The Saudi terrorist's knuckles cracked as his fist collided with the face of his American prisoner. He rubbed the knuckles, easing their pain, as the white man spat another glob of blood onto the dilapidated floor. "Where is the shipment, American pig!" he demanded to his bound captive, growing more and more impatient. He received no response beyond a knowing wink, as though this man before him were in the middle of some sort of courtship routine. Such brazenness filled him with anger. Anger enough to grab a nearby assault rifle, and slam the stock into his prisoner's gut.

[color=gold]"Oof!"[/color] gasped the bound man, more for the air forced from his lungs than any expression of pain. 

"I ask you again, filthy swine! Where is the weapon shipment you were hired to guard? You have no idea how imaginative I can get when I grow impatient!" To emphasize his point, the Saudi placed his gun's barrel against his captive's nether region. This time the bound man's response came much more passionately, though far less desirable. He spat a bloodied tooth out, nailing the Saudi on the nose. The armed arm recoiled in disgust, wiping away the sanguine fluid and saliva using the sleeve of his own shirt.

"Have it your way. You wish you live a life of sin, you enjoy this pain so much, I am happy to provide." A shot rang out, punctuated by a yelp of pain and a wheezing. The bound man's knee was now bleeding, limp and useless. He'd never again be able to walk without assistance. "Where. Is. The shipment?"

A brief pause followed, as the man worked himself through the pain, waited out the ringing in his ears. Finally, he answered. [color=gold]"My notebook,"[/color] he stated simply. [color=gold]"Page 27."[/color]

The Saudi spat on him. "My men have already gone through that notebook. There is nothing in it but musings and writings in various languages. We translated it and it is all nonsense. If you think you're dealing with a fool, American, you do better to remember who is tied up right now."

[color=gold]"There's a hidden flap,"[/color] gasped out the captive, lifting his head up to stare into his handler's eyes. He already had one torn out, and his remaining eye was red from internal bleeding. The Saudi could not help but be proud of the damage he'd caused this American. [color=gold]"On page 27. With instructions on the inside."[/color]

Curious, the man strode over to a nearby table, which housed all of his prisoner's personal effects: a revolver handgun, wallet, mobile phone, keys, shoes, various colored pens, and a worn down notebook. He picked up the latter and flipped over to page 27. After a few moments of inspection, he found exactly what the man had described: a flap of paper folded in on itself to look like the page was otherwise normal. Carefully, expecting some sort of trick such as anthrax or the like, he peeled the page over, but found no such treachery. What he did find, however, was almost just as displeasing. Rather than any set of coordinates, or instructions from the American military, it was more of the calligraphy nonsense, just two characters in Japanese kanji.

[hider][img]https://stickerart.com.au/images/temp/images-products-0911-472-kanji-reflect-w500-c5.png[/img][img]http://icon-park.com/imagefiles/kanji_kokoro_heart.png[/img][/hider]

Pursing his lips at first, he then ground his teeth in frustration. His hands shook, practically vibrating like a jet engine in an attempt to calm his rage, as he snapped shut the notebook and placed it back upon the table. "Still you do not understand the predicament you are in. I had not imagined you could possibly have been this... I believe the word is stupid?" He took a long, deep breath, and calmed himself. There would not be any joy in what he was about to do if he were blinded by rage, after all. "I will get the information out of you. One way, or another."

Holding up his rifle in order to put more bullets in the prisoner, the Saudi swung around with fiery hatred in his eyes. Yet as soon as he did, those flames turned icy cold, overcome with utter fear. "What... What is that?!" he cried out, pointing directly at the mirror which hung on the far side of the room. His prisoner glanced over, then glanced back, followed by a half-hearted shrug.

[color=gold]"I would take heed of mirrors myself, had I a visage as yours."[/color] His words were no longer pained, his breathing no longer exerting great effort. 

"You cannot possibly tell me you do not see that [url=https://img00.deviantart.net/ba45/i/2018/141/7/a/green_man_attack_by_joelchaimholtzman-dcc5fpw.jpg]monstrosity![/url]" bellowed the Saudi, a tremble becoming visible in his movements. Steeling his mind and intent, the man brought up the rifle to his shoulder. "To Hell with you, beast!" he cried, pressing down on the trigger. Shot after shot rang out, black powder combusting, propelling small bits of metal shrapnel, colliding with smooth aluminum glass and sending more bits of shrapnel about. Whatever it was the man believed himself to be shooting, it was not dying. At least not in his mind, as he continued to fire until the cartridge depleted.

The man swore in Arabic, taking cover as he loaded a new cartridge of ammunition into the rifle. Meanwhile the prisoner merely sat in his chair, calmly behaving himself as though he were attending the most normal event in the world. A second later and the door bust open, three more Saudi men entering with guns of their own. <"Leader, what is happening?!"> cried out one in their native tongue.

The leader popped his head out of cover, pupils dilating wide in terror. <"Move, you fools!"> But his warning was met only with confused looks. <"No! You shall not take my brothers in arms!"> Now armed with fresh ammunition, he unleashed his fury once again, this time with tangible results. Unfortunate, bloody, results. Whatever he believed he was firing upon, it was on top of his men, but of course there was nothing there, and so the bullets had only one place to go. Each of the three men fell, barely able to let out a gasp of surprise before dying on the spot, slain by their own leader. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

"American! What devil have you brought into my home?!" He trained the gun back onto his prisoner, who could only shake his head.

[color=gold]"You seek out a spectre, an apparition. What you seek simply does not exist."[/color] He struggled a bit against his bonds.

"No! I know I see it! It is right there before me! Answer, or I kill you now!" He placed his finger on the trigger. 

[color=gold]"The dead cannot easily speak. Kill me and remain ignorant. Break these bonds, and I may yet reveal answers."[/color] The man raised an eyebrow, expressing some sense of urgency.

The Saudi paused for a moment, glancing between his prisoner and the horrific monster. Quickly he came to a conclusion. "Ok." Sprinting a mad dash, the Saudi made for his captive's chair, ducking and jumping above imaginary tentacles reaching out to grasp him. Thankfully the beast was limited to the mirror, and so its reach was limited. He made it safely to the prisoner, and got to work untying the man.

"It is done," he stated curtly. "Now, answers, American!"

[color=gold]"Graciously,"[/color] began the no-longer-prisoner, rubbing some relief into his wrists. [color=gold]"Perhaps to start, I should inform your noble personage of some stated confusion. You see, when I said that you seek what does not exist, I referred not to the monster you see. That beast is very real, and I lay eyes upon its form as easily as I see you."[/color]

The Saudi narrowed his eyes in frustration. "Get to the point, American. How do we kill this abomination of Allah?"

[color=gold]"Another misunderstanding."[/color] The man shook his head. [color=gold]"We do not kill it, for it reflects your heart given form. The weapon shipment you seek does not exist. I was not commissioned to protect weapons. I was commissioned to [i]kill your group.[/i]"[/color] As the man tried to piece together how each of this man's statements were supposed to fit, the man held up a small reflective object: a shard of the mirror that had broken off. A tentacle reached out from the surface, smacking aside his assault rifle with great strength, then immediately snatched his neck in a vice grip. Attempts to breathe only caused greater suffering, as opening the airways allowed the tentacle to force out more oxygen. He was lifted up from the ground, feet limply dangling below, skin turning a rather grotesque purple. Then, all at once his suffering ended with a violent neck snap. In the same instant, the creature utterly vanished and his body fell limp to the floor.

Not a second later, a little jingle played on the nearby table as the man's phone lit up, vibrating against the wood. [color=gold]"Dear me, a busy day."[/color] Gritting his teeth through the pain, the man stood up from his chair, holding onto it for balance, and limped over to the table. Once there, he kept balance with one hand on the table, while he answered the phone with his right. [color=gold]"Salutations."[/color]

"Is this a Mister Leonard Skinner?" inquired a smooth woman's voice. 

[color=gold]"It is,"[/color] Leonard confirmed, as he began to draw something on the table in his own blood.

"My name is Desiree, and I work for the Speedwagon Foundation. We have an interest in your set of skills, and will pay you quite well. Are you interested?" Leonard paused a moment, not to think it over, but to finish his symbol. Drawing in blood was a messy art, and the symbol had to be absolutely perfect in order to function correctly. "Mr. Skinner?"

[color=gold]"Yes, color me intrigued, Miss Desiree. I have finished a commission very recently, and find myself eager to create greater art. This piece... Could not fulfill me."[/color]

"Glad to hear it. I am transferring funds into your off shore account right now to cover the plane ticket. We'll be in touch."

The phone call abruptly ended, just as Leonard finished the [url=https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4136/4888115916_9ef96f42b1.jpg]Nordic rune[/url] he had been working on. Already he could feel its effects working magic on his body. He swore he could see clearly out of both eyes, the bleeding had stopped, and he no longer felt any pain, but he dared not move from his spot. [color=gold]"Not like last time. I must remember, it takes a bit before it becomes real."[/color] 

[hr][hr]

A lone motorcycle pulled up in front of the Speedwagon Foundation headquarters. The paint job could only be described as a work of art, with intricate colors creating a sensation for the senses. On each side it bore large plastic saddlebags, filled with the owner's personal possessions. Riding atop, no helmet, was the imposing, large, and muscular Leonard Skinner. He parked the bike out in front, handing the keys to a nearby valet without a single word. He then made his way into the building, guided by an employee of course, until brought to the room he was to wait for further instruction. 

Upon entering, Leonard spied three other individuals already present, though none looked to be representatives of the Speedwagon Foundation. He took each one in, understanding their aesthetics. One was a small girl with, he estimated, an even smaller skin. She looked as though she could break down at any moment, on the verge of tears. Another womon was present, this one certainly a [i]woman[/i] and not a girl. Everything from her demeanor to her stylization spoke to Leonard, and what it said was "mercenary." Just because they had common ground did not mean they could get along, however. The third however, he told a different story... A story that Leonard had been following since age five.

Despite his interests, career, and all other aspects of life, Leonard was still an Alabama boy, and down in Alabama they enjoy their wrestling. Before him was one of the Canadian greats he had followed, the mighty St. Anger! Leonard's eyes lit up for just a moment, before he forced himself to remain professional. Damn, this was going to be difficult.

Leonard approached each one of his peers in the room, and handed them a business card. Each card had been customized and hand drawn himself, with a personalized introduction, and his name. He spoke not a word as he handed out these business cards. Not a word, that is, until he handed one to Arthur. Once the card had exchanged possession, Leonard took out his notebook, flipped to one of the back pages (which remained blank) and held it before Arthur, with a pen. [color=gold]"I find myself humbled before an icon of my childhood. Would you honor the memory of an Alabama boy with your autograph?"[/color]