VHS #134 – After the Show
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The monotonous sound of a seeping beer faucet reverberates through the Tap Room.
All is still and quiet save for the seeping nozzle – that is until a set of fire doors swing open to bare a well-dressed gentleman brandishing a fancy cane.
Only it’s not who you think it is.
The man stands for a moment, the shadow of his slender silhouette eerily mimicking his physical frame on the ground in front of him.
Slowly, he begins to move across the room tapping his cane against the creaking wooden floor beneath him as he strides towards the source of the noise; the leaking tap itself.
Once there, he raises his cane to flick a switch upon the wall, uncovering the infamous Old School Wrestling Hall.
The man – now revealing himself to be no more than a would-be Chief wannabe – surveys the scene in front of him. The expression on his face becomes contorted; ostensibly angered by what he sees.
“That useless fucking cunt”, he mutters with a scowl. “Just wait till I get my hands on him this time round.”
No sooner does he utter his threat before the doors to the auditorium fly open once again.
Three men wearing white overalls enter the room in unified panic.
“Where’s that futile fucking friend of yours?”, the man enquires, pointing his cane at the first of the men. “The one they call Serge.”
Looking like he’s seen a ghost; the man stutteringly replies.
“He… He… He… He’s down in the basement, boss.”
“The basement?”, the man responds. “I don’t pay that waste of space to shirk off to the bowls of this building as and when he chooses.”
“You…”, he adds aiming his cane towards the second man. “What’s he doing down there?”
The second man, hands on his knees and fighting to catch his breath, looks up to meet the man’s gaze; the fear of God coursing through his eyes.
“Y… You don’t want to know, sir. Trust me – we all all just need to get the hell out of here… NOW.”
The gentleman furrows his brow looking less than impressed.
“I’m not going anywhere!”, he exclaims angrily.
Without saying another word, he moves his cane towards the third man who glances ominously at his two co-worker – one after the other – before the perturbed look on his face begins to morph into something quite different.
“Roberts”, he hisses; a sickening, sadistic smile now inheriting every contour in his face. “He’s not the man you knew.”
The pupils in the third man’s eyes begin to swirl, transforming as if bounded by some kind of sinister spell.
“And if you ain’t down with the sickness”, the man muses.
“Then you’re part of the disease.”
The man slams his cane into the floor in a fit of rage.
“SEEEEEEERRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGEEEEEEE!”
Suddenly the light bulbs to shatter throwing the Tap Room into darkness once again.
“Serge is dead”, emanates a gravelly voice.
“From now on you can call me…”
The man cries out in terror; his cane dropping to the floor and vibrating until completely still.
“VIPER.”