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Behind the Storm

Behind the Storm

My life’s been one big storm.

The darkness came first, rising like a flame from hell to poison the woman I love, to blot out the sun. Every breath I drew turned into an endless seconds filled with deep longing for just one glimpse of my lost light.

But the sun belongs to the storm.

Thunder, drowning out all other sound, beat like war drums in my heart. It was the soundtrack to my ascension in OSW, to being the Real fucking Deal.

I was full of sound and fury, yet I truly accomplished nothing.

Because next came the lightning, flashing through the darkness with false hope. It put a spotlight on me, showing the man I truly was.

Eddie solved the riddle of Luke Storm, yet he paid for it with his life.

Standing in the eye of the storm, I thought I was safe, so I wrapped myself in Hollywood.

But then the rain started. A torrential downpour, washing away all pretense of who I was, leaving me drowning in the ocean of my defeat.

It was an indelible truth that I had ignored for too long.

And now, Zero and Pyre have come to my own doorstep, knowing that truth.

I can’t beat them.

Pyre is the darkness, engulfing my home in flames and blocking out any hope of ever seeing Scarlett again.

The relentless thunder of their venomous words reverberates through its halls. It was once my soundtrack, yet now it hurts my ears.

The false hope comes next, the lightning shining in Zero’s eyes as he crushes my neck with his bionic arm, revenge for the storm I brought on him.

Then comes the downpour, rivulets of pain stripping me of all I am.

My bravado. My name. My daughter.

All of it, truly gone and washed away in a sea of gluttony and pride.

Zero, Pyre, you stripped me naked, barren and bereft of all that I hold deep.

Just as all storms do.

You looked into Hollywood Luke Storm, and you destroyed him.

But you made the same mistake as all the others have.

I’m still here.

The man behind the Storm.

When the Storm has run its course, the only thing left is what was too strong to destroy.

Hollywood’s washed away.

All that’s left is a man.

A father.

One bad son of a bitch, filled with purpose, with strength, and with rage.

And now, it’s your turn to feel the Storm.

First will come the downpour, putting out the fires you’ve spread, Pyre, each droplet hammering you with the knowledge that you aren’t as bad as you thought you were.

Then the lightning will strike, giving you both false hope as it forces your eyes to look upon the man you thought washed away. It’s baited you into believing you’ve won.

But truth will burst your eardrums as your bodies fall at my feet, the boom reverberating through the Slaughterhouse as the Bad Mother Fuckers fall in three endless seconds.

You’ll beg for a glimpse of the light before the end, but the sun belongs to the Storm.

Luke Storm.

The only Mother Fucker.