Disclaimer: KILLER INSTINCT is a property belonging to Rare and Microsoft and "The Wolf Man" is a property belonging to Universal Studios. I do not own any of these characters.

*Song: Lycanthropy by Mick Gordon - ( watch?v=3Whpo3lYRmA) (6:30)

Chapter Three: The Tournament

"Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie: 

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on; and so did I."

- Samuel Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

The limo stopped in front of the thick iron gates of the Sabrewulf estate and waited as a pair of guards emerged from the tiny booth.

On the gate and their uniforms was the Sabrewulf sigil, a pair of crossed sabres with a wolf's head at the center, with the words "Zahn und Klaue" written beneath. Once the guards verified the identities of the occupants within the vehicle, they went back to the booth and electronically opened the gate, watching as it disappeared along the thick twisting wooded road ahead, then sealed it shut behind them.

* * *

Inside the limo, Konrad watched through the tinted window as various security personnel patrolled the dense forests and vast fields of his estate alongside the intimidating Theseus combat androids.

Developed by his own company and utilized by their own private security subsidiary, Konrad felt a surge of pride flood through him as he gazed upon the latter.

Massive, imposing two meter tall machines that were gold in color with glowing red eyes, the Theseus units were designed to resemble Greek hoplite warriors complete with skirts, leg braces, sandal-like feet and heads that resembled Corinthian helmets with nose pieces, although some claimed that facially they looked gruesomely like horse skulls.

With their skeletal hands, their wrist-mounted cannons, capable of firing both lethal and non-lethal rounds, protected by a ceramic casing that guarded the forearms from damage, they were a sight to behold.

It was Konrad who insisted during the design process with the R&D Department that the Greek Hoplite motif be utilized.

"Admiring your creations again, Baron?" Dieter asked.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Konrad said.

Dieter grunted.

"I suppose," he replied. "Then again I'm not into that sort of thing."

"That's you're problem, Dieter," Konrad said mirthfully, "you just have no taste for art."

Dieter smirked as he raised up his middle finger.

* * *

A gray, gloomy and sprawling collection of Medieval buildings made of stone that were built upon the hillside, the main house for Sabrewulf Mansion itself was built over a moat and had a draw bridge at the entrance, its back facing a lake with thick forests and mountains beyond.

Fidgeting with the artifacts he bought, Konrad waited as the limo parked itself in the courtyard and as his men got out to get the wheelchair ready. After they helped him into said-chair, Dieter wheeled him to the entrance where Jurgen greeted them while Heinrich drove the vehicle back to its garage.

"You're late for your appointments with Dr. Gupte and Mr. Zhou, Herr Baron," Jurgen admonished, then stopped as he saw Dieter. "What happened to your face?"

Dieter didn't answer.

Jurgen turned back to Konrad, his eyes hardening.

"What have you done this time?" he demanded.

"We'll discuss it later, Jurgen," Konrad said as he handed the artifacts to Michael. "Take these to my office."

"Jawohl," Michael said as he quickly marched up the stairs.

"Take me to the good doctor and the sadist, will you?"

* * *

Konrad collapsed onto the matted floor of the gym, exhausted and covered in sweat, his tongue hanging out as he panted like a dog. Wearing nothing but shorts, he lied there on his back, his arms and legs outstretched.

'I'm ready to die now, God,' he thought.

Around him were various weight-lifting equipment, barbells, dumbbell racks, treadmills, exercise bicycles, punching bags, and so on.

Meanwhile, the devil smiled at him while he was toweling himself off, dressed in a tight green and black tank top that highlighted his perfect biceps and abs and green shorts that were so tight that they highlighted his glutes.

Tyler Zhou was a sixty-two year old Chinese American of constant and annoyingly cheerful disposition with the body of a forty year old, always walking around with a smile on his face.

Konrad's trainer for thirty years, he had been charged in Thailand for some drug-related offence, and by participating in their highly controversial five-round Prison Fight program was Zhou able to earn his freedom. It was his accounts that inspired Konrad to form the Killer Instinct tournament.

"You did well today, Baron!" The torturer said cheerfully as he wiped his bald head.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Zhou!" Konrad snapped irritably.

"Aw, what's the matter?" Zhou asked as he went over to where he lay and crouched over him.

"The fact that you're trying to kill me isn't enough?" Konrad said.

Zhou rolled his eyes. "You are such a drama queen, Baron," he replied. "You want to know what your problem is?"

"Please enlighten me."

"Your problem isn't muscle, as you actually have plenty of that. I actually kind of envy you."

"Well, thank you."

"I'm serious, Baron! Four hundred pounds and you're stacked like a brick!" Zhou said.

"So what is my problem?" Konrad asked.

Zhou leaned forward. "Your problem, Baron," he said, "is this spare tire you're carrying around. You should lay off those wines and snacks."

As he talked, Zhou patted Konrad on the belly.

"Stop doing that!" Konrad snapped, causing the trainer to retract his hand. "I'm not your damn dog!"

Zhou merely smiled. "I can't help it! You remind me of one I used to own as a kid."

Konrad snarled in annoyance as he rolled onto his side.

"Well excuse me for not leaping for joy at the comparison," he said lowly as he pushed himself up and headed for the shower room. "Don't ever do that again."

* * *

After a hot shower, Konrad stood in front of the mirror, staring morosely at the hideous thing that stared back. 

Covered entirely in blue fur with bits of gray, a wolf's head with glowing green eyes, a thick mane and barely any sort of neck sat upon a barrel-like chest that rested on a slim waist. 

Thickly muscled arms ended in long hands with sharp clawed-tipped fingers, the Baron's hips supported by a pair of triple-jointed legs with paws for feet.

'Dear God, I look just like my father all those years ago,'  he thought in horror.

* * *

Konrad's condition wasn't, as numerous shitty movies would suggest, the result of deals with the Devil, or bites from a seemingly ordinary wolf, or witchcraft, or from drinking from puddles in paw prints or from pissing off some deity.

Nor was it the result of aliens - at least, he was pretty certain of that - parasites, Atlantis, government experimentation, Illuminati, chemical exposure, radiation or the hundreds of stupid explanations given throughout much of the horror and science fiction genres.

And nor was it the result of a romantic encounter with an animal, as was often suggested by mythology.

At least, he hoped not.

There were no day-and-night transformations, nor were full moons ever a part of it; there was certainly a bit of the former, however - a long, painful and arduous process that lasted for years rather than occurring in the space of a scant few seconds or minutes as in the movies and comics, starting in his mid-thirties.

Konrad still remembered how painful it was when his legs started to unnaturally reshape themselves, how it had forced him to become bedridden for an ungodly long period, requiring him to use bedpans to go to the bathroom.

He still remembered the awful humiliation of sometimes missing and staining his own floor and sheets, of how Jurgen had to tend to him and clean him up and everything around him like he was some sort of goddamn baby. It was because of that that he had to be bound to that damn wheelchair like some sort of invalid.

Nor was he able to revert back. Once he became...a werewolf, it was permanent.

Silver also had nothing to do with Konrad's condition either, nor did it have any effect on him aside from giving him permanent argyria. Dieter had once made a crack about how he had looked like the Smurfs' dog. That crack earned him a broken nose.

As far as Konrad's condition was concerned, it was purely genetic. At least, that's what he is certain of.

Various details pertaining to Konrad's ancestors were incredibly obscure, perhaps made deliberately so, as Konrad suspected.

The only thing he knew was that the Sabrewulf family had been around since the Middle Ages and had a long history of tragedies.

Konrad's father, Ernst Von Sabrewulf, was the youngest of four children.

The son of an aristocratic intelligence officer who had worked as some sort of double agent, supplying much for the Allied forces during World War Two, Ernst grew up to be a successful businessman and married Emma Winters, a British school teacher.

She died during childbirth in 1964.

Since that time, Konrad always had a strained relationship with his father.

They had barely talked with each other, let alone enjoyed each other's company.

Whether it was boarding schools or holidays that sent him far across Europe, Konrad always got the sense that the man didn't like him, nor did he want to be around him, often locked up in his room.

It was Jurgen's father and mother, Max and Hanna, who provided much of his rearing; Ernst's siblings and parents had perished years ago while those on Konrad's mother's side were excluded entirely, a curious isolationist tendency that was part of his family's tradition, something he had never understood at the time.

It wasn't until he was fifteen that he found out why it was so when learned the true nature of his father's state, when he was returning home from school.

* * *

The door to the dungeon shook heavily as something snarled loudly inside.

Something was trying to get out.

Konrad trembled on the stairs as he caught a glimpse of a slobbering dog-like face through a crack, eying him like he was its next meal.

"GET BACK, BOY! IT'S TOO DANGEROUS HERE!" Max called from inside. "FOR GOD'S SAKE GET OUT OF HERE, NOW!"

* * *

The last thing Konrad remembered as he fled back upstairs was an awful roar followed by the deafening sound of his father's shotgun.

Once Max and Hanna had finished cleaning up the grisly task of getting rid of the body, along with the pieces, they told Konrad about the condition that his family had suffered from throughout the centuries, his true inheritance.

Since then, Konrad traveled the world learning everything he could about the phenomena of cynocephaly, studying the various myths about "lupe garou", "Wulver"/"Galley-Trots", "wulvern", "skinwalkers", "faoladhs"/"concroichts", and whatever else they were called throughout the world cultures in the vast gulf of time.

He had tried contacting anonymously on Reddit to see if there had been anyone out there with the condition that he had. The people that responded either trolled him with malicious comments, Rick Astley videos, told him to drop dead, or were complete idiots or lunatics.

As far as he was aware, he was the only werewolf in existence, and only a handful of people knew that.

'Hopefully it will stay that way,'  he thought.

With the help of his attorney, Konrad was able to draft a contractual agreement that prohibited everyone in his household from talking about his condition to the public, including his own doctors.

Despite the fact that Konrad was able to keep a lid on it, it didn't make things easier for him.

He still worried about the potential threat of exposure and what it meant for his position at the company.

He still worried about what would happen if his condition became public knowledge.

From what legal research existed, Konrad wouldn't be accepted as a "person" - human-animal hybrids wouldn't be able to hold assets, let alone have the right to vote. They wouldn't have the right to drive. At best, he'd be a scientific oddity to be dissected and puzzled over for years to come.

A freak.

Clenching his clawed fist, Konrad punched the mirror in fury.

Damn this condition, damn it to hell!

"Baron! Is everything alright in there?" Zhou called from outside as he knocked at the door.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Konrad called back. "I just slipped and broke the mirror."

Pulling his arm away, he stared at the spider cracks of his broken reflection. Shaking himself furiously, he wiped himself off with the towel, then got on a pair of shorts and gave a heavy, weary and sad sigh as he headed out the door.

* * *

"It's about time you showed up, Herr Baron. I was afraid that we'd have to cancel our appointment."

"Sorry," Konrad said as Jurgen wheeled him into her office.

Sitting behind her desk, Dr. Erin Gupte was an intimidating, stoic, fifty-three-year-old woman with short silver hair, strong features and a stern mouth.

Dressed in a lab coat, a white buttoned up blazer, blouse and a long black skirt with heels, she exuded confidence and a sense of authority, taking Konrad aback despite her much smaller frame and stature.

He was reminded of a principal he had years ago; the woman looked and sounded as if she had been carefully constructed from ice, with a low grating voice and a cold demeanor to match.

Her office was small, probably no more than eight feet long and five or six feet wide, with two bookshelves lined against the walls and her desk positioned between them both, while mounted prominently on the wall behind her in display were various graduate certificates and awards from prestigious universities. He didn't see any photos.

"I don't appreciate having my time wasted," she said as she stood up. "Follow me to the examination room please."

Jurgen obeyed, steering Konrad after her as they passed by various closed doors with labels indicating the other labs and storage spaces. One door in particular was regarded with dread by the Baron - the door to the dungeon. Ever since that day, he tried avoiding that place whenever he could, for he knew that one day he might end up there, just as his father had before him. It always came back to haunt him, be it in dreams or when he was awake.

Once they arrived, they slipped inside and locked the door behind them. Gupte's attention was fixed on the file she had in hand.

"Get him onto the table," she said without looking up.

Jurgen reached down when Konrad got up from the chair himself and sat on the examination table.

"Remove your hood and coat, Baron."

Konrad hesitated.

"Now."

As he did so, Konrad felt ashamed. When Gupte looked up at him, she paused momentarily, then resumed her examination in a detached clinical manner, checking his pulse, eyes, mouth, teeth, breathing, hands, etc. When she touched parts of his chest he flinched.

"Some bruising here on and near your eye," she noted. "Been in a fight, I take it?"

Jurgen looked at Konrad expectantly for an explanation. He didn't bother answering. Continuing on dispassionately with the examination, Gupte gave no indications of disgust, fear, wonder, or intrigue. Nothing. She was like a machine in human skin.

Once she finished, she stepped back, making notes.

"I'll have to admit, your case is interesting," she said casually.

"Is it something that can be treated with gene therapy?" Konrad asked.

"Too early to tell," she said as she went over to a cabinet, taking out a syringe. "I'll need to take some samples from you in order to get a better understanding of your condition before I can prescribe a suitable treatment plan."

Konrad growled. "I hate needles," he said.

"Oh don't be such a baby, Herr Baron," Gupte said as she approached him with syringe in hand. "It'll only take a moment."

* * *

Konrad sat alone at the long dining room table, rubbing his sore arm as he waited for his dinner, his hood pulled down.

Jurgen appeared with a plate covered by a steel cloche. Placing it down in front of Konrad, he pulled the steel covering away to reveal his supper - maple salmon with asparagus, cut-up carrots and celery.

Konrad growled. "Again?!" He said in exasperation.

"It's healthy for you, Herr Baron," Jurgen replied.

"Is it too much to ask for a steak?"

"Not with your weight. You need to cut back."

"I'm not a damn seal, Jurgen!"

"Herr Baron, you'll thank me, now eat."

The aristocrat fumed as he cut into his fish, muttering under his breath.

As he ate in silence, Jurgen spoke. "Are you going to explain how you got those injuries?"

Konrad sighed. "Not now, Jurgen."

"Then when?" the servant demanded.

"Any time but now, I'm eating!"

The two were quiet for a moment.

"How was the meeting?"

Konrad gave a half-shrug. "Typical," he replied, then gave a sigh. "Well, I had to scrap the Kilgore project, and now I need to think of a replacement to fill that void, plus ratings for the Killer Instinct program haven't been great lately. Kellog's wondering if I intend on renewing the copyright."

"Are you?"

"I intend to wait and see. I have something special planned for this final episode tonight at nine o'clock."

Jurgen sighed, shaking his head wearily. "You just don't let things go, do you?" he said. "To be honest with you, Herr Baron, I think you would be better off just having the show cancelled."

"Why?" Konrad demanded.

"Well what is the point of having it?"

"I could say the same thing about various other shows, including those featuring such intellectual giants as "Snooki"!"

"Herr Baron. Be straight with me."

Konrad exhaled through his nostrils, setting his fork down with a clatter.

"There was a time, Jurgen, when I used to be in the ring," he said. "There was a time when people - men, women and children, - used to know and cheer my name and made me feel like I was a hero, like I was capable of taking on the world itself. Like I was unbreakable. Free. There was a time when I had lived for nothing else but the fight itself, and I loved every moment of it. I can't do any of that anymore. You don't know what I would give just to be in the ring again."

Jurgen gave him a pitying look. "Maybe it's for the best that you couldn't, Herr Baron. Not everything lasts forever," the servant said.

Konrad harrumphed. "That's the problem, Jurgen," he replied.

He sat quietly for a moment.

"There were also other reasons why I want to do this, Jurgen. Why I need to do this."

"And what's that?"

He sighed. "I want to be viewed as legitimate, Jurgen. I want the tournament to have that same level of success and prestige that other martial arts programs have and enjoy. I want to prove that I'm not some sort of failure and that the reason for KI's success had nothing to do with its sordid origins."

Konrad glanced down grimly, his features entirely concealed in shadow.

"Well," he said quietly, "I suppose you are right, alter Freund. There is no point for me in renewing the trademark. It's not like I'd be able to participate anyway. Not like this. I'll call David after the show's over and let him know."

He resumed eating quietly as Jurgen stood beside him.

* * *

Once he finished, Konrad sat in his private den upstairs, the fireplace crackling away as he tested the strings of his Stradivarius violin with his bow, making sure it was properly tuned, turning the pegs when he felt that a wire was too loose.

Somewhere outside, a wolf howled.

Crows cawed loudly and bats squeaked as the wind whistled against the castle walls, causing window shutters outside to rock loudly from their frames.

Once he was satisfied, he positioned the violin on his left shoulder, his elbow under the instrument's center. With his bow, Konrad repeated a note several times before finally moving onto the rest of the melody as the various sounds outside joined him in symphony.* 

https://youtu.be/umTQbdKMGQQ

https://youtu.be/3Whpo3lYRmA

He was lost in the music when the door opened, startling him. He calmed down upon recognizing Dieter.

"Dieter, for fuck's sake!" Konrad hissed. "Don't you know how to knock?!"

"Sorry," the bodyguard said as he eyed the instrument in his hand. "I just heard the music and wondered who was playing. I didn't expect it to be you, Baron."

Konrad grunted.

"Don't be so surprised, Dieter," the aristocrat said. "There was a time, you know, when I had wanted to be a musician and a songwriter."

"Really?" Dieter asked with interest.

"Oh yes. It was a schoolboy fancy. I wanted to be a lot of things growing up. I dabbled in drawing, painting, sculpting, swimming, sailing, the violin. The organ."

"Have you written any songs?"

"Several, but they were all dreadful."

"Do you mind if I listen?"

Konrad shrugged. "If you wish."

He then played the tune again as Dieter listened in concentration. After three minutes of playing, he finished.

Dieter nodded. "It's good," he said. "What is it called?"

"'Zahn und Klaue',"  Konrad said. "It's a work in progress."

"I think I detect a slight element of Camille Saint-Saens' "Danse Macabre" with Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and Vivaldi's "Storm"?"

"Ah! So you know your music! And here I thought you Americans were culturally illiterate!" Konrad said jokingly.

"Oh yeah, we're just big ole water-heads!" Dieter said in an exaggerated Southern drawl. "We only just done figured out that this here weird-lookin' stick with a string or two warrn't made for good eatin'! 'Sides they always got done stuck on our lips. We got confused why we heard noises every time we done slammed it into our faces. Bob fig'red that it was jus' the cat."

The aristocrat laughed heartily, a harsh sound to most except those familiar and used to him.

"Amused?"

"Very," he replied as he wiped his eyes and settled back down.

"What's the occasion for doing it now?" Dieter asked.

Konrad sighed. "I read an article in a newspaper about how creativity and exercising different parts of the brain by doing different activities can help fend off dementia and Alzheimer's."

"But you don't have either, Baron."

"Nein," Konrad admitted, "but it's close. Worse, in my opinion. Sometimes I forget things, Dieter, and I worry that I do things without ever realizing it. So, I've been practicing. I've been doing lots of crosswords since they're an excellent stimulant, practiced other languages, some painting..."

"Painting?!" Dieter exclaimed, startled.

Konrad harrumphed. "Well, not anymore. It's bloody irritating and difficult getting oil and acrylic paints off skin and fur." He narrowed his eyes. "What happened with Ferris?"

"He's in the toolshed," the bodyguard replied. "Don't worry - all the tools are out his reach and he's bound and gagged up tight. "

"Has he eaten?"

"He refuses to."

Konrad growled.

"We need to figure out what to do with him, Baron, and fast," Dieter said.

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"So, what do you propose?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you better think of something, otherwise the police will end up on your doorstep."

"Ja, ja I know," Konrad said irritably. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone."

Dieter gave a nod in acknowledgement, then turned around to exit, briefly pausing at the door. "Konrad."

The aristocrat glanced up in surprise. "Yes?"

"Thank you," the bodyguard said, "for helping me out back there."

With that final note, Dieter departed, leaving Konrad to his thoughts.

* * *

"Even a man who is pure

in heart

And says his prayers by night,

May become a wolf

when the wolfbane blooms

And the Autumn moon

is bright."

The empty bottle smashed against the projection screen as Evelyn Ankers finished reciting the poem to Lon Chaney Jr, crashing loudly against the wall.

"Fuck you, Siodmak," Konrad said as he drank from his wine glass while seated in a chair in his bedroom, his coat discarded.

The knock came.

"Come in," he called.

Jurgen entered.

"I heard a crash, what happ-" he drifted off upon seeing the broken glass that littered the floor. "I told you to keep off the damn wine."

Konrad didn't answer. He continued watching "The Wolf Man" in silence as Jurgen briefly disappeared, then returned back with a dustpan and gathered up the broken pieces of glass.

"You like this movie, Herr Baron?" the servant asked.

"Don't be stupid!" The aristocrat spat as he turned off the projector. "Shitty American garbage. Every single one of those movies."

"Then why do you watch it?"

"To checkmark what they got wrong," Konrad replied as he took another drink.

Jurgen stomped toward him and grabbed hold of the glass. The two grunted with exertion as they struggled for a few minutes until Jurgen yanked it away violently.

"Give that back, Jurgen," Konrad said in a low, threatening voice.

"You've had enough!" The servant said as made his way to the bathroom.

"I said give it back!"

"No!"

Konrad got up and followed after Jurgen, but by the time he got to him, the servant had already dumped the drink into the sink.

Konrad stood there, trembling with rage. Curling his clawed fingers into fists, he twisted around and punched the wall angrily.

Leaning his head against it, he took several deep breaths.

"Herr Konrad-" Jurgen said quietly.

"Get out," Konrad ordered.

"It was for your own good."

"I said GET OUT!"

The servant stood there for a moment, then headed back to the door.

"If you want to make your nine o'clock program at the Stadium in Munich, you'll need to leave soon," Jurgen said coolly as he departed. "Traffic will be a bitch at this hour."

"I know that, just FUCK OFF!" Konrad growled.

The door slammed angrily against its frame, leaving the aristocrat alone in his bedroom to wrestle with his inner demons in anguish.

* * *

The limo glided along the highway as other vehicles noisily passed and were passed by. A group of kids on motorcycles raced dangerously at high speeds, nearly scraping the limo, causing it to swerve unsteadily as they left behind a blazing trail from their taillights.

"VERDAMMTE IDIOTEN! LERN ZU FAHREN!" Heinrich shouted through the open window.

One of the kids, a smug little bastard in a red jacket, gave him the middle finger as he rode further ahead, disappearing into the horizon line.

Heinriche shook his head.

"Fucking kids," he said under his breath. "Not even wearing goddamn helmets."

"Don't you know, Heinrich?" Dieter said. "It's the in-thing to be roadkill."

"I suppose," Heinrich replied.

"What I want to know," Michael said, "is the big surprise Herr Baron's been hinting at with his tournament."

All eyes turned in the Baron's direction upon the mention.

He shrugged. "Well, I suppose now would be the perfect time to fill you all in on the big secret," Konrad said as he leaned back in his seat. "Through a friend of a friend, I was able to get a big-name celebrity in the fighting circuit to come join our tournament. One Max Carnage."

The men were awestruck the moment the name was mentioned.

"Fuck off!" Dieter swore. "You're messing with us!"

"Absolutely not."

"Max Carnage?"

"Yes."

"Max Carnage?"

"Yes, Dieter."

"Max fucking "Carnage" Carnegie?! The undefeated UFC world champion from Ireland?!"

"The one and the same."

"And you managed to get him?!"

"I had. Even more, I asked him and his manager to meet you all in person to get his autograph after the program's over."

The entire vehicle erupted with loud cheering and whooping. Dieter practically flew from his seat, startling the Baron as he gave him a strong bear hug, cutting off all circulation in his torso, practically choking the aristocrat while laughing like a child that's been told that he's about to visit Santa's workshop at the North Pole.

"Konrad you fat hairy weasel, I could kiss you!" Dieter said giddily.

"Dieter! I can't breathe!" Konrad gasped.

"Whoa, sorry, Baron!" the bodyguard as he released his hold, pulling away.

Konrad coughed several times. Lawrence patted him on the back. Raising a hand, the bodyguard stopped as the aristocrat took in several deep breaths. When Konrad recovered, he glanced to everyone in the limo.

"Gentlemen, for years you've all served me with dedication and honor. As payment for your unflinching loyalty, for always being by my side and never betraying my trust, I give you this gift. May you all enjoy it."

"Thank you, sir!" The men said in unison.

Beneath his hood, Konrad gave a small smile as the limo continued on to Munich.

* * *

The building where the Killer Instinct tournament was held was a large five-story white dome that was highlighted by the bright neon signs and spotlights that waved around in the air outside on the roof.

Originally a basketball court, the indoor arena had been bought, converted and outfitted at a cheaper price by Ultratech's shell companies.

Although not as immensely popular as other martial arts tournaments such as the UFC or the Pride Fighting Championships, the tournament did garner something of a dedicated cult following, although Konrad wasn't certain if that would be considered a "good" thing.

He had partially suspected that the real reason it was being such had less to do with the appreciation of martial arts so much as it was some of his notoriety rubbing off onto the tournament itself.

Even though he went to extraordinary lengths trying to keep his scandalous exploits a secret, and for the most part had succeeded, there were some miasmatic aftereffects that Konrad never really accounted for at the time.

Even though the tournament itself was legitimate, not many of the other players on the tournament scene regarded KI, if at all.

A few treated the mere mention of it with disgust and snide commentary.

Often it was those that indulged in the grotesque, the macabre, that took an interest, discussing some of the supposed rumors surrounding the tournament, whether it was regarding its origins and history or the Baron himself.

For all of his efforts to make something legitimate for himself, it was the illegitimate aspects that kept drawing people in. Charles Dickens had said it best when he brought up the attraction of repulsion.

'This time will be different, though', Konrad thought.

With the addition of a major heavy hitter like Max Carnage on the scene, it was bound to make waves, and Konrad was eager to be there to see it happen.

* * *

"Thank god for reserved parking," Dieter said as he wheeled Konrad into an elevator.

Pressing the button for the second floor, the men watched as the door closed, then waited.

There was a slight hum, followed by a ding and a blinking light, signaling their arrival. Exiting the elevator, the group were greeted by a smiling man dressed in a blue uniform with a cap, accompanied by two other security guards.

"Ah! Baron Von Sabrewulf!" The man said as he reached out his hand. "Welcome to the Killer Instinct tournament."

Taking it into his own, Konrad gave him a firm handshake.

"Good to see you, Mr. Richter," he said, then nodded to the security guards as he shook theirs. "Hermann. Johan."

"It's a pleasure to meet you again, sir," Hermann said excitedly.

"Is everything ready?" Konrad asked.

"Everything is in order, Baron," Richter assured. "Follow me to your booth, gentlemen."

The group followed Richter down an empty hallway to the right before turning to face the third door on their left.

Taking out a key card, Richter slipped it through a slot, then watched as the door's red light flicked to green.

Upon opening the door, the lights flickered on as the group made their way into Konrad's private booth, a specially designed balcony that directly overlooked the arena with a one-way mirror that prevented audiences from peering in, granting the aristocrat security and privacy.

A comfortable leisure suite that was white with clean modern furniture with red supple leather couches, it also had a private bar with a counter, various bottles of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages on display at the side, a table at the center with four chairs, and an intercom on the wall near the door.

Once the bodyguards finished checking it over for anything suspicious or potentially hazardous, Dieter gave a thumbs up.

"All clear."

"Will you gentlemen be dining?" Richter asked.

"No, thank you," Konrad replied.

"Well, if you need anything, just press the intercom and we'll send someone up," he said, then reached into his back pocket. "Also, as requested, we have brought you two portable PMR446 walkie talkies for your security concerns. Our radio channel is on two. The film crew's on three. Control room press box is on five. Care to test it out?"

Konrad took hold of one radio, passing the other to Dieter, adjusted the settings, then pressed the call button.

"Testing, testing, one-two, one-two," he spoke into the receiver while Dieter and the security guards checked theirs.

"Copy," Johan said.

Hermann gave him a thumbs up.

Konrad changed channel.

"Felix, are you there?" he asked.

"Who is this?" the voice demanded.

"Good to hear your voice, mein freund."

"Baron! Ah, I'm sorry, I didn't realize it's you. How can I help?"

"What's your status?"

"Everything is going well so far.

"Has Eagle arrived?" Konrad asked

"Yes sir. From what I heard from Collins, he's just getting changed. I think his manager went out for a cigarette," Felix said.

'That's one,'  he thought.

"And our celebrity guest Mister Carnegie?"

"We haven't heard from him yet."

"What about his manager?"

"We haven't seen him either. I'm sure they'll make it, Baron, don't you worry."

"I hope so," Konrad said. "Take care, Felix."

Looking to Richter, he gave a satisfactory nod. "Everything looks good so far."

"Excellent!" Richter said, clapping his hands together. "I hope you all enjoy this evening."

Once he and the guards departed, Dieter closed the door, then turned back to the bar.

"Hello, beautiful," he said to a bottle of beer.

Pulling off the lid, he took a swig while the others made themselves at home in the booth, relaxing on the couches.

"Do you want a drink, Baron?" Dieter asked.

"Absolutely," Konrad replied.

"Red wine coming up!"

Once he finished pouring into a glass, Dieter gave Konrad his drink.

"Thank you."

Dieter raised his bottle.

"Cheers," he said as they clinked glasses.

* * *

Konrad stared out through the one-way mirror at the rest of the stadium, taking note of the massive throng of people that filled the seats.

Several were holding cans of beer while others had some sort of confection in hand, sometimes a hot dog or a pizza. Service androids wandered along the aisles with trays of food as a few people pelted them with bits of kernel.

One or two people were escorted out by security guards while another, more violent incident between two or three other people resulted in a couple of Theseus androids being brought in to quell the troublemakers.

The aristocrat shook his head.

Around the arena was a film crew getting their equipment ready.

Konrad nervously took out his cellphone and checked the time. It was almost nine. The program was going to start soon.

Dieter sat casually at the table behind the Baron with his back facing him, his overcoat and hat hanging from the chair, playing cards with Lawrence, Roger and Michael, smoking a cigarette. The bodyguard could always be relied upon to have a deck of cards somewhere on his person.

"You're not going to let me gamble with you?" Konrad asked.

"Nope," Dieter said as he placed down a card.

"And why not?"

"'Cause you're a shit gambler," the bodyguard said bluntly without even looking at him.

"Oh come on! I'm not that bad!" Konrad insisted.

"Fellas, you gonna back me up on this?"

None came to his aid, instead remaining silent.

"Chicken bastards," he grumbled to Konrad's amusement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the main program will begin shortly," a man's voice said over the arena speakers. "Please enjoy the pre-tournament show."

Upon hearing that, Dieter whirled around in interest.

"OHHH Hell yes!" He said as he pulled his chair to the window.

The arena suddenly went dark as club music started playing. When the spotlights flashed on, a group of women in dark, tight sleeveless bodysuits were at the arena's center, dancing and twirling seductively to the beat of the tune.

https://youtu.be/HZQu_Ujr2aA

https://youtu.be/4YBynHVPYMo

"WHOO!" Konrad heard Dieter cry out along with several others. "YEAH, BABY!"

Konrad turned to the bodyguard, raising an eyebrow at him.

Dieter shrugged. "I love pre-tournament shows," he said with a wolfish grin.

The aristocrat shook his head. "Fucking typical."

The song and dance continued for at least a minute, if not two, with Dieter riveted, watching the dancers lasciviously.

"Yoo-hoo!" Konrad heard someone call from below.

"Oh no," Michael groaned.

"What?" Konrad said.

"There!" He pointed.

The dancers stopped their routine as an overweight naked man with a mustache ran out across the arena.

At first startled by the sight, the women burst out laughing with the rest of the audience, doubling over as they clutched their sides, a few turning away in embarrassment. Two women were stunned speechless.

Dieter glanced at his associates. "Is it casual Friday?" he asked.

"Hellooo, ladies!" The nude man waved as he strutted proudly. On the TV screens overhead, his groin and buttocks were a block of pixels.

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!" The aristocrat yelled angrily.

Grabbing the radio, Konrad raised it up and adjusted the channel, trembling with anger.

"Richter," he said in a normal voice before blasting loudly and furiously into the speaker, "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON DOWN THERE?! ARE YOU SEEING THIS?! I WANT THAT BASTARD OUT OF HERE, NOW!"

"Security's been notified, sir!" Richter crackled from the other end.

Below, the fat man started running around the arena, flapping his arms wildly as he was chased by a group of security guards.

"NOBODY CAN CATCH THE BIRD MAN!" The streaker yelled.

That declaration caused Michael, Roger and Lawrence to snort and laugh quietly as he ran around the stadium like a headless chicken pursued by security personnel before disappearing from sight through one of the fighters' alley entrances. The dancers were long gone, having apparently decided that their dance number was over and that they didn't need to be spectators to the lunatic's performance.

A few minutes later, Richter spoke from the radio.

"We got him."

"How did this happen, Richter?!" Konrad growled. "Just what the fuck were your security staff doing?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BAD THIS MAKES ME LOOK?! FUCKING DISGRACEFUL!"

"Baron, I-I-I am so sorry about this. I promise you I'll look into the matter."

"So will I, and I promise you, Richter, there will be blood when I find the fuckoff responsible!" the aristocrat said in gritted teeth before putting away the radio.

Dieter sighed. "This is why we can't have nice things," he said ruefully.

As the stadium began to settle down, the lights started to dim.

"Welcome!" A cold, sinister, distorted, modulated and mechanical voice with a haunting echo said through the arena speakers.

People cheered as they heard the menacing voice of Chris Sutherland. (0:06-0:07)

https://youtu.be/XQu4lXUcVDY

From the speakers, synthesizers hummed a low, crisp, ominous and brooding tune while the opening sequence played on TV screens directly over the arena itself, which consisted of metallic fonts over a black background.

https://youtu.be/v4EOwbV2KlM

A lone electric guitar started playing while an anvil clanged in accompaniment, the music continuing to build until finally the highly stylized and metallic title fonts appeared.

"Killer Instinct!" the sinister-sounding voice announced in conjunction with a solo guitar riff.

"I gotta hand it to you, Baron," Dieter said as the song played, "hiring Beanland to do the music has been one of the best decisions you made."

Konrad grunted.

Once the song finished, the commentators spoke through the microphone as a new tune replaced it, a slow, orchestrated piece that was oddly reminiscent to the ticking of some gigantic clock that counted down ominously each time it clanged.

"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the final episode of Killer Instinct!" A man said into the microphone. "I'm Paul Krieger, and joining me today for commentating is the one and only Jesse Ventura!"

The stadium erupted with cheers.

"How are you doing, Jesse?" Krieger asked.

"Absolutely fantastic, Paul," Jesse Ventura said. "We have a very exciting show tonight that I am looking forward to!"

"So am I, Jesse," Krieger agreed. "It is going to be one hell of a fight tonight. Let's see who the contestants are. Going to you, Robert!"

As "Robert" began the introduction, the music in the background was replaced with an EDM-based trance track complete with a didgeridoo and chanting in the background.

"In one corner, standing at six-one at a hundred and ninety pounds, hailing from the Nez Perce Tribe of Idaho is our reigning champion, EAGLE!"

Dashing quickly from an alley entrance and moving to the beat, the fighter leapt high and maneuvering himself through the air like an expert trapeze artist to the center of the arena, the crowd cheering as he gave a radiant white smile, his arms open and outstretched to the sky.

A moderately tall but lean man of in his twenties, Eagle was a strikingly handsome figure with mirth-filled eyes and mouth, a long aquiline nose with high cheekbones and long black hair that was braided, each strand draped over his shoulder.

Dressed in blue jeans, his torso was shirtless, exposing his dark skin, his chest and left arm painted with something red and stylized. Part of his face, his forehead, one section of his eye and cheek, also had red paint on it, but no matter how hard he looked, Konrad was never able to get a sense of what the markings meant or were supposed to represent. He wondered if it was something specific and symbolic to the young man and his tribe or if it was just a fancy design that he came up with on his own.

Eagle first appeared on the scene in 2012, a highly intelligent, charismatic personality with a wonderful sense of theatricality, a strong flair for the dramatic and humor that made him a favorite among audiences.

This popularity, however, had proved especially troublesome; by using it as a platform, Eagle rallied against Ultratech in interviews and on social media, bringing to light the embarrassing fact that one of their factories in the Idaho region was repeatedly fined for polluting the native lands.

The Board Members wanted to get rid of him due to the fact that he was turning public opinion against the company, but Konrad, being the majority shareholder, denied their vote.

For one, Eagle was a very popular figure, one of the most popular the tournament has had in ages - removing him would be disastrous for the company and for ratings, and every bit of currency mattered.

Second, Konrad had liked the young Native American; in a lot of ways, he had reminded the Baron of himself when he was younger.

The main reason, however, unknown to the rest of the Board Members themselves, was that at the time Konrad had a use for Eagle; apparently, he had an older brother of some influence, a "tooat" or medicine man, if those were even the proper words for it in the Nez Perce and English languages.

Unfortunately, due to schedules and the worsening of his condition, he hadn't been able to get into contact with the young Native American, let alone his elder sibling. If he were to persuade them both into offering him some insight about the weyekin or "spirit guide", if not a way to cure him of his dreadful malady, then maybe...

Maybe...

Konrad heaved a heavy sigh.

What the hell was he thinking?

Why does he keep doing this to himself?

Konrad felt ashamed of himself; the idea of extorting a people victimized by one of his own companies' factories was repugnant.

As he watched the young Native American smiling, waving at the audiences, talking and laughing with the interviewers, Konrad felt his stomach churn.

He was getting worse, and it nearly cost him his soul.

Jurgen was right about everything. There's no such thing as magic. There are no "weyekins" or spirits or any of that airy fairy crap. It had all been a waste of time, money and resources.

Konrad reached into the pockets of his cloak and pulled out the items that he had bought earlier onto his blanket-covered lap, eyeing each object with disdain.

He was going to put an end to this.

It was all a mistake, a horrible, costly mistake that was going to put him into prison.

Grabbing the items, he lifted them, fully prepared to smash them violently down onto the floor when he stopped halfway, his attention fixed on the noises in the stadium. The audiences were booing, and the announcers were trying to calm them down. Lowering the relics and scrolls down onto his lap, Konrad peered through the one-way mirror.

Carnegie wasn't at the arena.

Putting the items back into his pockets, Konrad raised up the radio.

"Felix, are you there?" he said into the speaker.

"Yes, Baron," came the reply.

"Where the hell is Carnegie?!" the Baron demanded.

"We don't know, sir. We're trying to look for him."

"Have you found his manager?"

"No, sir, we're still trying to find him. We have no idea where they are."

Konrad snarled as he turned the channel. Speaking of costly mistakes, indeed.

"Richter! Have you or any of the guards seen Mister Carnegie or his manager on any of the security cameras?"

"Unfortunately not, sir," Richter answered.

"Get someone down to the confection stands, nearby coffee shops, bars, wherever! I want them found as soon as possible."

"Jawohl."

Konrad lowered the radio, turning to his bodyguard. "Dieter, I want you and Lawrence to check the parking lots outside for them both," he ordered. "Roger and Michael will stay here with me."

"Are you sure, sir?" Dieter asked as he put on his hat and overcoat.

"Damn sure, now go!"

"Yes sir," the bodyguards replied as they exited the room.

Konrad took out his cellphone from his pant pocket, dialing the number for Carnegie's manager.

He sat waiting until an automated voice told him to leave a message after the beep.

"Dan, where are you?" Konrad said into the speaker. "I have seven thousand people waiting over here and you two are nowhere to be seen! Call me the moment you hear this message and let me know what is going on."

He sat back in the wheelchair, nervously drumming his fingers against the armrests.

* * *

Cigarette smoke trailed out from Dieter's lips as he surveyed the outside parking lot.

Though lit by lamp lights, the street was still too dark for his tastes, the colors washed out and replaced with orange hues. There were dozens of cars about along with a toll booth further down while nearby were some dumpsters that smelled absolutely rank and overflowing with garbage bags.

Curling his nostrils in disgust, he swore.

He and Lawrence had checked with the guard at the toll booth, but he hadn't seen Carnegie around.

The only thing either found was a couple making out in a car, a flasher and a chill as the wind picked up. The storm was catching up with them.

"Where the fuck is he?" Lawrence asked.

"Good question," Dieter said as flicked away his cigarette. "The Baron's going to be pissed. Uber pissed."

His associate shivered at the mention.

"Let's get out of here."

* * *

"Dan, it's Baron Von Sabrewulf again. Please tell me that you are close by. Call me back as soon as you can."

Hanging up, the aristocrat picked up the radio again.

"Richter," he said, "tell me you have found them."

"No sir," Richter responded.

"Check the washrooms. Every office, every closet, I don't care! Do whatever it takes to find Carnegie!"

* * *

Dieter huffed in irritation.

He and Lawrence had finished checking the other parking lots, and yet still no trace of Max Carnage.

"Like trying to find the fuckin' snark," he said aloud.

"The what?" Lawrence asked in confusion.

"Never mind," the bodyguard said as he raised up his radio. "Baron, do you read?"

"It better be good news, Dieter," came the reply.

"We haven't found them yet. We're heading to the last parking lot. If we don't find him there, we'll check the change rooms."

"If you don't find them, don't bother calling," Konrad snarled.

As Dieter put away the radio, Lawrence shook his head uneasily.

"He really is pissed," he said.

"More than pissed," Dieter corrected. "I reckon the Baron's gettin' ready to put someone's head on a stake."

* * *

"Dan, where the fuck are you?!" Konrad hissed the latter part angrily into the cellphone. "I have called you five times now and I am running out of patience. Do I need to remind you of the contracts that you both wrote?! If Carnegie doesn't get his coke-sniffing ass here this instant, I expect to be reimbursed! Otherwise, I will have my lawyers hunt you down!"

Konrad had to stop himself from breaking the cellphone in his hands.

Picking up the radio, he spoke into the radio again.

"Richter!"

"Our staff has found a couple making love in one of the offices, but aside from that, still no sign of Carnegie."

"Keep searching!" Konrad seethed into the radio. Putting it down, he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

The radio beeped again.

"Baron are you there?"

Dieter.

Changing the channel, Konrad pressed into the call button.

"WHAT?!" He demanded.

"We've found Carnegie's car, Baron!"

The news made him pause.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. It's in one of the parking lots at the back!"

Konrad sighed. Finally, some good news.

"Is he there?"

"Negative on that, but he's definitely here somewhere. Lawrence and I are coming in to check the change rooms. We'll call you as soon as we see him. Over and-"

"Dieter! Over there!" Konrad heard Lawrence in the background.

"What the hell," the bodyguard muttered.

There was some rustling and some murmuring.

"Dieter! What's going on? Talk to me, Dieter!"

"Ah hell," Dieter swore.

"What?!"

The radio was silent for a moment. A few minutes later, Dieter picked up again.

"We've found Eagle's manager, Baron. He's dead."

Roger and Michael turned their heads over to the radio upon hearing that.

"Dead?"

"Yeah. We found his foot sticking out from some bushes. I called the police and an ambulance, they should be around in a moment. I don't see any blood or anything. It looks like a heart attack."

Konrad exhaled through his nostrils. "Ja," he said in recollection, "he had mentioned something about having a weak heart the last time I talked with him. Damn."

The radio was quiet for a moment, then picked up again.

"There's more."

Konrad scowled.

"What?!" He said impatiently.

"From the expression on his face, it almost...looks like he had died of fright."