Nevermore
The buzzing of the intercom wrecked Vince's concentration. He angrily stabbed the button on his phone, connecting him to his receptionist. "What is it? I'm very busy." That MAD magazine lying face down on his desk was not going to read itself.
"Your four o'clock is here," announced Sally, reception for Vincent K. McMahon.
Swearing under his breath, Vince checked the appointment keeper on his smartphone. There was nothing in the four o'clock slot. Hence his MAD break. "There isn't any four o'clock."
"There are two every day," Sally said. "One happens to be a bit darker than the other."
This, he did not need. "I don't pay you to be funny, Sally."
"Which is why I'm so bad at it, sir. Be that as it may, I'm sending in your four o'clock." In a hushed whisper, she added, "Code Six-two-six." Sally clicked off the intercom.
Six-two-six, wondered Vince. Reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a thick binder. He flipped furiously in search of the section before his poorly scheduled guest darkened his doorstep.
"Six-two-six", he read aloud. "Extremely unstable. Usually has poorly conceived gimmick or backstory. Exercise caution. May be emotionally unbalanced. See Diagram H for exit strategy." Vince flipped more pages. Spying the intended diagram, he whistled lowly. "So that's what that button does."
The door to his office slowly swung open. Its hinges creaked ominously, which was odd since Vince had them oiled regularly. No one stood on the other side. Vince was about to buzz Sally when thick black smoke wafted across the threshold.
Vince put the binder back in its place. "Here we go."
A dark figure strode through the gloom. An equally dark cloak billowed around the person's ankles. If it was a man or a woman, Vince could not tell. He only hoped that it was not treading unseemly gunk all over his camel-colored carpets. The figure stopped directly in front of Vince's desk.
No entrance music, noted Mr. McMahon. That, at least, was a positive sign. He had a sinking suspicion that it would be the only positive note to come out of the interaction.
Silence reigned. The smoke continued to float around the room, carried on an unknown breeze.
From the middle left drawer, Vince retrieved a small, battery operated fan. Flicking it on, the plastic blades buffeted away any wisps that got too close to him and his black leather executive chair.
The figure finally spoke. Its voice was low and rough. "I am the spawn of lightning and Death."
"I can't imagine which was more painful," said Vince, bowing his head to sneak a peek under the dark hood. "The conception or the birth."
Undeterred, the stranger continued, "I feed on pain and misery."
Vince nodded. "Sounds a lot like my tax attorney." The smoke continued to fill the room. "Where the hell is all this smoke coming from?" He angrily flapped his magazine.
"I bring the darkness," intoned the interloper. "And I have come to answer the call. To serve the master." The hood of the cloak was flung back in a dramatic fashion. "The Lord of Darkness!"
The drastic unveiling revealed a woman. Incredibly pale face, which Vince prayed was makeup. Either that or the woman was in need of some serious time in the great outdoors. Intricate tattoos branded the left side of her face. The irises of her eyes were blood red. He sincerely hoped that both accentuations were artificial. Otherwise, the woman had gone to unnecessary lengths to achieve her lofty goals of becoming part of the WWE family.
"Mark sent you here?" inquired Vince. He found that hard to believe. The man was too dedicated to the business to allow an obviously unbalanced amateur use him as a reference. "A little heads up would have been nice."
At long last, the smoke dissipated. Vince stowed his fan away.
"I serve the Lord of Darkness," she repeated.
Vince nodded. "Heard that the first time. What do they call you?" And by they, he meant the specialists from the mental facility from which she had obviously escaped. "Love child of Death and lightning, eh? How about De-Light? That's the trend these days, isn't it? Mashing up names to form a moniker. Like Brad and Angelina."
The woman glowered down at Vince, her red eyes bulging. "I am Raaven."
"No good." Vince shook his head. "We already had a Raven."
She leaned both hands onto his desk. Her long fingernails were painted black. "I'm Raaven," she explained. "Two A's."
Of course, thought Vince. And, from that moment on, he would spell his name V-i-i-n-c-e and spend the rest of his days gluing dried macaroni to Popsicle stick picture frames.
"I'm probably going to regret asking this…" Vince paused, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "No, I know I'm going to regret asking this, but what the hell… What, exactly, do you want?"
Raaven's red lips curved into a gruesome grim. With a flourish, she threw open her cloak.
Buckles. Lots and lots of buckles. Connected to leather straps that crisscrossed her entire body. His wandering eyes took in what apparently passed as an outfit. There was no way he would get it past the censors. The cloth-to-skin ration was far too off balance. "Does it come with a matching riding crop or did you leave it in your other cloak?"
"I will do anything to serve my master," vowed Raaven. She spoke with the fervor of a true devout. "I live to do his bidding."
A metaphorical light bulb went off over Vince's head. "You know, I have the perfect place for you."
Raaven beamed brightly. It proved to be even more unsettling than her grim. "Really?"
"Oh, yeah. Just back up a bit so I can get a better look at you." If Vince saw any more of the woman, his wife would slap him with divorce papers for real.
She took two steps backwards.
"Okay," said Vince. "Move a little to your left… Other left, dear… Little more… Perfect!"
Vince depressed a button located on the underside of his desk. The woman known as Raaven dropped out of sight. Destination unknown. He wished her a soft landing. The missing square piece of the floor slid back into place with a quiet click.
Peace had been restored. Vince chose to err on the side of caution. Pushing the intercom, he asked, "Any more appointments I don't know about, Sally?"
"No, sir." There was an odd noise in the background. A wheezing sort of sound.
"Might I ask what you are doing, Sally?"
"You can ask, but you might not like the answer."
There was much about Vince McMahon's life that he did not like. "I'll take my chances."
Sally responded, "I'm watching Doctor Who on my laptop, sir."
Truly, he should have been livid. She was abusing company time. Instead, he took a moment to think of the long lost Raaven. Magazine in hand, Vince put his feet up on his desk. "Call me when you get to The Master."
END