The moon hangs in the sky above Swallow Falls State Park, with scattered clouds obscuring the lunar luminescence. Camping out on the Maryland panhandle, there is a family camping. From the snoring that can be heard, at least two people are asleep, laying comfortably in their tent as though the few measly layers of fabric separating them from nature could protect them from anything aside from a few bugs or a light rain. Visible from their silent visitor’s gaze is a bald man, sitting with his back against an oak tree. He appears to be somewhere in his mid to late 40s. From this distance, it was hard to properly gauge how wrinkled his scalp was to get a better estimate of his age. Sitting between his legs is a woman, probably about ten years the man’s junior, sitting between the man’s legs and leaning against his chest. From the expression on her face, the relaxed body language, it was safe to assume that the two of them are a couple.

For Antonio Ricci, this night isn’t about being a voyeur. It was about sharpening his skills and regaining his killer instinct. Though he wouldn’t actually kill this couple, he was fairly certain he could without much of a fuss. Looking around, he took an assessment of the area. The only light was the campfire a couple of feet away from the couple. There didn’t seem to be much other light as the campsite was never fully booked this time of year. The shadows dance across the faces of the two lovebirds who are so smitten with each other that Ricci could likely walk right into the open without being noticed.

The couple sit, talking to one another. They look sickeningly cute, both of them wearing matching black shorts and t-shirts that appeared to be emblazoned with the same logo. They were quite similar at the very least. Their conversation seems heavy, based on the tone and the body language. The woman reaches up with one hand, pulling her partner closer and kissing him. ‘That’s so sweet,’ Ricci thinks to himself while making a fake gagging motion. The conversation continues before the woman interrupts the man by kissing him once again. The conversation seems to get more serious, until the woman punches her man in the arm playfully. The man leans down, smiling as he reaches the nape of his lady’s neck.

The entire spectacle plays out in Ricci’s head, like a scene from a slasher film. As he walks slowly, methodically amongst the shadows, in his plain black shirt and black jeans, he would be nothing more than a silhouette at worst and invisible at best. The forest held a drowning depth of stillness as a dam held water, with tremendous pent-up power and pressure on his chest. That pressure, it was exhilarating to him.

Even throughout the year of recovery from his concussion, Antonio Ricci hadn’t complained once. He still thrived on each and every sensation. The headaches? Just an exercise in tolerance. The vomiting? Expelling weakness by force. The dizziness? No different than the sensation of getting kicked in the temple. There is no comfort or malaise. It simply exists. The current sensation? The feeling of decades, possibly centuries old tree bark underneath his fingers. Every crease and dent creates a new sensation. The sentiment should be contained, however. Whether this was a work of reality or imagination, this was still work.

Antonio Ricci circles around the perimeter of the campground, intentionally creating just enough noise to be heard, but mistaken for a small forest animal. The brush of the leaves against his skin gives him a slight chill while he makes his way over, taking great pains not to disturb his prey.

“I haven’t been right since that dude jumped me up in Boston,” the man says, completely oblivious to what is going on around him.

“You fucked his shit up, Ken. You were ready. Just like you’re ready for this.”

‘Ken’ Ricci thinks to himself. ‘Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to name your food, bitch?’

The woman sits up and turns around, seemingly caught off guard by something her partner has said. Ricci uses the opportunity to move more swiftly to his desired location. Their eyes are oon each other. Neither seems to be aware of their surroundings.

The man turns his companion around that she is once again sitting between his legs, facing towards the campfire. Neither of them can sense their impending doom behind them. The man wraps his arms around her waist. He couldn’t strike now, it would be far too easy. It would not be a fair test of his skill.

While waiting for the two lovebirds to give him more of a challenge, Ricci looks around and surveys the area. Somewhere, there could be a park ranger or another camper out and about. Every possible angle must be covered. This was the process. The last time he had failed to account for the improbable, he had been put on the shelf for a year.

Ricci’s eyes return to the marks. The woman has wriggled free and is now crawling forward suggestively. Surprisingly, she pushes herself up and gives the man a deep, passionate kiss.

‘I suppose that means she’s the final girl and not the slut. Disappointing,’ Ricci’s inner monologue continues.

“Now would you get over here so we can make some sweet lovin’ down by the fire?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The man grabs her by the waist so she sits facing him. Now is the moment. The crickets chirping and the fire crackling finish creating the mood set by the blaze a few feet away from them. He pulls the knife from the sheath strapped to his left leg. It is covered in blood and fingerprints from past hunts. Mostly wild animals as that would not land him in jail. Being a teacher, his fingerprints are on file with several state agencies, as it is a necessity in his line of work. The prints he leaves at the scene will never match those that bear his name in the records. One of the great advantages to growing up in a digital age is that everything has been computerized and anything that is handled in such a manner can be tampered with and corrupted. Now, most fingerprint-image reference banks are in the form of digitized data, so that law enforcement can access someone’s identity and record within mere moments. The task of changing your information can be done at a great distance. There is no need to burglarize highly secure facilities when you can be the Ghost in the Shell. Because of his intelligence, talents, and connections, he has been able to meddle with the data.

If his fingerprints were to be found, they would trace back to a dead Marine named Dexter Fletcher. His name could be Shitbiscuit von Turdwaffle for all it mattered, as Dexter Fletcher, at least the one the fingerprints supposedly belonged to, never existed. They were simply lifted by Antonio himself, placed into the file of the imaginary Dexter Fletcher.

He makes his way behind the oak tree. Neither of his quarries senses he is there. He kneels down, facing the tree. With one swift motion, Ricci feels the warmth of the viscous red fluid flowing onto his left hand, holding the man by his chest to make certain that his first laceration would find its mark. The woman jumps to her feet. Rather than screaming, muffled cries of “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” come out of her mouth. She quickly takes up a fighting stance and places herself between this unwelcome interloper and the tent behind her. ‘There must be children in there,’ Ricci surmises. Regardless of the result, the children would remain unscathed, physically at least. For all of his proclivities, Antonio Ricci wasn’t a monster.

He reverses the grip on his while the woman watches, waiting to see what he is going to do next. He stabs downward, trying to vertically impale the machete in the woman’s shoulder. He comes back up, swiping diagonally, but the nimble little minx sidesteps and not only gets around him, but manages to catch him with an improvised armbar on his left side, the kind that is more for control than to inflict harm.

“You’re a feisty one. Aren’t you?” Ricci says in his deep, gravelly voice.

The woman doesn’t respond, not verbally at least. She reaches behind her and grabs a decent sized stick off the ground, glancing off of his other shoulder, narrowly missing his head. She throws a left haymaker then tries to catch him with a kick between the legs. She finds her target, but is not fast enough to get there. Ricci quickly closes his thighs, blocking the kick and catching the woman’s ankle, trapping her. With his free hand, he pulls her in, impaling her on his blade. Blood begins pouring out, staining the ground underneath. Ricci watches the life drain out of her eyes and drops her to the ground.

BOOM!!!

The sound of thunder brings Ricci out of his delirium. To his dismay, the lovebirds are still sitting there, intertwined by the fire. He reaches down to the hilt of the machete, smiling as he briefly relives his fatal fantasy. Now is not the time, for he has professional glory to chase. He turns and walks in the opposite direction of the campsite, leaving the pair completely ignorant to the knowledge of how truly lucky they are.

“They will say that I have shed innocent blood. What’s blood for, if not for shedding?” — Candyman

Antonio Ricci stands underneath a lone light bulb. It provides enough light to show his identity while allowing some of his features to be obscured by shadow. Visible from the waist up, he is wearing a black leather jacket with the omega symbol printed on the front of his. He looks in the camera, his cold eyes showing some semblance of humanity. Perhaps it is that he is sitting with a look of supreme satisfaction on his face.

“It happened on July 6th 2021… Dead by Daylight… I have spent over a year of watching, waiting seeking the opportunity to find retribution. I plan things meticulously. I plan things thoroughly. I have sat and waited to put my plan into motion… I waited for a year. It took me a year to clear concussion protocols. Before I made the decision to return to this company, I waited for somebody, anybody, to tip their hand. I have spent that time recovering,  rehabbing, regaining my form physically, and perhaps more importantly, mentally. I have spent each and every moment of that time picturing a how I would punish whatever man, woman, or child would dare perpetrate such an atrocity against myself.”

“As luck would have it, I reached out to the office about making my return precisely seven days before Bert McAlroy made the bold admission that he was the man who had taken “Count Coma” Antonio Ricci out. I should not have been surprised, as he was the man that I faced so many times in what is widely considered this company’s first feud. It was in that match at Dead by Daylight where he was supposed to be the other man to face “She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

Ricci’s expression is surprisingly even. He speaks calmly, matter of factly, as he continues.

“You would think that I would be angry with Bert. You would think that I would at the very least be upset with the man. I’m not going to turn into some math teacher on steroids, but the math here is truly simple. So long as I was in that match, there was absolutely zero opportunity, absolutely no chance, for Bert to walk away with the Final Boss Championship. Quite simply, I had his number. I had her number. I have to admit that once I found out he was the responsible party, I was rather impressed. He knew the odds and he took steps to change them. I respect that.”

“What I simply cannot respect is how he went about doing it. He blindsided me. He attacked me from behind instead of facing me like a man. Maggie Lockhart has bigger balls than Bert McAlroy. When I left here, Bert McElroy was nothing more then a facsimile oh, a poor one at that, of Jesse Pinkman from ‘Breaking Bad’. When I came back here, when I gave him his receipt, I feel like he had been nothing more than what you would get if you ordered Matt “The Raven” Knox off of Wish. Yeah, I said it. Don’t look so surprised.”

Ricci holds up his pointer finger to illustrate his point.

“From day one, I was the monster around here. You have wrestlers I’d like to call themselves a bunch of different nicknames. There’s some guy that goes by JC that thinks he’s “The Boogeyman.” That’s all well and good, he can pretend be the boogeyman if he wants to be, because the difference between Antonio Ricci and the boogeyman is that I am real. And Impact, whoever the hell you are, you are about to find exactly how real I am.”

Ricci stops and unzips his his jacket, revealing a championship belt underneath. A championship that unsurprisingly engraved with an omega emblem.

“I didn’t come here to lose in my first match back. I didn’t come here to lose it all. Now that I’ve taken out the trash, each and every person back in the locker room, save one man that I respect, is on notice. Impact, I can’t sit here and tell everyone what a great match this is going to be. I can’t sit here and Build You Up I can’t sit here and tear you down. The fact of the matter is that you’re just some guy, with an unoriginal name, walking into my hunting ground. You asked Eli Goode. You ask Blizzard. You can ask anyone that has been here since the beginning exactly who the fuck I am. You can ask them how hard I am to put down. There is a reason why I was the workhorse in this company. I would walk in like someone got hurt and I would wrestle two matches in one night. I didn’t do It for the company. I didn’t do It for the fans. I did it for myself because I knew that I could handle multiple matches in one night. I knew I could win multiple matches in one night. I knew that I wanted to establish myself as the alpha. Maybe, just maybe, that was my mistake.”

“That is why I have brought this Championship to Level Up Wrestling. This isn’t from another company. I brought this here because I don’t want Duncan Shepherd’s sloppy seconds. I’m the type of motherfuker that has got to have his own. I hustled for everything I own. Each and everyone of you little bitches needs to understand that it’s not about leaching off of the next man. That makes you a hoe. I’m a motherfuking pimp. Well I was gone, there wasn’t a single one of you holding me up. There wasn’t a single one of you supporting me. If you think you are a champion, if you think you are worthy, I want you to look at me. I do not need to be one of your Champions. I do not need to be the Final Boss. I am the man that you seek out when the final boss is not enough of a challenge. I am the Omega Weapon.”

“Impact, you are about to find out what happens when you step up against an enemy well above your level. I am the rarest breed. I am the elite hunt. You may seek me, but you are still the prey. I am the biggest, baddest motherfucker in this company.  I know I’ve said that already but I feel I need to drive home that point. For you, this is your grand debut. This is how you make your mark on the company. This is how you show who you are going forward. I would love nothing more for you to actually put up a fight against the Omega Weapon.  I would love for you to just surprise me. I would love to have an epic battle because the finest steel is forged in the hottest fires. What I want, what I need, what I crave, what I asked for was the best competition that Level Up Wrestling could give me and instead I give me some doofy ass motherfucker who looks like he drops common loot.”

Ricci takes a moment of pause, making certain that everyone pays attention to what he has to say next.

“Larry Tact… Sarah Wolf… Stephen Stratford… Avalon Blackthorn and Shane Donovan… and especially you, Duncan Shepherd… I want each and every one of you have your eyes glued to the monitor when I make my return. I want each and every one of you to watch how I handle my business. I am here to show each and every single one of you how a champion handles their business. The only impact that my opponent will be making, will be when I kick him so hard I knock his lights out. You each have had your opportunities given to you. Now watch well I take mine.”

Ricci swats at the light bulb, causing it to fly up and hit the ceiling, shattering it and causing the room to go pitch black.