The Mortuary is dark, and the rain pours heavily from above. The sound of dirt shucking back and forth is our only solace from the terrifying state of darkness that looms.
Tombstone stands in the pooled and soggy mud, his hat and jacket tossed off to one side and a shovel grasped tightly in his hands. He slams it thunderously into the ground, scooping dirt from within and pouring it out.
He’s relentless. Methodical. Tireless.
As the rain crashes against his pale face, a thunderous sound ruptures above. He just keeps on digging.
“It feels as if for the longest time, I’ve been digging a hole.”
His breath is laboured.
“When my life hung in the balance, I unknowingly picked up a shovel and started digging. I was terminal. Everything was crashing down around me. When I made that deal with Fernicus, he didn’t just sell me a boat.”
Tombstone sighs.
“He sold me a shovel.”
As he speaks, he continues digging the hole.
“And then I disobeyed Igor and decided to become something. Someone. After the delivering of souls, I wanted, nay needed something for myself. As if my life wasn’t enough. As if the opportunity I was mis-sold to continue breathing wasn’t privilege enough. The hole kept getting bigger.”
The rain thunders down.
“My heart always ached for more – the hole I dug only comparable to the gaping one inside. My soul always felt empty, and now I know why. The price I paid in full, it took part of it. I should’ve perished. I should’ve been laid to rest and ferried to my final destination, just like all the hundreds of thousands of souls I’ve taken.”
He stops, lowering his head.
“I missed the boat and dug a hole instead.”
His work is finished. The whole is dug and he now climbs out, moving further into the Mortuary open field. As he does, we see nineteen other graves, all freshly dug and open, with mounds of mud beside them.
“I won’t let you make the same mistake.”
Tombstone paces around the graves.
“Nineteen souls, desperate for more. Each of you desperate to fill that void in your soul with the OSW World Heavyweight Championship. I did that. For one hundred and sixty nine days, I stood in the hole whilst dirt was poured in around me and the further it covered me, the more I seemed to rise.”
“But when the title was ripped from my grasp by Harold Attano, I started to sink.”
“I won’t allow you that fate, Old School Wrestling. I won’t sit idly by whilst you suffer the feeling of your soul being torn from your body and replaced with a void once filled.”
“These graves are for you.”
“I won’t let you survive. I will bury you alive.”
“And I will send you on your way.”
He stops at the one he just dug.
“As for me…”
“This grave is my own. I too must be buried, only the difference between us is that once I am, I will win Lambs to the Slaughter, take back my Championship and rise again.”
“Just like Lazarus.”