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    EWA World Heavyweight Champion

    Complete darkness.

    Not a single hint of light.

    A perpetual, aching void.

    Footsteps bang loudly against the wooden floors beyond our room. Heel, ball. Heel, ball. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. One after another. There is no joy or tranquility in these steps. These are steps with purpose, moving in a direction headstrong and with dangerous intent. Voices, the noise of electronics, and simple sounds associated with that of the kitchen still ring through the air but are easily shadowed by the approaching heavy steps of–

    The door to the room swings open wildly, the wooden door smashing against the doorstop attached to the baseboard of the adjacent door. The darkened form passing through the doorway reaches out and hastily switches on the light as the room fills with a golden hue. He passes through the room as the door, ricocheting off of the doorstop, swings back and closes itself. The Purveyor, his wild white hair standing tall atop his head as the single bit of brightness to accent his plain black t-shirt and black jeans, stomps toward the desk along the opposite wall.

    He grasps the back of the chair with his left hand and pulls hard but the chair stays in place, the chair slipping from his grip. He drives his left knee into the back of the chair in frustration, the chair pressing up against the edge of the wooden desk. Remaining standing, he reaches across the desk and switches on the light before rifling around the container next to it in order to retrieve a pen. He picks one from the holder and with the same hand whips the top right drawer open, the drawer pulling open fully until its stoppers smash against the rollers inside.

    The same right hand dives into the drawer and grabs the sheet of paper we have come to expect, its edges tattered and turn having been crumpled and damaged over the past several weeks. He slams the sheet down on the desktop with the pen on top of it, his palm pressed against the middle of the writing implement. With his right hand pressing it down, he pulls the pen cap off with his left hand and sends it flying into the wall alongside of him. His right hand curls tightly around the pen, his eyes laser-sharp as he stares downward. He raises the pen into the air and makes a single, striking motion across the page. The tip of the pen trails off of the edge of the paper and runs along the wood briefly before Pru releases it from his hand and sends it rolling toward the right edge of the desk.

    He pulls the sheet up to his face, closer than is needed to focus on it, his eyes examining each line individually.

    Chris Kage – 109

    Sahara – 119

    The Vice Squad – 138

    MoCaJo – 159

    Maggie McIntyre – 161

    The Erinyes – 169

    Martin Robertson – 188

    The Vice Squad – 205

    His hand curls once again, his clenched fist swallowing nearly the entire paper. He lowers his hand down and drops the page into the drawer, once again using his knee to push it closed. He reaches forward and clicks the lamp off before turning to walk toward the door. He ticks the light switch on the wall with his left hand and grips the doorknob with his right hand, the knob slipping from his grip just as the chair had done earlier. He grabs it once again, tighter this time, and turns the knob as his vise-like clutch of the metal threatens to shatter it to bits. He twists the knob more dutifully this time, the sound of its metal parts twisting against one another in our pitch blackness. The door finally swings open and he exits quickly, pulling the door hard behind him. The wood of the door smashes against the wood of the frame causing the timeless memories and trophies hung along the walls to shake and rattle in a tortured cacophony.

    And we are left.

    In complete darkness.

    Not a single hint of light.

    A perpetual, aching void.

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