The Adventures of the Misfits of Mayhem - Episode 8: The Obsidian Covenant
A forgotten legend returns with blood on his hands, and a shadowed figure steps from the past with an offer too dangerous to refuse.
Part 1: The Great and Wonderful Negronomicon
Scene: L’Ombre Éternelle – a swanky, old-money French restaurant tucked off Fifth Avenue in New York City. The kind of place where the waitlist is three months long, the maître d’ looks at you like you owe him your soul, and every dish has an accent mark somewhere in the name.
At a dimly lit corner table, away from the stockbrokers and Broadway stars, sit two masked men:
Negropolis – skull mask, long black overcoat, unmoving, his silence drawing stares from patrons too nervous to ask.
Negronomicon – flamboyant as ever, his golden mask embroidered with sequins, a bright feather plume curling skyward. He sits like he owns the room, snapping at waiters like errand boys.
The waiter sets down foie gras with truffle pearls.
Negronomicon (snapping his fingers):
“No, no, no! Do you not see? The garnish is slanted. Box it up. I’ll take it to go.”
A second dish arrives — roasted squab on saffron risotto. Negronomicon chews, grimaces like he’s tasted gravel, and shoves it away.
Negronomicon:
“Unacceptable. Box it as well. You’re lucky I am merciful.”
A nervous waiter places down a lavish plate of glacier-aged sturgeon in saffron foam.
Negronomicon (snapping fingers):
“No, no, no. The foam is two centimeters too thin. Send it back.”
By the time a tower of takeout cartons clutter the corner table, Negropolis finally speaks, his tone low and cavernous:
Negropolis:
“You waste food, words, and my time. I asked you here for counsel.”
Negronomicon (leaning back, smug):
“Counsel? Ha! You do not ask the Great and Wonderful Negronomicon for counsel. You bask in his brilliance. Now tell me — what delusion did you come here with?”
Negropolis:
“I would have you return. Stand with me. Become a Disciple of Negropolis.”
Negronomicon (laughing loud enough to make a hedge fund manager choke on his wine):
“Disciple? Disciple?! I lead, boy. I headline. I sign autographs for men who dream to be me and women who dream to know me. The day Negronomicon becomes anyone’s follower is the day this city stops smelling like hot dogs and ambition.”
He sips an overpriced bottle of imported water, waving away the waiter like a peasant.
Then his tone shifts, almost conspiratorial.
Negronomicon:
“But… if you crave a monster to walk beside you, look not to me. Look to the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.”
Negropolis:
“Name him.”
Negronomicon (with theatrical flair, raising his glass):
“Superstar Billy Pearl. A rhinestone nightmare. A demon in spandex. He runs a gym not far from here. Seek him, if your skull is strong enough to face him.”
The check arrives. Without hesitation, Negronomicon slides it across to Negropolis with two fingers.
Negronomicon:
“Greatness is never free. Consider this your tuition.”
Negropolis doesn’t move, his skull mask locked on the flamboyant figure. The waiter trembles until the shadowed man finally takes the bill.
Negronomicon (standing tall, gathering his pile of takeout boxes like victory spoils):
“Remember, my dear apprentice — the mask does not hide us. It proves we are already better than everyone else.”
He struts out into the Manhattan night, vanishing into a waiting black car. Negropolis sits in silence at the table, the glow of New York neon spilling through the window, his shadow stretching long and heavy across the crystal and silverware.
Part 2: The Superstar
Scene: Pearl Gym, New York City
The Pearl Gym doesn’t look like much from the outside — just a weather-worn brick building with a flickering neon sign over the door, wedged between a shuttered bodega and a pawn shop. But inside, it smells like old sweat, liniment, and violence. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, half of them burned out, and in the center of the room sits a battered wrestling ring. Its canvas is stained from decades of blood and grit.
Around the ring, a ragtag group of regulars watch the action.
A wiry man in a grey sweatsuit paces the apron, barking orders, towel slung around his neck.
Two burly muscleheads, arms crossed, observe the match with almost military discipline.
A man in a tie, glasses fogged, clutches a medical bag like he’s praying he won’t need it.
And in the corner, slouched in a folding chair, a heavyset man waves a rolled-up newspaper like it’s a fan, his eyes never leaving the action in the ring.
Inside the ropes, an older but brutally powerful wrestler is tearing apart two younger trainees like wolves on a carcass. He slams one into the turnbuckle, scoops the other with terrifying ease, and plants him into the mat. Both squirm in agony before the older man stomps them into submission. The crowd murmurs in appreciation — this is no teaching exercise. This is domination.
Negropolis, looming by the apron, tilts his skull mask in approval. His low voice rumbles toward the sweatsuit man:
Negropolis:
“Impressive. That is the Superstar, yes?”
The trainer barks out a dry laugh, shaking his head.
Sweatsuit Man:
“Hah! No, that ain’t him.”
He jerks a thumb at the slouched man in the folding chair, still idly fanning himself with the newspaper.
Sweatsuit Man:
“That’s Billy Pearl.”
Negropolis exhales like a sigh beneath his mask and strides toward the corner.
Negropolis:
“Billy Pearl?”
The man lowers the newspaper, squints at him, and smirks.
Pearl (raspy, mocking):
“And who the hell are you, ugly skull-face?”
Negropolis (groaning):
“I am Negropolis, disciple of Negronomicon. He has sent me in search of an ally. I am told you were once the meanest son of a bitch to step foot in a ring.”
At the name, Pearl snorts, shaking his head.
Pearl:
“Negronomicon? That cheap bastard still owe me a thousand bucks from back in HCW. Man’s flashier than a peacock and twice as useless.”
Negropolis chuckles darkly.
Negropolis:
“He did say you were the toughest and cruelest SOB he ever faced. I hoped you might join me, become a Disciple of Negropolis, and help me crush an old partner of mine. But…”
He gestures toward the brute in the ring.
Negropolis:
“…perhaps you’ve retired. Maybe he is the one I should recruit.”
For the first time, Billy Pearl’s eyes flash with something dangerous. He slowly rises from the chair, his heavy frame moving with deceptive speed, and shrugs off his coat. The room grows quieter. A murmur ripples through the onlookers — some smirk knowingly, others step back.
Pearl stomps toward the ring, sliding between the ropes with practiced ease. He cracks his neck and locks eyes with the younger man inside — the big brute who’d just finished dominating the rookies.
Pearl (snarling):
“Hey, Grusov! Ugly skull-face over there thinks you’re the future. Thinks I don’t got it anymore. What do you say to that?”
The big Russian stammers, visibly uneasy, his accent thick.
Grusov:
“N-no, Superstar. No one better in the world than you. Always you.”
Pearl grins — not kindly.
Pearl:
“Then let’s show him.”
Without warning, Pearl boots Grusov square in the gut. The big man doubles over, wheezing, and before he can recover, Pearl drives a savage knee into his face with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays as his nose shatters.
Grusov collapses, hands clutching his ruined face, but Pearl isn’t finished. With a maniac’s gleam in his eyes, he digs into his taped wrist and produces a crude, sharpened shiv. The crowd gasps as Pearl straddles the fallen Russian, carving the point across his forehead until crimson streams down his face. Grusov howls, thrashing, before finally tapping the mat in frantic submission.
The gym falls silent, save for the heavy breathing of the wounded man and Pearl’s ragged chuckle. Pearl wipes the blade on Grusov’s singlet, tosses it aside, and leans against the ropes, staring at Negropolis.
Pearl (raising an eyebrow):
“Still think I’m retired?”
Negropolis stares up from beneath his mask, unflinching.
Negropolis:
“Then, Mr. Superstar… will you join me? A Disciple of Negropolis. Together, we will carve a path of blood in NPCW.”
Pearl smirks, slicking his hair back with blood-stained hands.
Pearl:
“Sure. Ten grand a month. Plus expenses. And a thousand cash, up front — that Negronomicon still owes me.”
Negropolis tilts his skull, considering.
Negropolis:
“Done. Let us talk in your office.”
Pearl steps down from the ring, leaving Grusov in a crimson heap, and motions toward a dingy hallway. The crowd parts nervously, whispering, as the Superstar and the Disciple disappear into the shadows.
Epilogue: The Second Disciple
The afternoon light over New York had long since died, leaving only the neon glow and the faint hum of traffic echoing down cracked side streets. Negropolis stepped out of Pearl’s Gym with his coat drawn close, the shadows of the city curling against the skull mask. He exhaled slowly — the “negotiations” with Billy Pearl had taken far longer than expected.
Pearl had rattled off his demands with that smug grin: ten grand a month plus expenses, front-row seats at Knicks games, a private locker filled with imported cigars, and even a vintage Cadillac convertible “delivered to the North Pole in running condition.” Negropolis had endured it all in silence, finally nodding, knowing that dealing with Pearl meant bending before the storm.
As he walked past a side alley, a voice cut through the night like a knife.
“Negropolis…”
The masked wrestler froze mid-step. The voice was unmistakable, though rougher, darker than memory suggested. He turned his head, the neon signs flickering against the bone-white mask.
“Who’s there?” His tone was cautious, but his fists curled at his sides.
The voice came again, closer this time: “Negropolis…”
Slowly, he stepped into the alley. Trash cans and broken glass littered the narrow passage, and by a dumpster, a dark silhouette lingered. The figure shifted, and as they leaned forward into the spill of faint streetlight, recognition hit.
Negropolis’ eyes narrowed behind the mask. “You… what are you doing here?”
The figure’s voice was low, deliberate, almost conspiratorial.
“I heard you’re gathering strength. I heard you need help against the Dominion.”
Negropolis tilted his head, silent.
The figure stepped forward, revealing themselves just enough. “Mean Jack Mason, yes? Then hear me. I want in. I want to offer my services as a Disciple of Negropolis.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of a distant subway rumble. Negropolis studied them — the tension, the danger, the potential.
Finally, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Then you’ll have it. But it won’t be safe here for you. We need to move quickly… to the North Pole. There’s no hiding in this city anymore.”
The figure gave the faintest of grins, shadowed eyes glinting.
The two turned, slipping deeper into the darkness of the alley — their footsteps swallowed by the night.
Fade Out.
That is them to a T.
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