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Doctor Louis D'Ville · (06-29-2015)

"Birth is violent, and out of that violence is our only chance of rebirth."

â€• Nick Nolte

Sit back, relax a moment . . .

In case you haven't been paying attention, the Doctor spent a life time molding the boy into what some would call, a mad man. Mentoring, fathering, and guiding him through life like a guardian angel. Sort of. Well, not at all, actually. More like a shadow. From that very day when the Doctor took the boy by his hand and guided him away from a broken, dead home and to a new life, the Doctor stood by and allowed this life take it's own course. A life where the boy had a chance to become something better than the legacy of a dead beat.

It panned out well. The boy grew up and became a man of the law, a detective for the Las Angeles Police Department. He was doing well for himself, which eventually led to his obsession with the job. A good cop, but a bad husband and father. There's a lot of gray area there. He chose to keep his two lives seperated as much as he possibly could, but when the one began to consume the other, that's when the trouble started.

It was your typical tragedy, folks. Cop puts his job before his family, family gets murdered, cop gets revenge, and then drowns in a sea of his own piss and sorrows.

The Ex-Detective didn't fall completely apart before the Doctor came to pick up the pieces, however. In fact, the Doctor would even visit the Ex-Detective at one point during his battle with a terminal disease. The Ex-Detective unable to remember the Doctor from his youth, of course, welcomed the him as a new friend. The Doctor then offered the Ex-Detective a bargain that would have been stupid to refuse. It sounded like a joke. And the meds and radiation didn't exactly leave him in the best mind. The Ex-Detective signed a simple contract that ensured his life, in exchange for his services.

After a miraculous healing process, the LAPD decided to relocate him to Las Vegas where he'd basically work security at a number of casinos at any given day of the week. It opened up many, many doors for him including a run with one of the city's own biggest, fattest, and most renowned gangsters.

The Doctor settled for whatever came along for the longest time before finally appearing before the Ex-Detective. Many failures. Easily manipulated, but never strong enough. When the Doctor's new duties required him to pass through Las Vegas, he decided it was time to finish what he had started.

The ironclad, verbal contract that the Ex-Detective was bound to left his option to leave the city very thin. The Doctor had a very simple solution to the problem involving burning the Ex-Detective's apartment to the ground and eventually "convincing" the crime organization to seek other help.

The Ex-Detective then went on the grandest adventure and, basically, became the Doctor's right-hand-man when it came to travels. He assisted the Doctor in his creation of the Asylum and watched as the Doctor would win titles, shatter records, and beat nearly everyone that stepped forth to face him. After the Doctor remained at the top for so long, he decided to throw a few more spices in the mix. The illness returned to the Ex-Detective ten fold along with whatever strange curse the Doctor planted him with. It basically threw the Ex-Detective into an untraceable coma which left him in a metamorphosis-state. While unconscious, the disease covered up what was actually going on inside his body. The Ex-Detective's body was growing stronger. His muscles, core, everything. With one side effect.

The Ex-Detective would wake up in a hospital bed the one day with a blank memory. This was not something that the Doctor expected. He's been able to control everything that's been flowing through this young man's mind for so long now, what could have gone wrong? Regardless, the Doctor took it upon himself to leave several clues for the Ex-Detective which would eventually lead him to competing in the XWF. The Doctor's orginal plan. He allowed things to take it's course once again. After all, it all panned out once before, did it not?

Something was different about him, though. And it wasn't his sudden sobriety.

Somehow, during the Ex-Detective's most recent near death experience, a light ignited inside him. This wasn't something the naked eye could see. He was still the asshole the Doctor knew from their many travels across the world . . . But to the Doctor, that light was blinding.

Coincidentally, the path of the Asylum led to a few encounters with the Master of Minds, himself, Mastermind. Long after the Doctor defeated him for the X-Treme Title, Mastermind became torn between his personalities, thanks to a magic mirror. The Mirror of Mastermind had the ability to pull the good or evil right out of somebody, so to speak. After the Doctor convinced Mastermind to use this to his own advantage, the Doctor would steal the mirror for himself. He took it to his office and brought the Ex-Detective there for the first time in a long time. The Doctor wished to snuff out whatever light was ignited inside the Ex-Detective.

The mirror backfired, however. After the Ex-Detective was swallowed up by the mirror it revealed his entire past right before his eyes. From his birth, to his childhood, to the Doctor carving nearly every aspect of his life. While the Doctor was on the outside trying to destroy the mirror, which he found to be indestructible, the Ex-Detective fought through whatever strange plane of existence he was trapped in. He managed to escape the mirror and defeat the evil version of himself by throwing him back into the magic mirror. A pistol left by the Evil-Detective lied on the ground in front of him. As the Doctor approached him, he pointed the pistol straight ahead of him. Realizing there was only way out of this torturous grasp, he turned the gun on himself a swallowed a bullet.

As powerful as the Doctor may be, he was always been powerless to free-will. The Ex-Detective ending his life ruined a life time of work. What a waste. The Doctor's need for some sort of anchor to this world works best when the anchor suffers from a long earned broken heart and soul. Just picking someone out of a crowd has never worked. Starting over seems absurd, but it also seems like the only thing left to do.

The rain was relentless . . .

The hooded man's boots splashed and kicked water as he stomped around to the back of the house. It was dark inside and the weather made it even more difficult to see outside. He approached the back porch and as he climbed the steps he paused for a moment. Behind the broken screen door was an old, beat up wooden door. He walked up to the window beside the door and tried it first.

Locked.

He tried the door next, and no matter how loose it seemed, it wouldn't open either. He stepped back off of the porch into the rain and looks around the house for other ways of entry. Without somehow scaling the side of the house, there's no possible way he would reach another window. Breaking this one isn't an option either. He looked around a bit more then seen the tool shed across the yard. He rushed through the flooded yard to the small shanty and ripped open the rotting door. Inside are old boxes of tools and such. He shuffled through a few of them and pulled a screwdriver from one of them. He looked at the tip, threw it into his pocket and returned to the back door.

It didn't take much. He shoved the screwdriver between the door and the frame and pulled to one side. The door opened like magic with a small amount of noise.

Days Later . . .

"The crime scene is a blood bath at this home just on the outskirts of this small northeastern town."

The Channel 4 News van was the first of the flock of media that reported to the scene. The blonde reporter stood on the street behind the police tape as she spoke into the camera.

"Police arrived on the scene this morning, after the resident failed to turn up for his job and co-workers became worried. Once a friend of the victim discovered the victim's house was broken into, he immediately called the police."

The reporter slowly begins to walk along the police tape as the camera carefully pans behind her to the house. Several days worth of mail is shoved into the small mailbox and scattered across the porch.

"Police currently have no details on the victim nor any leads regarding a suspect. Residence are told to stay in their homes and to report ANY suspicious activity."

The reporter goes along with her closing statement and the network switches back to the anchor. She rips the earpiece out and tosses the microphone at her cameraman.

"Hurry up and wait."

"Relax, we were the first ones here. Whether we have any details or not, we got something out there."

She pulls a pack of cigarettes out from between her breasts and lights one up. She inhales a puff of smoke and let's it slowly creep out of her face as she speaks.

"I get it, okay?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Where did all of these other mother fuckers come from anyway? As small and out-there as this place is, you'd think we'd have jurisdiction."

"Media jurisdiction?"

"Shut up..."

"How many times does something like this pop up around here? A murder, I mean. I know we had that story here about that pig farmer."

"Sick fucker."

"I didn't know pigs ate humans."

"You saying you wouldn't if it was all you had to eat?"

"That's pretty dark, babe."

She pulls another drag from the cigarette and looks around the scene. The ambulance is still parked in the driveway with the back open. No body yet. The coroner hasn't come out from the inside.

"It must be pretty bad."

"Yeah."

"Like, chainsaw massacre bad."

"Uh, huh."

The cameraman rolls his eyes now as he turns to the van to throw his camera in the back.

"They're probably still gathering up the body. Looking for the head just to confirm it's--"

Before she finishes, cameras flash and the rest of the media around her rush as close as they can to see a few men finally exiting the house.

"Fuck! What are you doing?! Get your shit!"

Home Sweet Home . . .

He pulled the hood back from his head and walked through the kitchen to the closest light switch. He flicks it up and down several times and gets nothing. Power must be out.

"Fuckin' rain."

After a horrible night to begin with, now he's stuck in the dark.

"Bullshit."

He looks over the door to see if he damaged it any before closing it. It's not the first time he's forgotten his keys... Nor the first time he's had to jimmy it with a screwdriver. He reaches down and pulls the laces from his boots free and shoves each boot off with the opposite foot. He stops for a moment and scans quickly with his eyes directly in front of him.

"Did I hear something?"

He felt an eerie feeling the second he walked into the house, but he ignored it. However, after listening to the floor boards upstairs creak as if someone was running from room to room, the feeling grew a bit stronger. He felt around the kitchen a bit and managed to find a hidden flashlight under the sink. Good thing, he couldn't see his own hand inches from his face. He hit the switch and pointed it through through the kitchen and into the living room. Before proceeding, he reached over and pulled a large knife from a collection sitting on the counter. With a tight grip in both hands, he left the kitchen and entered the living room.

The stairway consisted of four steps up to a landing, where you would then take a ninety-degree turn to reach the upstairs. He slowly crept up the steps and cringed at every creak the old staircase would groan back at him. He reached the top and quickly moved the flashlight back and forth between the rooms. Three doorways, two of them sealed by an old wooden door.

SLAM!!

Three doorways sealed by an olden wooden door.

The door slamming shut nearly made him not only defecate himself, but also loose the grip on both the knife and flashlight. Luckily, neither of the three happened. With his heart in his throat, he left the flashlight pointed at the source of the slam.

"Hello?!"

He shrieked.

"Is anyone there?! I have--- gun!"

Yeah, in a drawer by my bed... Unloaded. He thought to himself.

The light trembled on the door until the door behind him slowly creaked open.

The bathroom.

He swiftly turned around and focused his light the other way as he makes his way into the bathroom. As his foot touches the laminate flooring, it slips forward and the man leaves his feet. Landing on his back, the wind leaves his body and the flashlight and knife fly into the air. The flashlight smacks him in the forehead and rattles as it falls aside, while the knife makes a ping sound as it bounces from the bathtub and nearly stabs him in the stomach. It's a good thing he never kept them sharpened. He pulled the doll blade from his stomach and reached by his head for the flashlight. It rattles a bit more and begins to flicker off and on.

"Just great."

He sighs to himself. He rubs his face and slips again as he picks himself up from the floor.

"What IS this?!"

As the flashlight flickers he realizes he's slipping on, what seems to be, a dark red liquid.

"Is this... BLOOD?!"

He's freaking out now, just as any normal human being probably would. He presses against the wall and shines the flashlight across the bathtub, walls, mirror, floor, sink, and toilet... It seemed like every inch was covered with blood. He holds his hand to his mouth and tries holding back, but cannot, and vomits all over himself and the floor. From his hands in knees he hurries out of the bathroom and nearly falls foward down the steps as he begins to make his escape. He stops dead when he looks forward and sees, at the landing near the bottom of the stairway, a large wolf with a single, glowing red air staring at him. He pukes again as he flips himself around in the stairway and climbs a few steps before he froze. He just couldn't comprehend anything that was happening around him. A red aura surrounds the wolf as it snarls at him and snaps him out of it. He climbs to his feet and rushes down the small hallway to his bedroom. He busts through the door and falls face first onto the floor. Without a second to waste, he immediately slams the door shut and locks it. He catches his breathe for a moment before jumping across his bed to the small desk beside it. He pulls a .357 from the drawer and begins fumbling around with a few rounds before dropping them on the ground.

"Help."

He freezes again after hearing a small whimper coming from somewhere in the room. He doesn't dare say a word. After listening for a moment, he looks over to the door and sees the red aura outside and slowly seeping in from the outside. He picks the bullets up and slowly begins placing them into his pisol.

Do I hear crying???

He listens ever so closely. He readies his weapon before slowly walking across the bedroom as it is slowly taken over by a very eerie red glow.

The closet. It's coming from the closet. He's able to see a bit now due to the red glow.

Like something from a horror movie, he ignores the haunting feeling in the air and is ready to fight. He pulls open the door and points the gun ahead of him directly into the face of a little girl.

What the.. ...

A small girl, no older than eight years old sits in this man's closet, crying, while covered from head to toe in blood. Her face is between her knees and wrapped around her left arm is a small stuffed bunny-rabbit. The stuffed animal looked moldy and decrepit, also stained with red.

"What?! What are you doing here?! What happened?! What are you doing here?!"

He didn't know if he felt relieved or more scared at the fact he found a little girl crying in his closet.

"Where did you come from?! Are you hurt?!"

The Little Girl lifts her pretty face and scowls at the man. He reaches out to her.

"Take my hand..."

As he touches her arm, he pulls it away from the stuffed bunny-rabbit she tightly held. She screamed out at him and lifted an extremely large blade from behind her.

"NNNNNNnnnno!"

She shrieked and in one swipe removed the man's hand.

He drops the gun with his other hand as he stumbles back grasping his severed forearm. He tries to scream, but at this point he's in such shock that he's unable to. The Little Girl stands up and steps out of the closet laughing hysterically as the man flops around the floor like a fish out of water. She holds up her stuffed bunny-rabbit and gives it a big hug, then holds it in front of her as if it spoke to her.

"I dunn-nno..."

She whispered quietly to the stuffed animal.

"Otay."

She chuckled and skipped over to the man as he leaned his back against his bed thriving in pain.

"Please."

He whimpered to the Little Girl. She ignores his plea and buries the large blade into his abdomen like a hot knife to butter and opens the man up. He struggles through his last few breathes and watches as his insides ooze out on top of him. The Little Girl drops the large blade and turns to the stuffed bunny-rabbit again and gives it a big hug when there is a knock at the door. She skips over to it and pulls it open.

Hello, Clementine.

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