Across the packed garage of the US Bank Arena, the rhythmic patter of boots call out, capturing the focus of a lot attendant, who raises his head and peers about the broad rear of a Ford Explorer, his brows cocked curiously. Finding the source, he steps out from it and begins to approach, a friendly "Ticket please, sir." on his lips. A bloodstained hickory shaft finds purchase on his cheekbone, squelching his request. It hangs down at the side of it's undeterred master once more, it's tattered conclusion seeming to float and bob in frame. As if possessed, the man continues his path to the door without second thought or concern for the collateral damage. A piercing squeal cries from a handle before the the door flings open, a bright light without silhouetting the figure as he makes his way through. He turns sharply left, well acquainted with the venue and, with a crackle, his voice fills the corridor.
"You may wonder why I so condemn these men if the ravenous lust for gold is the way of the world. What makes the fool in the ring more despicable than the gluttonous sloth in the stands? Opportunity.."
The clops of his soles persist as he veers right into a hall lined with wires, trunks and the odd personnel. They are little more than scenery for the speechmaker, who holds steadfast as he passes them.
"Out there... in the 'real' world... men are but slaves to the whims of others. You drive faster than they say you can or cross the road outside of their designated zones or fail to possess the flimsy plate they require on your vehicle or dare to tread over one of the countless lines they've put in place to mold you to their will and what happens? They send men with guns out to collect you or take your money or just splatter your brains across the dash should you meet the wrong one... They take you before a pompous megalomaniac who sits high above everyone else, smugly assured that he knows what is best for you and society based upon what limited knowledge he can gather upon the matter from weaselly con-artists in slick suits distorting the truth at every interval... they throw you into cages if you fail to comply, monitor your every movement, strip freedoms away from you..."
With another turn, lockerrooms line the walls, but even these are not of consequence to the man as he slips by them without hesitation.
"But in here.. There are no police officers to stop you, no lawyers appealing the fall, no self-righteous shot-callers doling out punishment for petty offenses.. It does not matter what sex you are or what race you are or what you believe in.. those who hoard wealth can not buy their way out of danger.. This place, this sport - it is purer than the world could ever hope to be."
"Out there, rapists, murderers and child abusers use the cheese they've packed into their own little cubby - the fruits of their participation in this maddening and absurd rat race - to feed the snakes that poison the hands of justice... but there is no way out in here. No miscarriages of decency. You are limited in righteousness and retribution only by how far you're willing to go.."
He stops as he reaches the end of the line. An oak door before him, it's center carved away and replaced with by a pane of frosted glass. More senseless decor that served nothing beyond a flash.. the flare of a peacock that was yet to understand that it's show was lost upon the dingy gray wolf.
"Yet you all squander this precious gift.. You stand in a vast and wondrous castle, erected only by the livelihood and grind of those before you and begrudge it's existence for allowing distance between yourselves and the throne.. Spoiled princes and jesters - the whole lot!"
His words drip with contempt, his anger oozing from beyond the calm and collected veil.
"You stand there squabbling over the jewels, loathing that you might first have to get your hands dirty to hold them... Not realizing the dire situation before you..."
A hand clad in a fingerless black glove wraps round the knob and twists it.
"For as you divvy the estate and squabble like children over whom deserves the bounty most..."
With a gentle push, it swings open, finding Vendetta's General Manager wide-eyed behind his desk.
"The Barbarian Lord knocks at your door."
Subject: CS.) ??? - Untitled 
