The March of War!

A blackened movie theatre. A hush settles over those arrayed in the seats below as the curtains draw back and the “click-whiirrrrr” of the projector firing up fills the air. Breathless anticipation is the best term to describe the awaiting masses as the first image fills the screen, even if it is just the leader film which clearly, by the looks of the scratches and other random flashes of color, should have been retired a decade ago. Finally, a cartoon popcorn, soda, and hot-dog walk across the screen, singing “Let’s All Go to the Lobby.”

Are you excited yet?

As the cartoon ends (no one gets up and goes to the lobby) it is quickly replaced by a second image, that of the production company, “Kingodm Films Ltd.” “But what is this?” people think, “Hasn’t Johnny Kingdom hung up his parodies forever, electing instead to tell his story with long, rambling, ‘Crime and Punishment’-esque rants about his opponents?” Their anxiety is relieved a moment later, as the next shot in the film is another title, “An AWOL Picture.” As this image too fades, the silence is finally alleviated by the introduction of a triumphant trumpet fanfare. A red banner billows in the breeze, adorned with the silhouette of a black falcon soaring over the countryside. New words fade in as the trumpets crescendo victoriously, announcing to the world “The Return of The Empire!”

And the crowd erupts with applause.

The deep baritone of a narrator echoes through the chamber. “Citizens,” it announces, “The Empire has returned. All is well! Safety will be restored to you soon.” The camera pans down, to a shot of a battle-scarred, desolate wasteland. Sounds of machine-gun fire fill this God-forsaken stretch of land, and mortars explode all throughout. “Though war has descended upon us, and times of great struggle still remain,” the narrator continues, “know this: your safety is now assured. The greatest, most irresistible force the world has ever known has been reassembled. None can stand against it. None can even hope to compete with it! It is unstoppable. It is invincible. It is, good citizens, the iron will of the Empire!”

As more cheers erupt, they are soon overwritten by the sharp, staccato tones of booted feet tromping in tandem down a city street. Black-uniformed soldiers march in perfect formation, their footfalls in flawless lock-step, rifles held tightly to their chests. As they pass by a balcony they turn sharply towards it, popping off a salute to the man standing just out of sight above. “Even now,” the voice returns, “The greatest fighting forces the world has ever seen are assembling and training constantly, preparing for the day when the ultimate offensive will be launched. The enemy’s will is great, but ourr will is greater. We are guided by the greatest leader in all the world, one whose tactical acumen is second to none, our personal champion, Johnny Kingdom!” The camera pans up to show Kingdom in the balcony, flanked on both sides by his Empire cohorts AWOL and Hurse, standing at attention and flashing his own salutes to the troops as they march past. At the sight of their faces another cheer erupts from the audience.

“In just a matter of days, good citizens, the offensive will be launched, and the enemy will quiver in their holes to know the fury and righteous power aligned against them. None can stand in our way!” Now the screen is filled with images of the booted soldiers training, running from foxhole to foxhole, with AWOL standing above them shouting orders. Through the black-and-white image, the drill sergeant’s face looks almost dusky from shouting, the flush turning his complexion almost as dark as the uniforms of the soldiers. “Even as we speak our fighting men are preparing for the big push. Working night and day, these brave soldiers are prepared to shed their blood and their lives to see too it that the world is freed from the oppression of sub-standard talent being promoted simply as a means of filling space.” The soldiers line up in long formation, charging towards an array of target dummies with bayoneted rifles lowered. “Courageous one and all, they will never surrender, even in the improbable event of some manner of significant resistance from the Brat Pack, our hated foe.” Boos come from the crowd as the soldiers reach the lines, but are replaced quickly by cheers as the sharpened point of a soldier’s blade jabs through a mannequins face. “Oooh,” the commentator groans, “I bet Robin Brooks isn’t quite used to THAT sort of penetration.”

“For too long have these wretched fleas infested our fair country,” the film continues, now showing shots of ruined cities lying in waste. “For too long, men like Christian Saviour, Pat Evans, and, God help us, Porno Lad have been the only answer to opponents like the Brat Pack. Fighting suck with suck has yet to save our fair cities, and has left us in ruins. Our people grow frightened.” A shot of the inside of a tenement, where a family is cooking a can of beans over a campfire built from the remains of their Ikea coffee table. “They lose hope in the face of such all-swallowing despair. But fear not, John Q. Public. Help is on the way, in the form of our Imperial Civil Relief squadrons.” The door bursts open and Hurse steps inside, handing the family bundles of rations and supplies. Mrs. Public unwraps hers quickly, almost shedding tears of joy at receiving a warm coat to wrap around her painfully thin shoulders. Mr. Public laughs as he pulls food free, and Hurse flashes the camera a winning smile, a wink, and a thumbs up.

“Spearheaded by our unparalleled Team Leader,” the narrator expounds as a shot of Kingdom standing at a lectern, his body contorted in the throes of one of his fiery exultations, “the people have been delivered hope again. There is reason to believe that, at last, things are finally going to get better. Freedom is coming, we all just need to stick together to see it through.” Kingdom’s speech apparently reaches a crescendo, as he pounds his fist authoritatively against the podium before raising it again in a triumphant salute, which the audience quickly returns.

“Now is the time, ladies and gentlemen,” he continues, “for all of us to stand up and fight. Emulate the courage of our brave war heroes, like General AWOL who physically dominated two Brat Pack opponents.” Kingdom is smiling and pinning a medal to AWOL’s jacket, shaking his hand. “Follow his brave example! Though the enemy may have numbers on their side, we have something they can never replicate: actual talent! Against that, eventually no amount of sheer quantity of numbers can stand firm. The tide turned last week, citizens, and it is up to people like us to help and make sure that it stays on the right course!”

People are now shown walking through the streets, carrying away piles of trash and helping to repair the damaged structures. “Work crews are being organized, and volunteer city watches are being formed. Everyone needs to do their part! Only through a concerted effort can true, lasting change come about. Just look what happened to other federations!” A shot changes to another blasted landscape, this one abandoned and laid completely to ruin. A sign out front says simply “SCW”.

“It can happen here as well, folks. Unless we keep them fighting!”

“Even young people can get involved, like little Stevie Parkwood here,” Hurse stands beaming in the middle of the camera shot, a buttoned up vest with an ‘Empire Youth’ logo ironed on to it, a beanie hat, and thigh-high socks complimenting the youthful freckles on his face nicely. He waves enthusiastically to the camera. “He’s not afraid to do his part for the cause, are you Stevie?” Stevie shakes his head vigorously in the negative. “Stevie is the head of his youth group, dedicated to doing everything they can to help improve and protect the home front. For now, ladies and gentlemen, more than ever, we must be constantly vigilant. The threat of mediocrity is everywhere. The people next door, who you know and trust, could in fact be members of the Brat Pack!”

Little Stevie looks horrified.

“How does one identify members of the Brat Pack?” the announcer queries. “The answers are simpler than you think.” An image appears of Katelyn Buehler. She appears to be twirling her hair around one finger and blowing bubbles. “The first sign is the vapid expression in the face. No one who has to listen or interact with members of this group for long can withstand the mind-melting disease, and most quickly succumb, falling into a torpid, open to suggestion, easily manipulated state.” An arrow points at Katelyn’s glassy-eyed stare. “Who knows what is going on in that shriveled brain? Perhaps she’s thinking of cute bunnies? Or perhaps the mental atrophy has progressed so thoroughly that she has been left a complete, senseless, drooling zombie. No one can say! All we know for sure is that all sense of shame, decency, or personal pride in the competitor’s work is systematically stripped away, leaving only a hollow shell that takes pride in victories that come through subterfuge, trickery, or in some cases an unintentional boot to the head in front of a referee. Beware this lie! Victories of this sort are the worst sort of cheap tripe, leaving all fans hollow and angry. It didn’t work when Dusty Rhodes used to do it, and it doesn’t work today!”

Another shot, this one of Jackson Adams. He poses for the camera. “Another telltale sign is the lack of any sort of true ring presence and the overinflated sense of self-worth.” Adams flashes a winning smile and flexes a bicep, giving it a quick smooch. “Though Brat Pack members often are involved in completely one-sided matches wherein they fail to contribute anything actually meaningful besides some easy T&A for the crowd, they still believe they deserve the right to compete for some of the greatest titles in this land. Do not let them fool you! This tomfoolery is just the sort of thing that shut down WCW! The only way they will learn is by denying them what they crave! Strip them of their titles, Empire! Take away everything, and leave them wondering where it all went wrong!” Adams looks concerned now, peering around quizzically at the commentator. “Despite their lack of ability, one will often find these villains competing for championships they have no right to whatsoever, be it attacking true champions when they are unable to defend themselves and stealing their belts, or griping that despite all the things they supposedly do to put asses in seats for the company, they’re not receiving the recognition and opportunities they deserve. Why, this deluded fool actually believes he deserved a shot at the World Title held by our beloved Kingdom! What a ridiculous notion!” Adams starts to shout silent profanity at the commentator but the image quickly changes again.

“The true force to fear, however, comes not from those who openly display the enemy’s colors, civilian.” A large man who looks similar to Psycho, though he is wearing a vaudeville goatee and Snidely Wiplash mustache, creeps through the streets, chuckling evilly to himself. “The real threat comes from within, from those who would ally themselves with the enemy. Hunt them down, citizens! Cast them out from amongst you like lepers. Show them no mercy, for indeed they deserve none!” A mob of citizens chase down “Psycho” as he is twirling his mustache, his evil grin turning to panic as they descend on him, driving him to the pavement while kicking and beating him with blunt objects. Little Stevie stands in the background, cheering them on. “All who would ally themselves with mediocrity deserve no better!”

“We can do it, Empire! United against the forces of terrible wrestling, none can defy us.” Kingdom, AWOL, Hurse, and the townsfolk now stand together, the former cutting a big yellow ribbon at the entrance to the now fully rebuilt and restored city. A celebration goes up amongst the common folk, and the Imperial Soldiers eagerly shake their hands. “We stand now as one, the greatest fighting force ever assembled. We will be victorious, for Kingdom” the image of the city is replaced once again with the waving Imperial Banner, the figures green-screened in front of it, “For Honor,” the townsfolk disappear, leaving only the three warriors who turn as one towards the crowd, their expressions suddenly deadly serious, “FOR EMPIRE!”

Kingdom, Hurse, and AWOL all throw a salute towards the crowd as the words “LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE” appear emblazoned around them. The Imperial March rolls majestically from the speakers as the theatre drops back into blackness.