Hell Sent

On a tv within the smokey, seedy new playpen of CU:LT owner Casanova English, The Dying Squirrel, is a repeat of the last few moments of one of the Killdozer Cup tournament matches:



A barstool goes flying into the television set, irrationally exploding it. Many within the bar became either startled, irritated, or both. That attitude changed, however, when the source of the seemingly senseless destruction became apparent: a bizarrely-dressed creature that would tower over most anyone in the bar, had they not been hunched over and seething.

“That wasn’t how that was supposed to go down.” KILROY growled.

Several barflies tried to calm down the hairless gorilla, but he merely swatted them away.

“I’m tellin’ Mr. English ya did that, PAL!” the bartender exclaimed. Why a bartender in New York sounded like they were from New Braunfels (in Texas), don’t ask. Who cares!!

“AND WHILE YOU’RE AT IT-” he barked out only to immediately calm back down, “While you’re at it, ask him WHY, whyyyyyyyyy did his referee make the count for… Junko… Souma… against what’s-her-face, knowing full well, FULL AND WELL that that was myyyyyyy night?! Myyyyyyy destiny?”

The scowl on his face, the rapid inhale-exhale through his nostrils, it all got worse… before it got… better? His visage softened, before his lower lip began to tremble. He appeared as if he was about to cry!

“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!” he sobbed. “Junko Souma should have beaten ME!! What sort of GOD would punish his most angelic of servants, me, with this cruel, cruel twist of fate!!?? After all we’d been through together, through thick and thin, good and bad, mostly bad, I de-seeeeerved to either WIN - which didn’t happen - and so therefore LOSE - but only to Junko Souma!”

Feeling empathy for this pitiful creature that was all over the place, the bartender begrudgingly asks, “You wanna drink? It’s on the house.”

He figured KILROY would be broke after Casanova dealt with his vandalism anyway.

“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you got a peach bellini?” KILROY sniffled out.

“THAT’S IT, GIT THE HELL OUTTA MY BAR, YA PSYCHO!!” the bartender shouted, enraged at the insulting drink order.

“I’ll leave!” KILROY shouted, his voice cracking a bit.

The bartender, a big burly gruff fellow, but nowhere near as impressive a physical specimen as the weirdo in the corner, was internally relieved that it was that easy.

“I’ll leave when I’ve finished my beer!” KILROY added.

The bartender looked confused, “You don’t have no beer, mister!”

A waitress passed by with two pitchers of amber piss as far as I’m concerned. Without missing a beat, KILROY snatched both for himself. He began to pound one of them down into him.

“HEY! That’s not yours!” the bartender pointlessly exclaimed.

After one pitcher was laid to waste, he smashed said pitcher over his own head. Everyone stopped bothering him after that.

“At Heaven Sent, I have a second chance to make a good first impression. I’ve been added to the show, and LO AND BEHOLD! Junko Souma is my opponent for it too! I’ve been told the stipulation is that there’ll be a bunch of obstacles in our way, and baby, that’s the way I like it! And there’s gonna be fire involved as well?!” KILROY chuckles sinisterly - or is that drunkenly? “So WHAT? I was BORN in the flames of disaster! Look at my bio! And while you’re there, please look and see something. Look very closely. Keep looking. Did you see it? There’s something there that assures I can’t LOSE! Now. Whaaaaat coooooould it BE. Could it be my vital statistics? My history? My WHAT? Oh! That’s right! My penchant for tossing people over the top rope. Isn’t that INTERESTING? Because I was ALSO told that in order to finally achieve my destiny and destroy Junko Soma once and for all for her disgusting crimes, that I have to toss her over the top. ROPE.”

He paused to allow the viewers to truly grasp the gravity of the situation.

“How can you win? Or more imPORTantly, how can I lose? Mister Casanova English, who I’ve been corresponding with on Instagram lately at @cassanovaengiish_ told me, in black and white, that this match was designed with ME in mind! I throw people over the top rope with ease, fire is ticklish, what more do you want? Junko Souma, you had better pray to GOD!! ALMIGHTY!!! That the other pests in this match are on your side.” “He paused once more, the effects of downing an entire pitcher of beer suddenly becoming noticeable to him. “Wow. Whoah. Holy cow. A-anyway, not that it’ll make much of a difference, because if ANYONE, and I mean AAAAAAAAAAAANYONE so much as THINKS!!! THINKS!!! about getting in between Junko Souma and KILROY, well, heh heh heh…”

He proceeded to clothesline a passerby. Other patrons jumped to action, equipping themselves with pool cues, broken beer bottles, and just whatever they could get their hands on. KILROY’s grin seemed to widen to infinity. He chuckled, then giggled, then smashed the second still full pitcher over his own head as you’d swear you could hear Popeye’s theme begin to play.

The first few stick-wielders adeptly thwacked KILROY across his torso, the second round successfully shattered across his back. KILROY stumbled away but only into a gauntlet of beer bottles smashed across his head. Uncertain that was bright considering he made short work of those pitchers, but it’s fairly evident nobody is being sensible in this situation.

Somebody used the stool that not that long ago went flying through the air, smashing it over KILROY’s back. He screamed in agony as he recoiled away from his attacker. But the screams kept on coming. And became more exaggerated. And then pretty damn obviously mocking as he turns around, a beaten a bloodied - and most importantly enraged KILROY smiled, growled, and screamed, “Owwww, owwwwwwwwww, OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW, owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwahahahaHAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Then that man tried using the stool defensively. A noble effort, but a drunken Hollywood Cosign bicycle kick banished that poor soul to the Shadow Realm. The others, wielding broken beer bottles and splintered pool cues swarmed KILROY, masses of humanity obscured KILROY’s colossal frame, but only momentarily; all men flew away as if positive magnets to KILROY’s… well… also positive one. Neatly lying in a circle, the barely-conscious men become unconscious men, as KILROY stomped and kicked, stomped and kicked at them.

Then KILROY turned around, saw somebody, grabbed a hold of them, and beal tossed them on top of the pool table.

“I just got here…” the poor bum groaned.

Then, the distinctive sound of a switchblade switching. KILROY turned around to see another bar patron holding a nasty piece of work. KILROY pointed at him, “Ohhhhhhhhhh! Shame shame!”

KILROY shuffled, stumbled, slinked, and slithered toward the man with the plan, as if he didn’t care what could happen to him. Quickly, the man’s courage began to drain from him, and just before the towering menace could get his hands on him, he lashed out by slashing out, catching the “wrestler” across his entire forearm.

KILROY backed away, seething as he favoured his new wound. He examined it for a few moments before licking the manifesting blood from it. He shook his head, “Now, ah, see there, youuuuur little problem is - ah, you WANNA know what your problem is, right? It’s that-”

And with a disturbing lightning quickness that defied both his massive frame and drunken status, he was atop the knife-wielder.

“You shoulda STABBED me.” he said as he grabbed a hold of the man, walked toward the bar, and unceremoniously dumped him all the way onto the bartender’s side.

Stumbling away and towards the exit, a bruised, bloodied, and boozed-up KILROY dusted off his hands before turning around to admire the fruits of his labour. He rested his hands on his hips. “If everyone else in this little match is as easy to beat, Junko Souma, you. Will. DIE!!!”

He then looked down at his cool-ass trenchcoat, sucking his teeth. He took it off, meticulously gave it a more thorough look, and sucked his teeth some more, “Blood and beer stains, WHY! Why ME?!”

“Uh,” the up to this point speechless bartender chimed in, “Vinegar should deal with them stains.”

The bartender’s words triggered something within KILROY. He gave the poor guy a weird look before that triggered something became apparent to him. He smiles, smacks himself on the side of the head, and says, “Oh, shucks, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there!”

The bartender’s eyes narrowed warily.

“Junko Souma!”

You never saw a beer-gutted middle-aged man run that fast in your life!

KILROY shrugged as the bartender fled. Then he was about to finally exit the establishment, but a few dozen cop cars blasted onto the scene, and he decided he could do with a game of darts.

He carefully - as carefully as one can after almost being murdered and almost murdering - traipsed past the masses of humanity until he reached the dart board. He scooped up as many darts as he could. He repositioned them in his large hands just so.

“You know, this little contest my good friend Casanova English personally asked me to be part of is a lot like this dart game; the board itself, why, that’s all the obstacles in my way, and the bullseye, well, that’s Junko Souma, of course! And these-”

He held out the darts in his hand for the camera to get a better look at.

“These represent ME. Yes, I AM all of them! It’s true! Look:”

He then clenched them in his hand, raised them to eye-level, focused, lined up his shot(s), refocused, adjusted his positioning and footing, reared back once, reared back twice, reared back a third time, then at long last, swung them darts with full-force toward the board.

Not a single one stuck into anything much less the board. This somehow surprised The Terror of Mount Lee.

“Huh.” he said, “Well, that doesn’t matter. NOTHING matters! Well, SOMETHING matters, but none of THIS matters, you know why?”

He moved right up to the board. He looked at it for a few seconds… before headbutting it into oblivion. As a bit of blood dripped from his head and down his smeared face paint, he slowly turned to address the camera.

“Because I only know how to do things the HARD way. The hard, HAAAAAAAARD way. You get me, Junko? Souma?”

An officer using a megaphone could be heard outside, “KILROY, WE KNOW YOU’RE STILL IN THERE, WHY DON’T YOU PLEASE COME OUT AND TURN YOURSELF IN?”

“Yeah yeah.” he said as he shuffled towards the exit anew. “Hey, you know something, I think I maaaaaaaaaaaay be a liiiiiiiiiittle tipsy.”

He raised his hands in the air and disappeared into the obscuring light of the outside world.