Your view opens on a hard close up of….a crazy straw?

Yeah, its’s a crazy straw all right, shaded lime green. But then, a dark liquid begins working its way up the straw, through the two loops and up into the lips of one Kristoffer “Vamp” Arroyo.

The shot pulls back to reveal a horror very much at odds with the lightheartedness of the straw. A morbidly obese man is splayed out on a blood sodden mattress, his belly torn asunder creating a deep red crevasse etching through his prodigious fat rolls. The straw is buried in that gore, lapping up the dead man’s blood. Kris’ lips part from the straw, and he breathes out a satisfied sigh as he runs the back of his hand over his mouth to catch some errant droplets.

Milk! Nothing but milk! Who do I gotta kill for a fucking PBR?! Samael Dyson shouts over the subtle din of the refrigerator’s motor. Scowling, he takes a container of milk from the fridge, unscrews the cap and starts downing it greedily as he saunters into the adjoining bedroom. Having drained it, he tosses the container over his shoulder as he surveys Kris’ carnage.

It smells like shit in here.

So it goes when they die. Occupational hazard. Kris intones, standing up.

You’re gonna get diabetes drinking that fucker’s blood.

Kris shrugs. I was craving something sweet. Where’s Madison?

I chained her to the shitter. Sam mutters nonchalantly. Look we gotta talk about this War Games thing.

I wondered when this was coming.

Yeah, well strap in because I’m fixing to rain down a storm of pure unadulterated BITCH MODE on you Twilight Sparkle!

We agreed on Kieran King.

That we did. But you went into business for yourself when you named Jennie Nickles as your number two pick. We discussed Betsy Granger!

Betsy is worthless.

Samael stops short, an enraged tic itching at his expression. I think you’re forgetting who wears the daddy pants in this relationship.

Kris sighs, walking back the attitude. I know why you want her. I get it. The Impossible Traveler. All that wealth of knowledge. The ability to traverse the universe. Who wouldn’t want to tap into that? But that’s all in the past. She’s apparently stuck on Earth. She’s just….human.

Bullshit! Sam spat. I’m sure “Excellence” is just fine and dandy. She just doesn’t want me to have it! But once I get within spitting distance and lay eyes on her, she’ll be powerless to resist me. Just another pawn giving me precisely what I want….the ability to FUCK AMONGST THE STARS! Sam raises his arms triumphantly in a moment of manic glee. Besides, that Nickles bitch doesn't even respect you! You heard what came out of that rotten trap! She thinks of you as nothing but a cosplayer. The ignorance is astounding!

Point. Kris conceded. But at least she's no weakling.

No, just a moron who saw fit to piss off the entire field of draftees before she even got to make a selection.

Suddenly, an anguished howl pierced the calm of the fat man's apartment.

FUCK!

Sounds like mommy dearest’s meds wore off.

Sam rifled through his pockets and produced a pill bottle. Coming mother! He called out as he departed.

Kris couldn’t contain a small chuckle before turning his attention to you, gentle viewer. One viewer in particular though…

Yeah, I know you’re there, bearing witness to my crimes. I couldn’t care less. In fact, I’m hoping it elicits a certain “something something” out of you to make this match EXTRA interesting, Betsy Granger. I mean, you are the proverbial do gooder, right? A pop culture pastiche who sees fit to boil her entire ethical outlook down to a “chaotic good” Dungeons and Dragons alignment.

There is not an eye roll big enough.

Or maybe….maybe NOT such a do gooder after all, if your last Warfare segment is to be believed. Could it be that this smorgasbord of science fiction alliterations is actually one of the Sith?!

Ha!

You know Betsy, it’s funny. You’d probably assume that your little dalliance with darkness would make us MORE similar. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. I can pick out a vapid try hard from a thousand paces and in your case I wouldn’t even need the first 999. Are you telling me that after years of warring on distant planets, putting evil warlords and the like to the sword, that you are just NOW finding your juevos? That you are just NOW discovering what it means to be vicious, to be cruel, to be calculating?

Honey, were all those intergalactic exploits in front of a green screen?

You see, I’m inclined to believe that they were. I am! Because there is nothing about you that suggests that this recent dabbling in the dark is anything more than an oh so conveniently timed means of trying to establish some DESPERATELY needed credibility as we stare down the barrel of War Games.

You’re not a warrior Betsy, and you sure as hell don’t have an edge about you. Nor even the accolades to show that a warrior’s heart beats deep within you. Why, when you returned, what with all the chatter it engendered, I would have thought your list of successes was as prodigious as the number of copyright violations you've no doubt incurred. But what of your championship reigns? Two blink and you'll miss them blips with mid card titles.

And that's not even the most damning evidence of how soft you are. No, because when you came face to face with Kieran King himself what did you do?

You sang to him.

Bitch, please.

Do me a favor. When my name crops up during the draft, pass it on by. Pick a Barney Green or a Savannah Knightly. Those are more your speed.

Me? I'll continue to hold out for royalty thank you very much.