Post by Matt Knox on Apr 10, 2024 15:33:07 GMT -5
In the ever-rolling hills just outside the dusty town of Thunderhead, USA, the sun beat down unmercifully on the arid land. It was the year 1895, and the heat was not the only thing that was oppressive. A notorious duo, known colloquially as the Rogue's Gallery, had been wreaking havoc across the territory. The local law enforcement was at their wits' end, and that's when they called him in—Matthew Knox, the US Marshal known far and wide as The Raven.
Matthew Knox was not a man of many words, but his reputation preceded him like the clap of thunder foreshadowing a storm. With his broad-brimmed black hat casting a shadow over his steely gaze, he rode his steadfast steed through the rugged terrain, a solitary figure against the vastness of the West. The badge on his chest glinted in the sunlight, a beacon of impending justice. They said when The Raven was on your trail, there was nowhere to hide, and for Jeremy Wickit and the man known only as "Unknown," that meant their days of thievery were numbered.
Jeremy Wickit was the brains of the Rogue's Gallery, a man of slight build with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. His eyes, quick and cunning, missed nothing, and he could talk his way into—and out of—just about any situation. But it was his nimble fingers that were truly infamous, able to pick any lock or pocket with ease. Jeremy was the weasel in the henhouse, sly and elusive, but even he knew deep down that The Raven was a predator of a different breed.
Unknown was his polar opposite, a colossus of a man whose sheer size and strength were the stuff of legend. He didn't need words; his massive hands did all the talking, capable of crushing a man's skull like a ripe peach. The posters plastered in every sheriff's office never showed his face, just the towering silhouette that had become synonymous with fear in the hearts of those who crossed paths with the Rogue's Gallery.
Together, this pair of miscreants had outfoxed every attempt to capture them, their infamy growing with each successful heist. Their partnership was one of convenience, Jeremy's cunning paired with Unknown's brute force, a combination that had proven unbeatable—until now.
Matthew knew trailin’ em would be hard. He had dealt with all manner of outlaws, from gunslingers to gamblers, but the Rogue's Gallery was different. They were ghosts on the wind, always one step ahead, leaving nothing behind but whispers and shadows. But The Raven was relentless, a specter of retribution, and he had a knack for hunting phantoms.
The Raven had tracked the Rogue's Gallery to a saloon on the outskirts of Thunderhead. The establishment, a rickety wooden structure, seemed to groan under the weight of its own history, its walls echoing with tales of fortunes won and lost. The scent of tobacco and whiskey hung heavy in the air as the saloon's doors swung open to admit the US Marshal.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension and the clatter of poker chips. Without drawing attention, Knox took up a spot at a table in the back, a vantage point that offered a view of the entire room. It wasn't long before he spotted them—Jeremy Wickit, with his weasel-like grin, and Unknown, a looming mountain seated at a poker table, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps.
The game was five-card stud, and the stakes were high. The Raven slid into a seat at the same table, his expression unreadable behind the dark veil of his hat. The cards were dealt, and the banter began, light and cautious. Jeremy's eyes darted to Knox, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. The Marshal's presence had been sensed, and the tension at the table ratcheted up a notch.
"You play a quiet hand, stranger," Jeremy remarked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "But I reckon your game might be law and order, am I right?"
The Raven's gaze didn't waver, his eyes locked onto the deck as the next card was dealt. "A man's game is his own business," he replied smoothly, his voice calm and even. "Just like a man's past."
The saloon's pianist plinked away at a jaunty tune, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension that now ran through the room. The other players at the table tried to keep their focus on their hands, but the exchange between Jeremy and the stoic stranger was like watching a rattlesnake and a mongoose sizing each other up.
Jeremy chuckled, the sound a little too high-pitched, a little too forced. "I suppose that's true. But you see, my partner and I," he gestured to Unknown, "we've got a knack for reading folks. And you, stranger, you read like a dime novel."
Unknown, the hulking figure beside Jeremy, gave a low, rumbling laugh. "Yeah," he said, his voice a deep growl that seemed to resonate through the wood of the table. "We've seen your type before. Ain't that right, Jere?" The big man's brief interjection was like a boulder tossed into a pond, the ripples spreading out to further unsettle the waters.
The Raven merely tipped his hat in acknowledgment, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "And I've seen your type, too," he said, his eyes finally lifting from his cards to meet Jeremy's gaze. "It's a small world, after all."
The other players shifted uncomfortably, sensing that the conversation was more loaded than the guns at their hips. Jeremy leaned in, his voice now a pointed whisper. "Small enough for a US Marshal to find himself playing poker with a couple of wanted men?"
The statement hung in the air like gunsmoke, and for a moment, the saloon was silent but for the distant sound of a dog barking outside. The Raven's hand hovered casually near his chips as if he were contemplating his next bet, but his eyes were those of a predator—sharp and unyielding.
"Accusations are dangerous without proof, friend," The Raven said with a nonchalance that belied the tightness in the air. "And I've yet to see a wanted poster with my face on it."
Just then, as the tension threatened to boil over, the saloon doors burst open and the sound of gunfire shattered the fragile peace. The cards scattered, and the players ducked for cover, their quarrel momentarily forgotten as they faced a new, more immediate threat. The Raven, Jeremy, and Unknown found themselves pressed together behind the bar, the clink of bullet casings hitting the floor like a perverse kind of rain.
“Those evil bastards found us, they’ve got a knack for showing up when they're least welcome,” Jeremy quipped, cocking back the hammer of his revolver.
“Well, it's a damn good thing I brought my boomstick,” Unknown said as he lifted the large, double-barrelled, sawn-off shotgun from its holster on his back, “you picked one hell of a time to get in the mix, Marshal.”
Knox smirked, “Got a knack for it.”
“Your timing might be impeccable, Marshal, but there ain't no guarantees. I hope you made peace with your creator before you walked in,” Jeremy remarked with a sly grin.
“That won't be necessary, not today.” Knox spoke confidently, as he tightened his grip on his firearm.
“You sound fairly confident for a dead man walking.” Unknown cracked open his boomstick and loaded in two rounds.
“It is a good day to die,” Jeremy said with a chuckle.
“Follow my lead and no one dies today, at least not any of us,” Knox responded.
Rogues’ Gallery stand together on the precipice of a steep cliff. The sun hangs bright but low in the sky. It’s golden rays filter through the line of tall pine trees behind them. Judging by the length of the shadows, it appears as though evening has descended upon us and is now beginning to whisper about the coming night.
“So are we really doing this? We're about to put our trust in the man who we are facing for our titles at Retromania 2?” JTW turns to ask his partner.
“Do we have a choice in the matter? What is our alternative exactly? I'm not a huge fan of the idea myself, but the Malvados and Hanako would gladly beat us to a pulp, stomp a mud hole in us, and spoil our chances of retaining without Matt in our corner. Why wouldn't they?” Superunknown asks as he gazes out over the abyss which they stood above.
“I guess you're right. This does, however, feel like quite the leap of faith.”
“Then you should be accustomed to the idea by now,” Superunknown responds.
“Well, that’s true.”
Superunknown chuckles softly.
“I know…”
Suddenly, “The Raven” Matt Knox emerges. Superunknown turns and looks at him, confused as to why he is here in this remote location the two of them have come seeking a place of calm and near complete devoid of unnecessary distraction, save for any gusts of wind and wildlife.
“Well, speak of the devil,” JTW says with a sneer.
“Now spell it, if you can…” He regards Unknown for a beat “Then You, you sing it..” He peers around at the scenery, running his tongue over his teeth “Hell, let's get this mummers’s farce over and done with.
I cede the floor to you, O Champions.”
Superunknown is careful and deliberate with his next words, his tongue pushes at the pouch of tobacco resting in his bottom lip.
“Look, sometimes a particular situation calls for a particular alliance and this is one of those situations. Can Hanako and the Malvado Brothers work together as a cohesive team? I don't know. Can the three of us? I'd like to think we can, at least temporarily. Sometimes temporary Is enough for this kind of alliance, but I will warn you… Do not make us regret the decision to trust you, Knox. For that you will pay dearly, but not as much as Hanako and the Malvados will pay if we work together.”
“The Malvados and us have some unfinished business and we intend to finish it,” JTW says as his eyes narrow sharp as a razor’s edge. “Something tells me they won't quit until they get a shot at our titles, they think because they cheated their way to victory in the Tequila DeathMatch that they deserve a shot. Bull… as much as I don’t want you to think I'm blowing smoke up your keister, Knox. You and Amber actually earned your shot.
We're going to send an overwhelming message to the Malvados and to Hanako. Don’t fudge with us!”
“How altruistic.” Matthew replies to the notion without shifting his eyes off Superunknown, “Guess that means its my turn then, right? Well, let me start by saying this.
The Malvados think that their reign over a dead division that was primarily through a break makes them far more special than they are. I’m sure they’ll tout about their win over Amber and I from, what, two years ago? Three? A match they won with the assistance of our on again off again international champion….” a pause, a breath, a chuckle.
“But this isn’t about Peter Vaughn, it’s barely about alliances really. I called you..” he points to Superunknown “Out at the last Thunder, but I guess those masks are just a smidge better at politicing than I am at public decrees eh?” he lowers the finger, turning back out to absorb the view “Foolish times we live in, and they want us to follow the fools…”
As the gunfire outside the saloon tapered off to a tense silence, the patrons inside held their breaths, ears straining to make sense of the voices that now drifted in from the street. The momentary respite from the chaos allowed The Raven, Jeremy, and Unknown to regroup and reassess the situation.
The voices outside were heated, the rapid exchange in Spanish punctuated by the sharper cadence of English. Words clashed in the air like swords, the argument growing more fervent with each passing second.
"That's them Malperras," Unknown rumbled, his deep voice low but clear. "I'd recognize that bickering anywhere, even if I ain’t know spanish." The Malvados were infamous across the borderlands—a pair of masked bandit brothers who left a trail of robberies and violence in their wake. Their discordant arguing was almost as well-known as their crimes, a telltale sign of their presence.
The Marshal's eyes narrowed as he processed this new information. He glanced briefly towards the saloon doors, as if he could see through them. "And the woman," he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable edge of recognition. "That's Flowerchild. She's with Junko."
Jeremy's wiry frame tensed at the mention of the Chaos Orchids, a notorious duo of outlaws known for their unpredictability and flair for dramatic heists. "Flowerchild, that ginger bitch!?" he asked, his usual bravado tempered by concern. "What's her angle in all this?"
The Raven didn't answer immediately. Instead, he listened, piecing together the fragments of the argument outside. The Malperras were notorious for their lack of subtlety, and it seemed they were at odds with Flowerchild, who was known for her meticulous planning and lethal precision. There was a power struggle happening right outside the saloon doors.
"It's not just a random attack," The Raven surmised. "They're here for something—or someone."
Unknown snorted. "Well, they can join get in line."
Jeremy's eyes flicked between The Raven and Unknown. "Looks like we've got ourselves a good old-fashioned standoff," he said. "Except we're all stuck in the middle of it."
The Marshal considered their options. "We could wait them out," he suggested. "Let them settle their differences and pick off whoever's left standing."
Unknown shook his head, his hands flexing instinctively. "And if they decide to join forces and come in here together?"
The Raven's gaze returned to his two unlikely companions. "Then we'll have to make our own alliance," he said firmly. "Temporary though it may be."
For a moment, the three of them—lawman and outlaws—shared an understanding. Survival was the immediate priority, and it would require cooperation. The lines between hunter and prey were blurred, replaced by the need to navigate the treacherous waters of this new threat.
From outside the saloon, Flowerchild's voice sliced through the tension like the sharp edge of a blade. "We've come for the Rogues and the gold they're known to carry," she declared, her tone cold and authoritative, commanding the attention of everyone within earshot. "We know you're in there, and we're not leaving without what we came for."
The patrons of the saloon, already shaken by the earlier gunfire, exchanged anxious looks. The brazenness of the demand echoed off the walls, almost as startling as the gunshots that had preceded it.
"And as for you, Marshal," Flowerchild continued, her words directed at the enigmatic figure inside. "We've been tracking you for a while. You're a thorn in a lot of sides, but today's your lucky day. Hand over Jeremy Wickit and his oversized companion, and you can ride out of here unharmed."
Inside, The Raven’s eyes lock with those of Jeremy and Unknown. Without a word, he communicated a silent strategy, his fingers subtly tapping out a message against the wood, a coded language they had quickly cobbled together during their temporary truce.
"Miss Flowerchild," The Raven called out, his voice betraying no hint of the tension he felt. "You drive a hard bargain. But if we're to negotiate, I have terms of my own. Let's start by lowering our weapons. Then we can discuss exchanges."
Flowerchild, outside, narrowed her eyes, assessing the Marshal's proposal. She gestured to the Malperras brothers, who hesitantly lowered their guns, though their fingers remained a twitch away from action.
"Alright, Marshal," she replied, her tone laced with impatience. "We'll play your game for now. But talk fast."
The standstill inside the saloon was palpable, each breath and motion heavy with the threat of bloodshed. Jeremy and Unknown kept still, their trust in The Raven as fragile as the thread holding their lives together.
The Raven spun a yarn about a hidden safe, suggesting a time and a place for a fair exchange, while his covert signals to Jeremy and Unknown mapped out a desperate plan for escape, contingent on split-second timing and a good dose of fortune.
Outside, Flowerchild's patience was wearing thin, her sharp mind reading the Marshal's stalling for what it was. "This ends now," she declared, her voice sharp as a whip. "Give us your answer, Marshal. I'm counting to three. One..."
Inside the saloon, the tension was almost suffocating.
"Two..."
Unknown's muscles tensed, ready to spring into action.
"Three."
The saloon's breath caught in its collective throat; the tension snapped. Two gunshots exploded—loud, abrupt, final—shattering the silence.
Outside, Flowerchild's hand moved instinctively to her sidearm, her resolve hardening. She interpreted the gunshots as the Marshal's answer, assuming that he had taken out the Rogues to protect his own skin or to avoid handing them over.
“Following fools shouldn’t be anything new to Hanako though, eh boys?” Matthew brings his hands together behind his back thoughtfully, casting his eyes to the sky “She spends her time following around the five foot deathwish that's challenging to be the next seat-packer between propped up reigns of Peter the mid
And what has that blind faith gotten you, Hanako? To the finals in a match with the three of us where you, and the death wish, both came up disappointingly short. I wonder if you wonder, as you ought to, if maybe you were the only Flower trying to bloom in that Carnage?” a quirked eyebrow, a deep breath and a chuckle as he holds up his hands.
“Apologies boys, I'm unwell and I'm irritated. See, the Malvados are the most loud and annoying part of this locker room. Hands down. I never look forward to seeing them on a card, in the ring, on the screen, wherever. Sure, they’ll put that ol’ what's-his-name spin on it and tout that rusty ass win as the reason but the truth is?
Their act has worn thin, and nobody really gives a fudge about the henchmen.”
He takes in a deep breath, staring out at the view again before striding to stand between them and with the levels of audacity one has come to expect from Matthew Knox, he slings his arms around their shoulders and draws them into a double side-hug.
“We’re gonna run through the sidekick and the henchmen, boys. And you’re going to get all the tape you’ll ever need on me in the process. Temporary alliances won the great war, before facing off in a cold one..” a chuckle, he tightens the hug slightly “I’ll never leave it cold with us, promise.”
Jeremy made no attempt to conceal the look of discomfort that he wore on his face in the double hug. He wiggles loose and steps forward.
“That is nice and all, but let's keep it simple. You have our word that we'll keep things on the up and up long enough to beat the tortilla shells off the Malvados and pick the petals off the lone Flower. We win this match and you and us go our separate ways until we meet again at Retromania… simple, no mess.”
“Clean,” Superunknown spits out a gob stained with chewing tobacco on the ground below. “Then we give you and Amber a clean match at Retromania. No tricks. Probably no treats for you either, in the spirit of honesty. We'll see to it that Frances remains a bystander and that Never//More and Rogues’ Gallery has a fair day in court. We don't owe you much, but we owe you that.”
JTW turned his attention back to the view over the cliff.
“I’ve never been one to spend too much time thinking things through. Most of my life and my short career I’ve spent chasing impulses. Find a chair in my hand? Swing it and try and knock someone’s head off. Find myself standing on top of a ladder fighting someone on the otherside? Steal a page from Evel Knievel and take them on a ride all the way to the bottom. There are a million ways this could go wrong for us trusting you, Matt. I’m not one-hundred percent sold on the idea myself, but it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t given any input. What I’m dealing with is a chance to even up the score with the Malvados, send a message to the Flowers of Carnage that Rogues’ Gallery is here to stay at the top of the mountain. I’m not going to focus on what can go wrong and instead focus on who is standing in front of me. Who is standing in front of us… Hector, Victor, and Hanako.
We have an opportunity in front of us, all three of us… Rogues’ Gallery, we’ve got a chance to remind TPW why we are Duos Champions. Matt, your opportunity is two-fold, you can kick some butt and you get a chance to see on the inside how Superunknown and I work in the ring. Sure, we get the tape on you, as you say, but you get to see under the hood of the machine, so to speak.” Jeremy strokes the stubble on his cheek. He kicks at the dust beneath his feet. He appears lost in thought for the briefest of moments. He spins on his heels and turns back to face his partner, Superunknown, and his temporary ally in Knox.
“Everyone has something to gain in this match. We’ll at least on this side of the ring. Can’t say so much for the masks and flowers… sure, they will be able to claim a stake at these titles to rival Never//More’s and that’s great and all, but there will only be three of us walking into the Target Center with the belts slung over their shoulders and an active claim to try and take those titles It’s almost all upside on this side of the ring from my point of view.”
The silence that followed the gunshots was like the calm in the eye of a storm, the saloon's patrons frozen in place, awaiting the next wave of chaos. Then, the doors creaked open, and US Marshal Matthew Knox, known as The Raven, emerged. Standing at an imposing 6'6" and weighing 240 pounds, he was a figure that commanded attention, his size rivaling that of Unknown.
"Hold your fire!" The Raven's voice boomed across the distance to the waiting outlaws. In his hands, he dragged two figures wrapped in blood-stained sheets, their forms still and seemingly lifeless.
The Malperras brothers fingered their weapons, the itch to shoot the Marshal evident in their twitching hands. Flowerchild, however, watched with an amused smile playing on her lips, intrigued by the Marshal's audacity.
"Let's talk about the gold," The Raven said, his voice steady as he laid the sheet-wrapped bodies on the dusty ground. "There's enough to go around, but no more blood needs to be shed today."
The Malperras grunted in disagreement, their impatience for a violent resolution clear. "Why negotiate when we can just take what we want, including your life, Marshal?" one of the brothers,Edgar, spat, his hand inching closer to his gun.
Flowerchild held up a hand, her eyes not leaving The Raven. "Because," she said smoothly, "it's not every day a man tries to bargain with his life on the line. It's entertaining, if nothing else."
As The Raven stood before the assembled outlaws, his demeanor was as unflappable as the desert landscape that surrounded them. "Now, I'm sure we can all agree that a split is more favorable than a hole in the head," he drawled, his voice dripping with sardonic wit. "Unless, of course, the Malperras prefer their gold with a side of lead?"
The Malperras brothers bristled at the Marshal's words, their dislike for the lawman as clear as the desert sky. "You think you're funny, don't you, Marshal?" the other one, also Edgar sneered, his hand mirroring his brother’s violent intent..
"Oh, I'm downright hilarious," The Raven replied, the corner of his mouth twitching in a semblance of a smile. "But if you shoot me, you'll never find out where the rest of the gold is buried, and that, my friends, would be the real tragedy here."
Flowerchild watched the exchange with a bemused expression, her amusement growing with each verbal jab. "You have a sharp tongue, Marshal. I can see why so many folk wanna shoot you.”
The Raven met her gaze, his own eyes glinting with amusement. "It's a gift," he conceded. "But let's not forget why we're here. Again, I propose an even three-way split of the gold. No more bloodshed, just good old-fashioned greed to guide us."
As the negotiations grew more heated, the slight rustling beneath the bloodied sheets went unnoticed. The two figures wrapped within were biding their time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Jeremy's fingers curled around the grip of his revolver, while Unknown's large hands expertly palmed his own weapon.
The Raven continued to hold court with his dry humor, each sardonic quip serving as a subtle misdirection from the Rogues' impending ambush. "I must say, this is the most fun I've had in a standoff in quite some time," he said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation. "Usually, it's just shooting and shouting. The negotiation is a nice change of pace."
The Raven maintained his casual stance, his voice even and tinged with a dry, sardonic edge. "I've always found that gold splits better three ways than two," he mused, locking eyes with the Malperras, who were now visibly simmering with impatience. "Of course, that does require all parties to still be breathing. Still..."
It was the briefest of pauses, but in that moment, Flowerchild's sharp eyes caught the faintest shift in The Raven's posture, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders that betrayed his true intentions. Her instincts, honed from years of living on the edge where a moment's hesitation meant death, flared with alarm.
"...I suppose—" The Raven's words trailed off, and in that split second, the air itself seemed to tighten, the impending action hanging suspended like the calm before a storm.
Flowerchild's realization came just a heartbeat too late. Her mouth opened to shout a warning, but the sound was drowned out by the deafening roar of gunfire as The Raven's hand blurred to his sidearm with lightning speed.
The bloodied sheets burst open as Jeremy and Unknown, very much alive, sprang into action, their revolvers thundering in unison with The Raven's.
Suffice to say, Negotiations had failed.
Matthew Knox was not a man of many words, but his reputation preceded him like the clap of thunder foreshadowing a storm. With his broad-brimmed black hat casting a shadow over his steely gaze, he rode his steadfast steed through the rugged terrain, a solitary figure against the vastness of the West. The badge on his chest glinted in the sunlight, a beacon of impending justice. They said when The Raven was on your trail, there was nowhere to hide, and for Jeremy Wickit and the man known only as "Unknown," that meant their days of thievery were numbered.
Jeremy Wickit was the brains of the Rogue's Gallery, a man of slight build with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. His eyes, quick and cunning, missed nothing, and he could talk his way into—and out of—just about any situation. But it was his nimble fingers that were truly infamous, able to pick any lock or pocket with ease. Jeremy was the weasel in the henhouse, sly and elusive, but even he knew deep down that The Raven was a predator of a different breed.
Unknown was his polar opposite, a colossus of a man whose sheer size and strength were the stuff of legend. He didn't need words; his massive hands did all the talking, capable of crushing a man's skull like a ripe peach. The posters plastered in every sheriff's office never showed his face, just the towering silhouette that had become synonymous with fear in the hearts of those who crossed paths with the Rogue's Gallery.
Together, this pair of miscreants had outfoxed every attempt to capture them, their infamy growing with each successful heist. Their partnership was one of convenience, Jeremy's cunning paired with Unknown's brute force, a combination that had proven unbeatable—until now.
Matthew knew trailin’ em would be hard. He had dealt with all manner of outlaws, from gunslingers to gamblers, but the Rogue's Gallery was different. They were ghosts on the wind, always one step ahead, leaving nothing behind but whispers and shadows. But The Raven was relentless, a specter of retribution, and he had a knack for hunting phantoms.
The Raven had tracked the Rogue's Gallery to a saloon on the outskirts of Thunderhead. The establishment, a rickety wooden structure, seemed to groan under the weight of its own history, its walls echoing with tales of fortunes won and lost. The scent of tobacco and whiskey hung heavy in the air as the saloon's doors swung open to admit the US Marshal.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension and the clatter of poker chips. Without drawing attention, Knox took up a spot at a table in the back, a vantage point that offered a view of the entire room. It wasn't long before he spotted them—Jeremy Wickit, with his weasel-like grin, and Unknown, a looming mountain seated at a poker table, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps.
The game was five-card stud, and the stakes were high. The Raven slid into a seat at the same table, his expression unreadable behind the dark veil of his hat. The cards were dealt, and the banter began, light and cautious. Jeremy's eyes darted to Knox, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. The Marshal's presence had been sensed, and the tension at the table ratcheted up a notch.
"You play a quiet hand, stranger," Jeremy remarked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "But I reckon your game might be law and order, am I right?"
The Raven's gaze didn't waver, his eyes locked onto the deck as the next card was dealt. "A man's game is his own business," he replied smoothly, his voice calm and even. "Just like a man's past."
The saloon's pianist plinked away at a jaunty tune, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension that now ran through the room. The other players at the table tried to keep their focus on their hands, but the exchange between Jeremy and the stoic stranger was like watching a rattlesnake and a mongoose sizing each other up.
Jeremy chuckled, the sound a little too high-pitched, a little too forced. "I suppose that's true. But you see, my partner and I," he gestured to Unknown, "we've got a knack for reading folks. And you, stranger, you read like a dime novel."
Unknown, the hulking figure beside Jeremy, gave a low, rumbling laugh. "Yeah," he said, his voice a deep growl that seemed to resonate through the wood of the table. "We've seen your type before. Ain't that right, Jere?" The big man's brief interjection was like a boulder tossed into a pond, the ripples spreading out to further unsettle the waters.
The Raven merely tipped his hat in acknowledgment, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "And I've seen your type, too," he said, his eyes finally lifting from his cards to meet Jeremy's gaze. "It's a small world, after all."
The other players shifted uncomfortably, sensing that the conversation was more loaded than the guns at their hips. Jeremy leaned in, his voice now a pointed whisper. "Small enough for a US Marshal to find himself playing poker with a couple of wanted men?"
The statement hung in the air like gunsmoke, and for a moment, the saloon was silent but for the distant sound of a dog barking outside. The Raven's hand hovered casually near his chips as if he were contemplating his next bet, but his eyes were those of a predator—sharp and unyielding.
"Accusations are dangerous without proof, friend," The Raven said with a nonchalance that belied the tightness in the air. "And I've yet to see a wanted poster with my face on it."
Just then, as the tension threatened to boil over, the saloon doors burst open and the sound of gunfire shattered the fragile peace. The cards scattered, and the players ducked for cover, their quarrel momentarily forgotten as they faced a new, more immediate threat. The Raven, Jeremy, and Unknown found themselves pressed together behind the bar, the clink of bullet casings hitting the floor like a perverse kind of rain.
“Those evil bastards found us, they’ve got a knack for showing up when they're least welcome,” Jeremy quipped, cocking back the hammer of his revolver.
“Well, it's a damn good thing I brought my boomstick,” Unknown said as he lifted the large, double-barrelled, sawn-off shotgun from its holster on his back, “you picked one hell of a time to get in the mix, Marshal.”
Knox smirked, “Got a knack for it.”
“Your timing might be impeccable, Marshal, but there ain't no guarantees. I hope you made peace with your creator before you walked in,” Jeremy remarked with a sly grin.
“That won't be necessary, not today.” Knox spoke confidently, as he tightened his grip on his firearm.
“You sound fairly confident for a dead man walking.” Unknown cracked open his boomstick and loaded in two rounds.
“It is a good day to die,” Jeremy said with a chuckle.
“Follow my lead and no one dies today, at least not any of us,” Knox responded.
Rogues’ Gallery stand together on the precipice of a steep cliff. The sun hangs bright but low in the sky. It’s golden rays filter through the line of tall pine trees behind them. Judging by the length of the shadows, it appears as though evening has descended upon us and is now beginning to whisper about the coming night.
“So are we really doing this? We're about to put our trust in the man who we are facing for our titles at Retromania 2?” JTW turns to ask his partner.
“Do we have a choice in the matter? What is our alternative exactly? I'm not a huge fan of the idea myself, but the Malvados and Hanako would gladly beat us to a pulp, stomp a mud hole in us, and spoil our chances of retaining without Matt in our corner. Why wouldn't they?” Superunknown asks as he gazes out over the abyss which they stood above.
“I guess you're right. This does, however, feel like quite the leap of faith.”
“Then you should be accustomed to the idea by now,” Superunknown responds.
“Well, that’s true.”
Superunknown chuckles softly.
“I know…”
Suddenly, “The Raven” Matt Knox emerges. Superunknown turns and looks at him, confused as to why he is here in this remote location the two of them have come seeking a place of calm and near complete devoid of unnecessary distraction, save for any gusts of wind and wildlife.
“Well, speak of the devil,” JTW says with a sneer.
“Now spell it, if you can…” He regards Unknown for a beat “Then You, you sing it..” He peers around at the scenery, running his tongue over his teeth “Hell, let's get this mummers’s farce over and done with.
I cede the floor to you, O Champions.”
Superunknown is careful and deliberate with his next words, his tongue pushes at the pouch of tobacco resting in his bottom lip.
“Look, sometimes a particular situation calls for a particular alliance and this is one of those situations. Can Hanako and the Malvado Brothers work together as a cohesive team? I don't know. Can the three of us? I'd like to think we can, at least temporarily. Sometimes temporary Is enough for this kind of alliance, but I will warn you… Do not make us regret the decision to trust you, Knox. For that you will pay dearly, but not as much as Hanako and the Malvados will pay if we work together.”
“The Malvados and us have some unfinished business and we intend to finish it,” JTW says as his eyes narrow sharp as a razor’s edge. “Something tells me they won't quit until they get a shot at our titles, they think because they cheated their way to victory in the Tequila DeathMatch that they deserve a shot. Bull… as much as I don’t want you to think I'm blowing smoke up your keister, Knox. You and Amber actually earned your shot.
We're going to send an overwhelming message to the Malvados and to Hanako. Don’t fudge with us!”
“How altruistic.” Matthew replies to the notion without shifting his eyes off Superunknown, “Guess that means its my turn then, right? Well, let me start by saying this.
The Malvados think that their reign over a dead division that was primarily through a break makes them far more special than they are. I’m sure they’ll tout about their win over Amber and I from, what, two years ago? Three? A match they won with the assistance of our on again off again international champion….” a pause, a breath, a chuckle.
“But this isn’t about Peter Vaughn, it’s barely about alliances really. I called you..” he points to Superunknown “Out at the last Thunder, but I guess those masks are just a smidge better at politicing than I am at public decrees eh?” he lowers the finger, turning back out to absorb the view “Foolish times we live in, and they want us to follow the fools…”
As the gunfire outside the saloon tapered off to a tense silence, the patrons inside held their breaths, ears straining to make sense of the voices that now drifted in from the street. The momentary respite from the chaos allowed The Raven, Jeremy, and Unknown to regroup and reassess the situation.
The voices outside were heated, the rapid exchange in Spanish punctuated by the sharper cadence of English. Words clashed in the air like swords, the argument growing more fervent with each passing second.
"That's them Malperras," Unknown rumbled, his deep voice low but clear. "I'd recognize that bickering anywhere, even if I ain’t know spanish." The Malvados were infamous across the borderlands—a pair of masked bandit brothers who left a trail of robberies and violence in their wake. Their discordant arguing was almost as well-known as their crimes, a telltale sign of their presence.
The Marshal's eyes narrowed as he processed this new information. He glanced briefly towards the saloon doors, as if he could see through them. "And the woman," he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable edge of recognition. "That's Flowerchild. She's with Junko."
Jeremy's wiry frame tensed at the mention of the Chaos Orchids, a notorious duo of outlaws known for their unpredictability and flair for dramatic heists. "Flowerchild, that ginger bitch!?" he asked, his usual bravado tempered by concern. "What's her angle in all this?"
The Raven didn't answer immediately. Instead, he listened, piecing together the fragments of the argument outside. The Malperras were notorious for their lack of subtlety, and it seemed they were at odds with Flowerchild, who was known for her meticulous planning and lethal precision. There was a power struggle happening right outside the saloon doors.
"It's not just a random attack," The Raven surmised. "They're here for something—or someone."
Unknown snorted. "Well, they can join get in line."
Jeremy's eyes flicked between The Raven and Unknown. "Looks like we've got ourselves a good old-fashioned standoff," he said. "Except we're all stuck in the middle of it."
The Marshal considered their options. "We could wait them out," he suggested. "Let them settle their differences and pick off whoever's left standing."
Unknown shook his head, his hands flexing instinctively. "And if they decide to join forces and come in here together?"
The Raven's gaze returned to his two unlikely companions. "Then we'll have to make our own alliance," he said firmly. "Temporary though it may be."
For a moment, the three of them—lawman and outlaws—shared an understanding. Survival was the immediate priority, and it would require cooperation. The lines between hunter and prey were blurred, replaced by the need to navigate the treacherous waters of this new threat.
From outside the saloon, Flowerchild's voice sliced through the tension like the sharp edge of a blade. "We've come for the Rogues and the gold they're known to carry," she declared, her tone cold and authoritative, commanding the attention of everyone within earshot. "We know you're in there, and we're not leaving without what we came for."
The patrons of the saloon, already shaken by the earlier gunfire, exchanged anxious looks. The brazenness of the demand echoed off the walls, almost as startling as the gunshots that had preceded it.
"And as for you, Marshal," Flowerchild continued, her words directed at the enigmatic figure inside. "We've been tracking you for a while. You're a thorn in a lot of sides, but today's your lucky day. Hand over Jeremy Wickit and his oversized companion, and you can ride out of here unharmed."
Inside, The Raven’s eyes lock with those of Jeremy and Unknown. Without a word, he communicated a silent strategy, his fingers subtly tapping out a message against the wood, a coded language they had quickly cobbled together during their temporary truce.
"Miss Flowerchild," The Raven called out, his voice betraying no hint of the tension he felt. "You drive a hard bargain. But if we're to negotiate, I have terms of my own. Let's start by lowering our weapons. Then we can discuss exchanges."
Flowerchild, outside, narrowed her eyes, assessing the Marshal's proposal. She gestured to the Malperras brothers, who hesitantly lowered their guns, though their fingers remained a twitch away from action.
"Alright, Marshal," she replied, her tone laced with impatience. "We'll play your game for now. But talk fast."
The standstill inside the saloon was palpable, each breath and motion heavy with the threat of bloodshed. Jeremy and Unknown kept still, their trust in The Raven as fragile as the thread holding their lives together.
The Raven spun a yarn about a hidden safe, suggesting a time and a place for a fair exchange, while his covert signals to Jeremy and Unknown mapped out a desperate plan for escape, contingent on split-second timing and a good dose of fortune.
Outside, Flowerchild's patience was wearing thin, her sharp mind reading the Marshal's stalling for what it was. "This ends now," she declared, her voice sharp as a whip. "Give us your answer, Marshal. I'm counting to three. One..."
Inside the saloon, the tension was almost suffocating.
"Two..."
Unknown's muscles tensed, ready to spring into action.
"Three."
The saloon's breath caught in its collective throat; the tension snapped. Two gunshots exploded—loud, abrupt, final—shattering the silence.
Outside, Flowerchild's hand moved instinctively to her sidearm, her resolve hardening. She interpreted the gunshots as the Marshal's answer, assuming that he had taken out the Rogues to protect his own skin or to avoid handing them over.
“Following fools shouldn’t be anything new to Hanako though, eh boys?” Matthew brings his hands together behind his back thoughtfully, casting his eyes to the sky “She spends her time following around the five foot deathwish that's challenging to be the next seat-packer between propped up reigns of Peter the mid
And what has that blind faith gotten you, Hanako? To the finals in a match with the three of us where you, and the death wish, both came up disappointingly short. I wonder if you wonder, as you ought to, if maybe you were the only Flower trying to bloom in that Carnage?” a quirked eyebrow, a deep breath and a chuckle as he holds up his hands.
“Apologies boys, I'm unwell and I'm irritated. See, the Malvados are the most loud and annoying part of this locker room. Hands down. I never look forward to seeing them on a card, in the ring, on the screen, wherever. Sure, they’ll put that ol’ what's-his-name spin on it and tout that rusty ass win as the reason but the truth is?
Their act has worn thin, and nobody really gives a fudge about the henchmen.”
He takes in a deep breath, staring out at the view again before striding to stand between them and with the levels of audacity one has come to expect from Matthew Knox, he slings his arms around their shoulders and draws them into a double side-hug.
“We’re gonna run through the sidekick and the henchmen, boys. And you’re going to get all the tape you’ll ever need on me in the process. Temporary alliances won the great war, before facing off in a cold one..” a chuckle, he tightens the hug slightly “I’ll never leave it cold with us, promise.”
Jeremy made no attempt to conceal the look of discomfort that he wore on his face in the double hug. He wiggles loose and steps forward.
“That is nice and all, but let's keep it simple. You have our word that we'll keep things on the up and up long enough to beat the tortilla shells off the Malvados and pick the petals off the lone Flower. We win this match and you and us go our separate ways until we meet again at Retromania… simple, no mess.”
“Clean,” Superunknown spits out a gob stained with chewing tobacco on the ground below. “Then we give you and Amber a clean match at Retromania. No tricks. Probably no treats for you either, in the spirit of honesty. We'll see to it that Frances remains a bystander and that Never//More and Rogues’ Gallery has a fair day in court. We don't owe you much, but we owe you that.”
JTW turned his attention back to the view over the cliff.
“I’ve never been one to spend too much time thinking things through. Most of my life and my short career I’ve spent chasing impulses. Find a chair in my hand? Swing it and try and knock someone’s head off. Find myself standing on top of a ladder fighting someone on the otherside? Steal a page from Evel Knievel and take them on a ride all the way to the bottom. There are a million ways this could go wrong for us trusting you, Matt. I’m not one-hundred percent sold on the idea myself, but it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t given any input. What I’m dealing with is a chance to even up the score with the Malvados, send a message to the Flowers of Carnage that Rogues’ Gallery is here to stay at the top of the mountain. I’m not going to focus on what can go wrong and instead focus on who is standing in front of me. Who is standing in front of us… Hector, Victor, and Hanako.
We have an opportunity in front of us, all three of us… Rogues’ Gallery, we’ve got a chance to remind TPW why we are Duos Champions. Matt, your opportunity is two-fold, you can kick some butt and you get a chance to see on the inside how Superunknown and I work in the ring. Sure, we get the tape on you, as you say, but you get to see under the hood of the machine, so to speak.” Jeremy strokes the stubble on his cheek. He kicks at the dust beneath his feet. He appears lost in thought for the briefest of moments. He spins on his heels and turns back to face his partner, Superunknown, and his temporary ally in Knox.
“Everyone has something to gain in this match. We’ll at least on this side of the ring. Can’t say so much for the masks and flowers… sure, they will be able to claim a stake at these titles to rival Never//More’s and that’s great and all, but there will only be three of us walking into the Target Center with the belts slung over their shoulders and an active claim to try and take those titles It’s almost all upside on this side of the ring from my point of view.”
The silence that followed the gunshots was like the calm in the eye of a storm, the saloon's patrons frozen in place, awaiting the next wave of chaos. Then, the doors creaked open, and US Marshal Matthew Knox, known as The Raven, emerged. Standing at an imposing 6'6" and weighing 240 pounds, he was a figure that commanded attention, his size rivaling that of Unknown.
"Hold your fire!" The Raven's voice boomed across the distance to the waiting outlaws. In his hands, he dragged two figures wrapped in blood-stained sheets, their forms still and seemingly lifeless.
The Malperras brothers fingered their weapons, the itch to shoot the Marshal evident in their twitching hands. Flowerchild, however, watched with an amused smile playing on her lips, intrigued by the Marshal's audacity.
"Let's talk about the gold," The Raven said, his voice steady as he laid the sheet-wrapped bodies on the dusty ground. "There's enough to go around, but no more blood needs to be shed today."
The Malperras grunted in disagreement, their impatience for a violent resolution clear. "Why negotiate when we can just take what we want, including your life, Marshal?" one of the brothers,Edgar, spat, his hand inching closer to his gun.
Flowerchild held up a hand, her eyes not leaving The Raven. "Because," she said smoothly, "it's not every day a man tries to bargain with his life on the line. It's entertaining, if nothing else."
As The Raven stood before the assembled outlaws, his demeanor was as unflappable as the desert landscape that surrounded them. "Now, I'm sure we can all agree that a split is more favorable than a hole in the head," he drawled, his voice dripping with sardonic wit. "Unless, of course, the Malperras prefer their gold with a side of lead?"
The Malperras brothers bristled at the Marshal's words, their dislike for the lawman as clear as the desert sky. "You think you're funny, don't you, Marshal?" the other one, also Edgar sneered, his hand mirroring his brother’s violent intent..
"Oh, I'm downright hilarious," The Raven replied, the corner of his mouth twitching in a semblance of a smile. "But if you shoot me, you'll never find out where the rest of the gold is buried, and that, my friends, would be the real tragedy here."
Flowerchild watched the exchange with a bemused expression, her amusement growing with each verbal jab. "You have a sharp tongue, Marshal. I can see why so many folk wanna shoot you.”
The Raven met her gaze, his own eyes glinting with amusement. "It's a gift," he conceded. "But let's not forget why we're here. Again, I propose an even three-way split of the gold. No more bloodshed, just good old-fashioned greed to guide us."
As the negotiations grew more heated, the slight rustling beneath the bloodied sheets went unnoticed. The two figures wrapped within were biding their time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Jeremy's fingers curled around the grip of his revolver, while Unknown's large hands expertly palmed his own weapon.
The Raven continued to hold court with his dry humor, each sardonic quip serving as a subtle misdirection from the Rogues' impending ambush. "I must say, this is the most fun I've had in a standoff in quite some time," he said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation. "Usually, it's just shooting and shouting. The negotiation is a nice change of pace."
The Raven maintained his casual stance, his voice even and tinged with a dry, sardonic edge. "I've always found that gold splits better three ways than two," he mused, locking eyes with the Malperras, who were now visibly simmering with impatience. "Of course, that does require all parties to still be breathing. Still..."
It was the briefest of pauses, but in that moment, Flowerchild's sharp eyes caught the faintest shift in The Raven's posture, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders that betrayed his true intentions. Her instincts, honed from years of living on the edge where a moment's hesitation meant death, flared with alarm.
"...I suppose—" The Raven's words trailed off, and in that split second, the air itself seemed to tighten, the impending action hanging suspended like the calm before a storm.
Flowerchild's realization came just a heartbeat too late. Her mouth opened to shout a warning, but the sound was drowned out by the deafening roar of gunfire as The Raven's hand blurred to his sidearm with lightning speed.
The bloodied sheets burst open as Jeremy and Unknown, very much alive, sprang into action, their revolvers thundering in unison with The Raven's.
Suffice to say, Negotiations had failed.
