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Some Measure of ImPACT


We cut to the backstage area, in what appears to be the medical room. The Second Coming stands in front of a medic, with a flashlight shining in her eyes. 

Medic: Look left.

She obliges.

Medic: Good… look right.


2C: So what’s the verdict, am I healthy? 

Medic: Just one more thing before we can clear you to compete tonight.

The medic reaches into her back pocket to pull forward a folded sheet of paper and a yellow HB pencil.

Medic: We need to test your cognitive abilities with this short test. I will give you a few minutes to fill this out while I try to find something in this building that isn’t laced with GMO high fructose corn syrup.

Passing off the paper and pencil, our licensed professional leaves the room, and as she does a new character fills up the frame. He is dressed in predominantly white shorts, white boot/kicker combo, with fists taped. Oh, and he has a lily white cloth acting as a mask, encircling his head at the nose up.

Mask: Ah, finally.

With his cell phone in hand, he makes his way over to the unoccupied bench beside The Second Coming. He props himself up in a lazy lotus position and pops earbuds underneath the cloth. 2C only shifts up her gaze for a moment before getting back to the last hurdle between her and her match tonight.

2C: This is stupid. I don’t have time for this.

Mask: Haste denies all acts of their dignity.

The Second Coming again glances up, but with a look somewhere between frustration and confusion.

2C: What?

Lifting one hand from off of his knee, the man in the mask and overall white motif tries to expound.

Mask: You claim to have no time for the task set in front of you. Fine. The answers you seek are: A, C, A, B, No, 57 and Blueberry.

2C looks between the man and the test.

Mask: This must be your first concussion. After a while, these tests become less about your well being and more about your willingness to compete and memory retention.

2C: I prefer to handle this old - school. Double vision? Negative. Dizziness? Negative. All this new era crap exists so gurus can sell snake oil. Gimmee what I can see, hear, read, and write.

Pontificating hand still out of his meditative pose, he uses it to rub at his stubbled chin.

Mask: I thought New Era to be a purveyor of fine headwear. And while I am a fan of their work myself, I cannot believe their merchandising line extends to snake oil.  You may call me Sanctus, by the way.

2C: Riiiight. What are you doing here, anyways? And I mean here in this office, not ‘here’ in the metaphysical sense. 

Sanctus: I went hunting for radio waves. This room had the optimum connection, allowing me to stream my tunes.

2C fills out the paper, assumingly with the sequence Sanctus provided her and hands it to him.

2C: Lovely. I don’t have time for this, I need to get to the ring and do my part. If you’re gonna be here for a bit, give this to Dr. Paperwork when she gets back? 

2C starts to leave; she hasn’t even had time for prematch yoga as yet.

Sanctus: As Confucius teaches; wherever it is you are going, go with all your heart.

She stops and turns around. 

2C: That’s pretty good. Sell it to a fortune cookie and you could really clean up. 

She nods her head respectfully, with just the slightest hint of condescension toward the new arrival. 

Turning like a dog that has heard a really high pitch, Sanctus has his head cocked to the side.

Sanctus: Nah, fortune cookie scented Mr. Clean would never work.