope, to give them a future!
I grin a step forward "To this end we've created the Winston Wallace Trust, an organization devoted to improving the lives of the homeless in several major metropolitan areas across the nation."
I shoot out an arm, plucking my armored coat from the ether. The leather plates and chain mail don't really go with my outfit, and the spiked shoulders kind of ruin the whole business person vibe, but I'm not actually going to put on the darned thing. I just need to open a few pockets.
"For half the cost of a decent magical sword a mere 9000 gold pieces, I can set ten thousand people on the road to recovery, starting the Trust with a little over ten million dollars in funds."
I tip the coat upside down, flipping open a pocket with a mental command. Gold coins begin to fall out, cascading onto the floor. It takes awhile as I let them pour out into a great big pile over my feet. I'm literally standing in my weight in gold and beyond as the coinage continues to flood out.
"I am also taking a stand against the bile and hatred put forth by people like Lenore Price-Mason, whose words this week revealed the malice in her heart towards the struggle of gender and racial equality. An additional million dollars, from my platinum coinage collection, will be divided amongst the three organizations opposing domestic violence, three women's shelters in the greater New York metropolitan area, the NAACP, the ACLU, the EFF, and the National Alliance for Removing People's Heads from Their Own Asses."
That last one's a medical research charity founded by none other than my mentor, ULW Hall of Famer and multi time World Heavyweight Champion, Desolation. It's dedicated to finding out why so many professional wrestlers are delusion, egomaniacal idiots with zero grip on reality.
Finally R. Joseph Zombie III shambles forth, an impressed look on his face at all the material wealth spilled upon the floor in front of him. Or maybe he's just digging a chunk of flesh out of a cavity in one decayed molar. You can never tell with zombies.
"Brains," he says, impassionedly. The mere nuance of the word, coupled with his body language conveys a wonderful, beautiful message of hope and looking ahead for a bright and brilliant future.
"Braaaaaaaains!" he says with a decisive nod, the rich detail invoked by the one simple, drawn out word, accompanied by the non-verbal communication skills that come from centuries of being a master of the courtroom, a wordsmith beyond merest mortal comprehension. It's an impassioned plea that draws tears of joy from all but the hardest hearts.
"....brains." he adds with a disgusted snort, conveying that if he still had a functional digestive system that he would be positively sickened to the point of puking blood by the dastardly actions of irresponsible corporations and their heartless heads.
"Rrrr. Mazzzzoncorp. Len-aaaar Prrrze-Mazzzzon..." he growls, laying out his pro bono acceptance as the attorney of one Winston Wallace, so recently injured by the uncaring actions of the named individual, as well as all the myriad ways that she's at fault and going to have the pants sued off of her because of it.
"Eyyyyyez! Eyez 'n brains!" he makes a clumsy two fingered motion to his clouded eyeballs and then back and the camera, conveying a wonderfully humorous and relevant quip that amongst others, hobos, hired help, the NSA, and the dead are always watching, and he's gotten connections in all those groups, so certain people better keep their noses clean.
"N 'n concluzzzon, brains." he finishes with a flourish, a great impassioned speech that in a proper and fitting world would cause a giant american flag to unfurl behind him, with a flock of bald eagles swooping in to drop apple pie, guns, and explosions at his feet.
Mr. Zombie gives a little bow and shambles back to his place in the wall. Having absolutely stunned me with his eloquence there is no way I'll be able to top that, which is why I saved him for last.
He's such an amazing speaker. I can't help but applaud.
"So awesome." I whisper, trying to regain my composure. I shuffle my feet around and swing my tail, mentally marking every coin touching me as mine. Wonderful enchantment from Grandma on the coat that saves so much time. Just touch something that no one else has a legitimate claim to, dub it yours, and it goes right into one of the myriad pocket dimensions that she sewed into the lining of my coat.
"With a few simple actions in but a single afternoon Kalinda Kreigsdottir and the Esteemed Law Firm of Zombie, Acula, and Wulfmann have helped more people than Lenore Price-Mason and Masoncorp ever will."
"I'm not just looking to fix the corruption and pollution of corporate greed and human hatred in ULW, but I am doing my part to make the world a better place for all people."
"Except for the Shadow Cartel. You people are going to find out what REAL suffering is like."
"Toodles!"
I grin my biggest, best, fang-featuring scary smile and give the camera a wave and blow a frosty kiss, fading the scene to white.
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