The screen flickers.

Not a glitch.  

Not a production error.  

A presence.

A faint rustling sound creeps in — leaves brushing against leaves, twigs snapping under something small, fast, and deeply unnatural. The camera struggles to focus, as if whatever it’s trying to capture doesn’t want to be captured at all.

Then the picture stabilizes.

We are no longer in Cyclone’s storm‑battered locker room.  

We are somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere green.  

Somewhere wrong.

THE FORBIDDEN SHRUBBERY RETURNS

The camera sits low, almost at ground level, staring into a dimly lit hallway of the Landers Center that has been transformed into a miniature forest. Potted plants line the walls. Vines creep across the floor. A single garden gnome statue — cracked, chipped, and smiling far too wide — sits in the center of the frame.

A soft breeze blows through the hallway.

But there is no breeze.

The leaves rustle anyway.

A shadow darts across the frame.  

Too fast to identify.  

Too small to be human.  

Too deliberate to be an accident.

The camera zooms in on the statue.

Its eyes have changed direction.

THE GNOME! PRESENCE

A tiny hand — gloved, dirty, trembling with manic energy — reaches into the frame and places something at the statue’s feet.

Cyclone’s missing boot.

The one he hurled across the room earlier.

It lands with a soft thud.

Then another object is placed beside it.

A miniature replica of the Mini World Title — crudely carved from bark, twine, and what looks suspiciously like a stolen concession‑stand spoon.

The camera pans upward.

The statue is gone.

In its place stands GNOME!

Not moving.  

Not blinking.  

Not breathing in any way that makes sense.

His hat is crooked.  

His beard is wild.  

His eyes gleam with feral intelligence.

He says nothing.

But the silence is louder than any scream Cyclone has ever unleashed.

THE MESSAGE BEGINS — WITHOUT WORDS

GNOME! tilts his head slowly, like a predator studying prey. He reaches down and picks up Cyclone’s boot. He sniffs it. He licks it. He hugs it to his chest like a beloved childhood toy.

Then he drops it.

He stomps on it.

Once.  

Twice.  

Three times.

Each stomp echoes like a war drum.

He crouches low, placing his ear to the boot as if listening to it whisper secrets. Then he nods solemnly, as though the boot has confirmed something important.

He looks into the camera.

His grin widens.

THE SHRUBBERY SPEAKS

GNOME! reaches behind him and drags something into frame — a chalkboard. A tiny one. The kind used in kindergarten classrooms or cult rituals.

He picks up a piece of chalk.

He writes one word:

FRIDAY

He underlines it.

Hard.

The chalk snaps.

He doesn’t blink.

He writes again:

STORM

He circles it.

Then he draws a stick figure with a beard and angry eyebrows — Cyclone. He draws another stick figure with a pointy hat — himself.

He draws a boot flying through the air.

He draws teeth.

He draws blood.

He draws the Mini World Title.

Then he draws himself holding it.

He taps the drawing twice.

Tap. Tap.

The message is clear.

THE SILENT TAUNT

GNOME! walks out of frame for a moment. The camera stays fixed on the chalkboard, the drawings, the boot, the eerie forest hallway.

Then GNOME! returns dragging something heavy.

A sandbag.

Cyclone’s sandbag.

The one Cyclone tore open earlier.

GNOME! lifts it with surprising strength and dumps the remaining sand into a neat little pile. He pats it down like he’s building a tiny grave.

He places a twig in the center like a gravestone.

He writes on the twig with chalk:

CY

He shrugs, as if spelling the whole name would be too much effort.

He places the miniature bark‑and‑spoon title belt on top of the sand mound.

He bows his head.

A moment of silence.

Then he kicks the sand everywhere, cackling silently — shoulders shaking, eyes wild, mouth open in a soundless scream of joy.

THE CAMERA FOLLOWS

GNOME! scurries down the hallway, weaving between plants, knocking over a fern, climbing onto a rolling equipment case like a gremlin on a sugar rush.

He stops suddenly.

He sniffs the air.

He turns to the camera.

He points.

Not at the lens.

At you.

At Cyclone.

At anyone foolish enough to doubt him.

He taps his wrist where a watch would be.

Time is almost up.

THE FINAL OMEN

GNOME! reaches into a bush and pulls out a small wooden box. He opens it slowly, dramatically, like he’s revealing the Ark of the Covenant.

Inside is a single item:

A tiny, hand‑carved Cyclone figurine.

He lifts it gently.

He kisses it.

Then he bites its head off.

He spits the wooden head at the camera.

It hits the lens.

The screen cracks.

The feed distorts.

The rustling grows louder.

The plants shake.

The lights flicker.

GNOME! leans in close — impossibly close — until only one eye fills the screen.

A single, unblinking, predatory eye.

He raises one finger.

He draws a circle in the air.

A storm.

He draws a line through it.

No storm.

He tilts his head.

He smiles.

He whispers without sound:

“Mine.”

The feed cuts to black.