Silence, sometimes considered golden, is anything but for one Killer Kobalski.  In fact, silence is silence to him and nothing more, but then again Kevin never was one for poetry and he said what he meant even when he didn’t know what he was saying.

 

            In December Kevin Kobalski realized that he had to find his own money and promptly enrolled in Ridgewater Technical College for mechanical studies.  You would think that would mean plenty of action and no time to sit, but it seemed to be the very opposite as Killer sat in a silent room same as the day before.  The lesson had been taught, but he didn’t hear any of it, there was a cute redhead in the front and that’s all that mattered to him.

 

            He had spent twenty, maybe thirty minutes trying to approach her, but as very outspoken as he was, every time he got within five feet she looked up and he dropped away.  Something about those big eyes struck him down like lightning and had done that since the very first day, needless to say he was getting pretty sick of “love” in his life, but still found himself victim to it.  The fact that right behind him sat two “very in love” people with their lips smacking and hands touching so loudly in the silence didn’t help at all, so he found himself bouncing from the back to the front trying to get away from the lovebirds and then from the front to the back to move away from Em and her eyes.

 

            Finally he had had enough, jumped up and screamed, “Can no one else hear that?  Ga…!  I’m out of here!”  Naturally this drew nasty looks from the rest of the class, each and every one doing their best to act studious.  With that, Kobalski picked up his books and made his way out of the room to meet up with his cameraman and friend, or friend and cameraman: Ole Christianson.

 

            Ole Christianson was a hulk of a man, short for the immense bulk of his body when standing at a mere six foot three.  He was pure mutt Pollock and proud of it, but he wasn’t above calling himself Irish to get the good drinks on St. Patrick’s Day and calling himself whatever he needed to when it suited him.  Christianson had been a good friend to Killer for a little over a year now, helping the minute man find a match in Heather McHenry, a cute little thing from England, and he helped the fading boy make it through the nights and days after she died.

 

            Ole had been sitting outside the extended building of education since nine in the morning when he gave Killer a ride in, he had nothing better to do and that was all that needed to be said because the entire Kobalski-McHenry-Christianson clan was very easygoing by nature  and the “Why not?” theorem ran rampant.  When Kobalski finally did make his way out at two thirty, the passenger side seat was covered in chocolate Dove wrappers which Killer swept aside as he stepped in.

 

            “Where to, moi capitain?”  Began the burly driver as he set down a “Learn French the Easy Way” book.  This  found Killer a quick retort, “Dude, you gotta give it up, French doesn’t make you sexy no matter how much you try.”

 

            “That’s what you say, but what of the ladies?”

 

            “The ladies?  You think I don’t know what the ladies think?  They’re easier than you’d ever imagine, there’s nothing to them!”

 

            “Nothing to them eh?  So you were just, what, chasing an invisible man back and forth while he got scared off by some pretty looks?”  Killer has nothing to say about this, stuttering a little bit before Ole continues, “Not only are you ignorant to the fact that she digs you, but you’re also ignorant of the car identical to this one with an identical driver that for some reason parks in the one empty spot right outside your classroom window.”

 

            “Ah man!  Not cool!  I ain’t got time for this, the studio pronto.”

 

            “Mm… Pronto Pups.”

 

            Back to that black curtain wall and dark room with a scorched stool with familiar murmerring in the emptiness.  Quickly Killer Kobalski makes his way on screen, promptly followed by Ole Christianson and Hack.  Hack sits down on the stool, daring anyone to challenge him with a look that would kill a lion… if looks could kill.  Then again, maybe it wouldn’t.  In any case it was pretty intimidating when combined with the grunge soldier clothing, dreadlocks, and considerable scarring on the left of his face.  Behind him and on his right, Killer stood not much more than a head above his sitting brother while Ole crouched down to Hack’s height sitting and set a hand on his right shoulder.

 

            “Wow, what do you guys think of the match tomorrow?” Begins Hack.

 

            “Is that lame or what?  Come on, here, let me talk.”  Says Killer as he pushes Hack off the stool, sending him to the floor as the mouthpiece takes over. “Alright, let’s ignore that there display of lame-ocity!  Now, let’s face it, my bro Hack’s going on!  I’ve been training him personally…”

 

            “No you haven’t!” Exclaims Ole, but swiftly Killer takes back the spot.

 

            “Hey!  Now, let’s look at the compition… wait, is there any?” Killer obviously hasn’t been paying attention to the going-ons of the SSW so Ole whispers a few words in his ear and Kobalski continues on, “Okay, so it’s obvious that AlphaWolf is there, and he’s a compeditor, always has been, but in all reality,” Killer shrugs, “he plain doesn’t operate at the same level that Hack does.  Who else?  Yeah, Jax, dude, you’re gone!  I mean, that shit about beating bro, you know it never happened.  Good luck with that lug of yours, you need the muscle and he needs the mind, we know that.  But who’s left?”

 

            “There was a whole load of guys, signed up before!  You know what?  I think they got pussyitis Killer,” says Ole, grinning from ear to ear.

 

            Killer’s head jerks towards Ole, amazed as he is, “Do people actually get that?  I mean, I heard that…”