FMW 10.3: Supremacy VOTING & PROMO THREAD

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Quote :

Foxx: She did it! SHE DID IT! TWIN DDTs TO HARLEQUIN AND OMEGA! FAITH IS GOING TO WIN THE HAYABUSA CUP!

The referee slides in for the count as Faith stands with one boot on either man’s chest, arms raised in triumph...

Crowd: ONE! TWO! THREE!!!!

Cherry: Here is your winner, and 2009 Hayabusa Cup Champion, FAIIIIIIIIITH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Quote :

TyranT: Like any good father would, ah imagine. Ah haven’t even mentioned that she’s wastin’ potential income, too – she’s playin’ all yer big matches righ’ from the get-go! Plus, if yer let me book the show, ah’ve got the card all ready to go. Yer can tell the Board ter shove it and best of all, ye won’t have to be her babysitter no more – let her play with Syanide!

The crowd boo voraciously as TyranT pleads his case.

Smitten: If I do this for you, McKenzie, you will owe me. I collect on my debts.

TyranT: Yer won’t regret it, ah swear.

Smitten: Very well. Ladies and gentlemen, due to Faith’s current condition, I cannot allow her to book Supremacy. Therefore, I am transferring this right to her closest able representative, TYRANT!

Smitten throws his microphone away before departing the ring, mouthing ‘it’s all yours’ to TyranT before he goes.

TyranT: Righ’. Faith, just sit back an’ relax. Ah’m proud of yer fer havin’ a go at bookin’ a card, but ah’m gonna make a few small edits, alrigh’?

We fade into a den. As our intrigue is built as we near a corner, the quiet atmosphere is broken by the giggle of youthful joy. As we go to the source, we can see Chris Austin seated on the floor, back against the couch. The look of prideful happiness is one we have not seen since September 25, 2008. That was the day he won the Hayabusa Cup for those forgetful. But that or anything else doesn’t compare to this moment. His arms rise to the ceiling and inside his hands, James Austin. The young infant can’t help but to smile in utter enjoyment as his father lifts him into the air and gently catches him repeatedly.

As this continues, one can see that this image is gripped with love and the wonderful realization of what one’s priorities should be. Austin raises his child up, and slowly brings him to his face, where the child’s smooth cheek is met with the protective kiss of a father who’d give his life for him without a second thought. Austin stands up and holds the child close as he whispers into the child’s ear:

RCA: You are the greatest thing that will ever happen to me…

The child stares on, obviously naïve to the situation. How someone as small as young James can have such a profound effect on someone like Chris is anyone’s guess but that is the miracle we call children. No matter what you do in life, whether it be good or bad, to come home to someone who loves you unconditionally…without a doubt can make life worth living. As the scene continues, we see Austin cleanse his child in the sink, finding it hard to contain his own proud laughter as his son frolics in the bubble-filled sink. Austin playfully tickles his son’s stomach, eliciting squeals of approval. Austin carefully slicks his son’s hair back, being sure not to get any soap into the pure eyes of James.

We continue through this loving moment between father and son as they are now outside, in a park. Women all look on ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ as Austin lies on his stomach, oblivious to them while helping his son create a sandy work of art. As the child scoops up a clump of sand, Austin helps him shape it as he would help shape his future. Austin holds his hand up, palm facing James. In a move that fills Austin with a sense of honor not found in the greatest professional triumphs, James places his own hand against Austin, either to give a high five or to show the connection they have. Austin then realizes that there’s nothing he’d rather be doing…Nothing better than this.

But this is a perfect world, and in reality we do not live in a world that is perfect.


Fade in. As eyes snatch open we can tell that the owner of them is still unsure to his surroundings. They look around his room…to an empty crib…to an unkempt place of rest. But all of a sudden, a smooth silk feeling overcomes the chest and arms. The eyes look down and see the sleeping form of Alex. A startled Austin interrupts our first-person view as he looks again to see nothing but a pillow tossed off of the bed in surprise.

Austin raises his form from his bed, groaning as he does so. Not looking forward to another day of jaded, bitter loneliness, Austin swings his lower body around as his feet impact the cold floor. He rubs the back of his neck as a somberly disappointed look is plastered onto his face. He looks around before looking up to the heavens…

Why God? Why tempt me with a dream so close to reality?

Austin stands up; his lean, muscular frame seemingly straightened as the warmth of the sun strikes the back of one of FMW’s souls that is newly chilled into darkness. He proceeds to the bathroom as his eyes struggle to grasp the reality he wants no part of. As he looks down, his eyes widen as he jumps and stumbles over a pile of clothes, clothes he recognized as property of Alex. As he grabs the wall to maintain his balance, he looks back and to his confusion, nothing is there.

What the hell?!?!? Am I seeing shit now?




Austin leans onto his bathroom sink as the hum of water breaks his train of serenity. He exhales, not sure how to comprehend what he’s experienced this morning. The dream seemed so real, that life seemed like everything he could have wanted. He throws water onto his face in an attempt to better clear his vision, but as he looks into the mirror, he sees a hooded Drew Michaels staring back at him, smiling.

RCA: NO!

Suddenly a fist flies towards Michaels’ apparition and shards of glass trickles into the air. Austin steps back, as blood pours from his throbbing hand. He looks into his shattered mirror and sees pieces of his face. He sees pieces of his life, the life of a seemingly tortured soul that wishes his sight wasn’t as clear as it is now. But if this is the case…then why is he more confused now than he’s ever been?

So many questions; so many thoughts. So many answers that I can’t explain or find…why am I being haunted by a life that I’ve lost? I’ve let go of the fact that I will not receive my happy ending, but why hasn’t it let go of me? Sometimes, you can’t see yourself clearly until you look through the eyes of others. I haven’t done that yet and to be fair I have no desire to be as judgmental and a hypocritical as the ‘good’ of FMW is. Yet people are such by nature. Can I defeat human nature? Well, it’s not that much of a stretch to see me try given what I've been seeking since I showed up…but what do I seek? What do you think I seek? Do you think that in all honesty, I want to be depraved? Perverted, diabolical?

No you don’t. But then again, what in the fuck do you know? NOTHING. You are blind to the righteousness, to the truth. You are locked away in your own little pod, hoping that my indecisiveness will come back and stop me from giving you everything you fucking maggots deserve. The sad thing is though…you’re kind of right.

You truly are right in a sense.

How do they know...
What’s good for you?

RCA: What the hell is wrong with me?

Not exactly a question that a man who sees the truth would ask himself is it? Probably not, but as he shuffles through his empty residence, he doesn’t have to say a word. He can see it when he looks to a wall, and sees a wall. He looks across to his small dining room table where there is no smiling face of a mischievous child covered in baby food. There is no female partner with bed head giving him those ‘I’m lucky to have found you’ looks, no one for him to give that smoky bedroom eye to. As Austin walks outside of his door to get the morning paper, the crisp Canadian air hits him dead in the face, like his reality…he’s alone.

He’s alone in this world because he chooses to be…and while doing this alone is the only way that he feels he can accomplish everything he wants…he doesn’t know what he truly wants and if he did he’d gladly go about it with the method that involves him not walking this path alone.

Despite the emptiness he feels…despite how bad it hurts…a part of him wants it no other way. For it will be the only way to see clearly…he must not be bogged down by outside distractions, he can’t succumb to human nature. Austin exhales as he slowly proceeds back in his deathly silent sanctuary. He closes the world off from him, he closes their clouded vision away from the only person whose vision may be clear…but his mind is cluttered with the thoughts of a mad man, the thoughts of a criminal, the thoughts of a hero…the thoughts of a man like Chris Austin.

Break away from this, Austin. It’s just a rough morning. Or is it?

The doubt begins to seep in. There’s hope for FMW…fight it Austin. Don’t destroy the people who did this to you. Don’t forsake the people who have forsaken FMW. They still care, Austin. It’s just a couple of losses man; it’s not worth throwing away everything you have built up. The respect, the sympathy…all of the things you’ve said and done and people are still willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Don’t lose your mind, man. It’s not worth it, Drew would say. You can come back from this, Quint would suggest. You can define your life, Skyler would mutter. Don’t let the actions of those you still love, whether you admit it or not, eat you alive. Please, for the maggots’ sake. Fight it. Question yourself one last time.

RCA: Look at this shit…I see what I have, and I look at myself...and while I want to think that I may be better off, I don’t think I am. Everything I can do for FMW, everything…can very well be for nothing.

This is a tiring act. We all know it is…but unlike you people, Austin grew up in a household where things were dictated to him. Some of his most life-altering experiences came where he had someone to show him the way more often than not. So he’s not used to not having a guide and it eats at him. While he can fully reach his potential…his actions have no real benefactor. Austin should count as such, you say. No…how can a man benefit from defiling a young girl? How can a man benefit from taking all of his momentum and willingly attempting to throw it away to avoid a situation that in the grand scheme of things he can’t control, yet he can influence? How can a man benefit from never getting out of his own way?

How can a man benefit from being a leader, when he’s always been the star student, but never the man people look to for guidance? He can’t. As Austin rubs his temples in exhausted discomfort, he proceeds to his meditation room. A harsh exhale escapes the body of the man under more pressure than anyone in FMW. Not because he must save everyone. Not because he must make his family proud, or get money for a secret mission, or try to raise funds for an operation that wouldn’t be needed if not for you…It is because he has to find his own way for trying to burn every bridge he can see.

RCA sits down, his eyes grow heavy. His heart is the only sound you can hear in the seemingly cavernous resting place of some of Austin’s deepest mental experiences. As his eyelids kiss, and his body becomes rigidly concentrated, his mind awakens.

Wake up, wake up, whoa...
Wake up, wake up, whoa...
A shot to the head,
They're better off dead,
Will you wake up, wake up, whoa…

Why am I doing all of these things? Why have I said what I have said? Do I truly want to win so badly that I am willing to become the worst possible asshole in order to do so? Why have I lowered myself to agreeing to team with Yoko Ono's fat nephew to face some Jarhead wannabe and Abel Steele? I swore no one would control me and not only is it happening, I seem content to go along with it? The things I do for FMW by associating myself with inferior cunts…and I'm the bad guy?

What has happened to you, Austin?

No one knows. It could be just a overblown temper tantrum. Could be a unfamilar reaction to a situation others are familiar with. Austin’s face begins to tremble. Something is building within…

These people do not deserve to be in my fucking presence. Hell I can't even be pinned in the match so why should I give a fuck? If we don't win, it's Yoko's fault. If we do, then it's because of me. It's pretty simple. Besides, everyone knows only another monster can beat another monster. I've got Fat Ass Godzilla and I don’t see a King Kong on your side, just a solider. HAVEN'T YOU SEEN WHAT HE DOES TO YOUR KIND IN THE MOVIES GUN BOY?!?!?

Yet I digress, for none of you have much of a place in my mind…which begs the question “why are you here?” That’s all I can ask of myself. Why Austin, Why?

No one can answer that for him. He should see clear enough to know this answer. So, what do you think? Why do you think Austin did this to himself? Is it because he’s a sore loser? Is it because he will do anything to avoid having to settle for failure? No…

Why, I ask? It’s pretty simple…I’m pissed that people think I lost sight of my duty...which was always to be somewhere where I could do as I wished and not be judged. I have never wanted to save FMW before...I have never cared what happened as long as my personal happiness was never challenged. Now my personal happiness is crushed and I’m on some fucking tangent about restoring FMW from a whore to a princess?!?!? After what FMW cost me?

Have I lost my Goddamn mind?

Or, and here’s a wild question…has the Moment of Clarity blinded him further? And if it has done so, why is he so intent on giving one to FMW?

It’s because he’s been where most of you have been.

Kaoru…Austin knows what it’s like to be one’s personal weapon…he served in the United States Army. Nikko…Austin knows what it’s like to have no desire to be in the military yet be stuck helping others in a mission no one really knows the truth about. He knows what you feel. He knows what you see. Austin knows what it’s like doing what is expected of you and not what you truly desire. Abel…Austin knows what it is like to be the golden boy. He knows everything you all go through…hence he holds the advantage.

Why has my vision faltered now? The Moment of Clarity I am…it shouldn’t be this way but it seems like it’s harder and harder to see. So if I am blinded, why do I wish to blind you? Maybe, ignorance is bliss. Then again, maybe deep down I want you blinded. It is obvious that I can’t trust you to make the right decisions based on what you see as the truth. If you could, I’D be challenging TyranT, not Romeo. So maybe you deserve to lose your privilege to see. I know you can’t defend an attacker you can’t see coming and what I intend to do to you all, it may be better if you don’t see it.

RCA: But I’m not like that…I want you to see me coming so when I destroy you. When I take what is mine, I want you to see what you delayed and strengthened…see what you’ve unleashed…

But if I am blind and you are blind…how can I see you?

As these questions plague Austin…he wonders aloud…

RCA: Is this what I really want? Do I want FMW to live in fear of me? Do I even give a shit about what FMW wants? I never have before. Maybe I just want to be the man in FMW. Maybe I just want to reign supreme. When I find out what I want, you can all have you Moment of Clarity.

Maybe everything I just said is a ploy to confuse you even further…ever thought of that, bitches?

What Austin wants, is a lot simpler than what you’d think…it’s called Occam’s Razor. He’s been saying it for the longest…yet you haven’t listened. It’s been two years, FMW…he’s beaten some big names, he’s had himself some fine showings…he’s done the work and he wants his turn in the pussy. You saddling him with the role of ‘ringer’ for a rookie will not help him reach that goal. It is behavior like this why Austin has done what he has. Because FMW is not logical, Austin is not logical in dealing with this diseased federation…this corrupt landscape. He’s a product of his environment.

The surest way to corrupt a mind is to instruct it to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently. This is the main problem with FMW. FMW will give you a chance if you hold FMW’s best interests at heart.

I know this better than anyone. See my Hayabusa Cup promo. I said FMW needed me to win, and I won. I’ve never said that FMW needs me to win any fucking thing because truthfully she doesn’t, as long as people act like they care, they’ll at least get ahead. All she needs is for you people to move your veils from her eyes, so that she may look past all who think alike, like Drew, like Celt. Like Abel…so that she may see her free spirit. So that she may see the alternative that she was designed to be when she first opened her legs on September 25, 2006.

So that she may see me. And she will see me. But when that happens, will it be enough? What if it isn’t? What if I must punish you all for what you did? What if I must take a shit on all of your hard work to do so? What if I must destroy you all only to feed the need for righteous clarity in the world of Full Metal Wrestling?

Then so be it.




It's amazing the clarity that comes with seemingly psychotic jealousy. Yes, Austin is a jealous bastard and FMW made him that way. You made him this way because of the kind of person he is…he is one who believes that he could have done the impossible, he tried to please you. Austin wanted to be free of judgment in a federation which has had its share of lines drawn in the sand; a line Austin sees and acknowledges as something he must blur to see who he is. Austin wanted a family with a woman who broke his heart and was never forgiven for it; Austin wanted a woman he could trust, when he never allowed himself to trust again. Austin wanted to save a federation that seems like it doesn’t want him.

He wanted to do the impossible when the impossible is not required. No one tried to stop him from doing so and now look. FMW is clawing for anyone that can be her knight in shining armor. She can’t trust Drew like she used to…Alex O’Rion isn’t here. All there was is Chris Austin, but he is the Unchosen One. He used to look down on FMW for being corrupt, but now he adores her for the utter magnificence of that corruption for a corrupt federation is one he can take advantage of, one he can bend over a table and have his way with.

RCA: I traverse this land without a flaw in my sight, I can see it now…I see my destiny. The accomplice to the crime of corruption is frequently our own indifference…I understand it now. My inaction has set in motion my new mindset, and now I can overtake this place. I must be champion, by any means needed. I must be the one. I must begin to place myself on the throne.

The first sign of corruption in a society that is still alive is that the end justifies the means. Austin destroying Hostyle will be justified. Austin destroying his friendship with Kelson will be justified. Austin allowing himself to participate in this match will be justified.

I can not give you all a Moment of Clarity for if everyone sees clearly, then you would all be blind and we can’t have that. So I will let you lie; let you wallow in the blurred vision and conflicted minds for I have seen what it can do to you. Nikko, I will let you die for in order to please others, we loose our hold on our life’s purpose. You have no purpose, so you must be annihilated. Abel, I can’t look at you without jealousy filling my body. I see your son…I see your charmed life specked with tragedy…and I want you to know that no matter how hard you work to keep things better, they will not be better and you can’t save yourself from it. You cannot save yourself because you do not know which hand to reach for. So take mine…

RCA: For I will pull you from the mouth of death and show you the insanity of clarity.




You cannot escape the Moment of Clarity…you cannot escape his wrath FMW. He has indirectly placed everything in motion. And his eyes are open, he has seen the federation for what it is, and he must seize it by the throat…for it is destiny. It is the way of the Ronin.

When the life is most empty, when the mind is most cluttered, it is here when everything becomes clear. FMW cannot be a princess until I am the champion. FMW cannot be safe until I have what is mine. This next contest is merely a summation of what I have now…Nothing to lose, everything to gain. This is merely a stepping stone. Full Metal Wrestling, it is time to open your eyes and bear witness to the beginning of my Supremacy. There is no other way for me, no other way for you. There is no other way, and I will do anything to ensure it.

I will do anything to ensure my Supremacy…

It’s time, Full Metal Wrestling. Austin opens his eyes with violent authority, and offers a smirk…




RCA: If you don't look… I'll force you to.

The oaken hardwood floor was cold to the touch against the soles of Quint’s feet. With eyes half opened he stumbled from the hardwood floor to the granite tiling of the kitchen floor. The smell of roasting beans with a hazelnut swirl wafted through his olfactory senses and guided him blindly through the kitchen. From the last step of the staircase to the final step in front of the cupboards Quint walked on autopilot completely bypassing the beautiful woman sipping coffee at the kitchen table.

“Good morning to you too.”

The lips of Katherine Hookton rested gently against his shoulder blade, quickly followed by a hand tracing from one side of his back to another.

Mmmmppphhh.

The groan escaped Quint’s lips as the coffee poured from the decanter into the mug clasped in Quint’s hands. The sharp smell of the fresh coffee danced around his nose as the heat of the near boiling liquid forced its way through to the outside of the mug. With burning liquid in hand Quint nestled himself into a leaning position against the marble counter top as Katherine walked back to her seat at the table.

“Not feeling too well babe?”

Quint’s slowly opening eyes glanced over at the vision of sheer beauty sitting at the table across from him. The curly brown locks of her hair hung in front of her face matching the sparse light freckles traced across her nose. Quint couldn’t help but smile, after all the destruction, the brutality, the hatred, to have something as beautiful as Katherine actually caring about his well being was almost beyond comprehension.

Same story, different night I suppose.

A deep breath soared through Quint’s nostril followed by a large exhale through his lips. He forced half a smile before taking a step away from the counter by the coffee machine. He only managed that single step before the first knock came. A single, loud, crashing knock at the front door that would have startled a normal man, but Quint was used to noises far more disturbing to be affected by a knock at the door.

With a quick glance out of the side windows Quint gave a quick smile to himself and opened to door. The two City Police Department officers stared blankly at the man in front of them. His dirty blonde hair, t-shirt and pyjama pants hardly seemed fitting for the man they were looking for.

Hello Officers.

“Dr. Harley Quint?”

Yes that’s me, but please just call me Harley, no need for the Doctor title.

Seconds passed with Quint simply staring at the two officers at his door step, sipping on his coffee. The officers nervously shuffled their feet before the taller, female officer spoke.

“Mr. Quint may we please come in, we need to speak to you about a few things.”

Sure thing. Coffee?

“None for us thanks, we’d just like to talk.”

Please, come in then, just have a seat over there.

Motioning to the couch underneath the bay window in the living room Quint followed the officers into the house. The male officer stopped briefly in the entrance frame to the living room as he unstrapped the Kevlar vest across his chest. Watching with a raised eyebrow Quint sat himself opposite of the two City Police Officers.

“I’m Officer Danielson and this is Officer Roberts, we just have a few questions to ask you.”

Sure thing, ask away.

“Alright Mr. Quint first off—“

Please, just Harley.

“Fine, Harley, the other night three men were apprehended on sexual assault charges outside of The Fallen Pigeon, a bar just outside the downtown core. One of these men swears he heard the name “Quint” mentioned.”

Interesting, it’s not exactly a familiar name you know.

“We’re aware, you’re the only Quint in the phonebook.”

Quint’s eye glanced over to Officer Roberts, the younger of the two Officers who had left his Kevlar vest on the stairs in the entryway.

“Where were you last night Harley, between 2 and 4 am?”

“He was at home, in bed with me.”

Before Quint could even speak Katherine had answered the question directed at him. His eyes darted up to the woman leaning against the door frame to the room.

“Harley suffers from Pavor Nocturnus, or what we know as Night Terrors. While in most cases it does not wake up its sufferers, Harley is often kept awake from these reoccurring dreams and due to this suffers from sleep deprivation. Most nights Harley sleeps for maybe an hour and often wakes me up in the process.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, you are?”

This is the beautiful Katherine Hookton, my partner.

“At 2:45 last night Harley shot up from his sleep screaming. I remember because I glanced at the clock, as I do every night, at the same time.”

She was lying Harley had shot out of bed at 1:00.

The four individuals continued their conversation with the officers of City Police Department occasionally continuing to ask questions. The conversation went on for what seemed hours to Quint as he continually concocted a web of lies as to his location last night and nights prior. Finally with a nod and a thank you for the hospitality the two officers of the City Police Department rose from their seats and exited the house.

A collective sigh escaped the lips of both Quint and Katherine as the door closed behind them. While Katherine’s heart raced at the confrontation Quint made mental notes of his story, making sure he thoroughly developed and remembered his story. The beauty of lies is that anyone will believe them if you tell them with enough conviction.

Well that was an interesting way to start a mor—

The knock came at the door interrupting Quint mid speech. Turning with an exasperated look Quint flung the door back open to find Officer Roberts staring at him.

“Uh, hello.”

Yes, hello again Officer Roberts.

With a quick glance back at the squad car Roberts made sure his partner wasn’t looking before pulling a business card out, showing it to Quint.

“If anything out of the ordinary were to, say, happen to you at all in the future. And I mean this is a purely hypothetical manner. But if anything were to happen, use the number on here to call me. It will call in directly to me, so feel free to report anything you may stumble across.”

Uhmm, thanks Officer. Oh! Officer Roberts, you forgot your Kevlar.

“No. No I didn’t Mr. Quint.”

With a sharp smile Officer Roberts turned, skipping down the first step and making his way back to the squad car. With a half chuckle Harley rolled his eyes before shutting the door and turning back to Katherine.

“So, turns out last night was maybe a little more interesting than you let on.”

About that.

“No, no about that’s, you’re going to explain.”

Yes boss.

Quint offered up a snap salute to Katherine as he followed her towards the kitchen table, ready to explain every inch of his being to the woman he loved. One way or another life in the new Quint household was set to change.


The moon fell rapidly bringing darkness about the house and The City. Inside the house a man sat alone at a kitchen table, the steaming coffee warming against his hands. The dimmed lights above the table illuminated Quint as he sat, eyeing the cup in front of him and the vest still hanging on the railing at the base of the stairs.

A sigh escaped Quint’s lips as his shoulders shrugged. He could feel the air circulate throughout his lungs while the thoughts stormed through his mind.

She had cried when he told her. How could she not have?

She laughed at how simple it was. Harley Quint, Harlequin. How could she not have?

He wondered to himself how so many of the general public never figured it out. How easily they accepted Shane Wallace was guilty. It seemed so human to accept the answer that so quickly frees one from their problems and in a way that did nothing but sadden Quint.

Katherine now knew everything, all the truths and Quint was left hanging his head low between his shoulders. She had given a hint of a smile as Quint traced her hand across his very name etched into his sternum. He knew it would be alright, she hadn’t tried to stab him with a knife or run screaming from the house. Instead she had leaned in and kissed Quint, bringing a tear to his eye followed by a quick chuckle.

Time would tell what happened next, but for now Katherine Hookton knew all the intricate details of the life of Harley Quint. She knew not only his nightmares, but the cause. What matter more than anything was that Katherine knew.

The chair screeched across the kitchen floor as Harley pushed it backwards, rising from his seated position. The cold floor pressed through Quint’s socks as he walked across, exiting the room into the hallway. The stairs came quickly into view as Quint approached their base, his eyes never leaving the Kevlar Vest that had been ‘accidentally’ left by Office Roberts during his visit earlier in the day.

Well well...

The Vest bobbled in Quint’s hand as he judged its weight. Draping it over one arm Harley thumbed across the plating stitched deep within the vest a smile. As though a light bulb had flashed above his head Quint glanced toward the hall closet no more than 5 feet from to his left.

Seems Officers Roberts may not have been as dense as I initially thought.

The closet door swung open in front of Quint revealing a mixture of jackets, amongst those being the Gray peacoat he had worn nights earlier.

Guess he’s a little more useful than I thought, everything’s a surprise today.

The knife, ever present in the pocket of Harley Quint, spun in his hand before burying itself deep within the Kevlar Vest. Slowly stitch after stitch popped revealing the insides of the vest.


The new weight of the peacoat pulled down at his shoulders. It was heavier than he had expected but that was something his body would adjust too in time, he had done it before.

Despite the new weight placed upon his shoulders his strides across the cold concrete where quiet and of a quick pace. He almost seemed to skip across the ground below much like a bird preparing for take off. His legs carried him through crosswalks, between buildings and in alleyways before arriving him at his destination.

Things were more difficult now. It used to be that he would either make trouble, or by some curious happenstance it would find him. Now, now he had to seek it out, to listen to the streets at night hoping to catch wind of those who would do her wrong. Tonight he was lucky. Tonight he had heard. And tonight, tonight his legs carried him through streets he had stalked a thousand times before.

The Harbourfront. Such a comically obvious place for crime that no one would bother to even look there. Quint chuckled to himself as he crossed the street, ducking into the mouth of an alley.

Hiding in plain sight has always worked me for, I see no reason why it wouldn't for them.

Harley shook his head slightly struck by a sense of bewilderment at the blind eyes so easily turned away by society. Across the alleyway two men sat on the ground on either side of the door. From what he could see they were dressed as homeless men not wanting to give away their identities.

So many disguises. So this was what it was like?

The thought tore through Harley's mind like a freight train as he thumbed around his pocket searching for his cell phone. Pulling both the phone and a white business card into the night's air he began to dial.

"I knew I'd be hearing from you soon Do--"

The voice on the other end answered the voice, clearly knowing who had been calling.

No names, it's easier this way.

Quint cut off Officer Roberts making sure his name was never spoken across the airwaves.

Just listen for right now. There's a warehouse on the docks on West between Regent and King. There's activity there between a gang I've been watching. Give me an hour then send your boys.

"Don't do anything too stupid."

I won't. Just cleaning up a little mess I left.

The phone clicked off, spinning in Quint's hand before sliding back into his pocket.

Pulling the jacket up and shrugging his shoulders to conceal his face Harley began to cross the street. The closer he got the the two 'homeless' men situated on either side of a set of doors Quint could begin to make out the similar Worm tattoo's adorning their necks.

Stopping short in front of the men Quint glanced around, scanning his surroundings before turning and facing the man to the left of the door.

Got a light?

"No. Keep walkin'."

Aww man c'mon, just gimme a light, I know you got one.

The 'homeless' man rose from his seated position, his eyes focusing on Quint, his hands fumbling the knife under his jacket.

"I said keep walkin' shit stain."

The knife flashed under the man's jacket while his associate began to rise to his feet, taking ntoe of the altercation.

With the ease of motion associated with muscle memory the posture of Quint dipped slightly. The right side of his face began to curl into a sickening smile while malice danced in his eyes.

I'd really rather not.



"Oh Shit..."

The two men turned to run from the incarnation in front of them. Mere steps were taken before Quint was on top of both men with a single tackle. His body had adjusted to the additional weight of the Kevlar plating within his jacket. Extra weight that I'm sure the two men underfoot did not appreciate.

The knife sprawled across the floor, freeing itself from the first man's hands. Rising from his prone position atop the two men beneath Quint's eyes darted around the street checking his surroundings. The streets were empty save for brakelights from a disappearing car.

Catching sight of the knife which had come to a stop mere inches from the door of the warehouse Quint delivered a quick boot to the ear of the second man. With a thud the would be assailant collapsed back down to the cold cement fading into a hard slumber. His partner, the original wielder of the knife, would not be so lucky.

What's going on in there?

The clearly obvious question ripped free from Quint's throat, the decibal level assaulting the opposing man's ears. By this time Quint had a firm grip around the neck of the man's shirt, raising him to a standing position.

“Like fuck we’re goin’ to tell you.”

The free fist of Quint caught the man in the stomach. He knew he didn’t have to put this man out right away. Half the fun would be keeping him conscious.

Trust me. What I’m going to do to you...I’ve done worse to far better people.

The malicious gleam in Quint’s eyes seemed to dance about as twisted thoughts tumbled through his head. As his captive coughed from the quick jabs to the stomach, Quint fought against himself. Parts of his mind telling him to slit this man’s throat and spill his blood upon the hard concrete while others fought back against the remnants of the deranged Harlequin.

Ughh... You’re lucky this time. Trust me.

The free fist once again caught the man in the stomach before he unceremoniously tossed the man down to the ground. Taking a step towards the knife cast upon the ground the boot of Harley Quint once again made contact with the flesh of man. Bending down to scoop of the blade he glanced to each side examining the two downed men. A quick smile crossed his lips as he swung open the front door of the warehouse.

Inside two men stood. Alone. Alone in the empty room. The two men who seemed shrunken amongst the high ceilings and looming doors paused momentarily to turn their attention to whom had entered the building.

Well, well, well...Look what we ha—

The two men began to sprint. Harley had been cocky. He had misjudged their reactions. With a deep sigh and a roll of the eyes Quint gave chase toward the side door of the warehouse.

I am way too used to people trying to kill me. This whole me trying to get them thing is going to take some getting used to.

Quint chuckled to himself as he dropped his shoulder into the closing side door. His pace quickened out in the open air free from the confines of the warehouse walls.

The darkened bricks of the buildings across the street away from the Harbour loomed in the night sky as Harley scanned around the streets looking for the two runners. The shadows cast against their walls from the streetlights obscured the two men as they fled into the mouth of an alleyway. The rise of the building walls created the similar effect of a tunnel as the echo roared around the building resonating in the ears of Quint.

The muscles in his legs loosened as his speed picked up. Harley knew he’d be able to hear their footsteps once he entered the alleyway. Step by step Harley could feel himself picking up speed as he passed into the alley and the footsteps of those he chased and his own began to ring louder into his ears. In the distance Quint could see the path he was on split and the two men turning in opposite directions.

Shit, shit shit.

Curling his body over further Quint continued to pick up pace towards his peak speed. The air began to rush in and out of his lungs in deep breaths as he fought to shorten the distance between those who run from him.

Guess I gotta pick one or the ot—

Quint glanced up, halting his own speech. Illuminated by the moon’s light was a lone figure atop a building no more than 20 paces ahead. The figure was easily recognizable to Quint who merely a flicked a quick wave of the hand before turning right.

Frost.

The exchange was brief, but it was all that was needed, Quint began his chase down the right turn after the one of the running men. Frost turns in silence atop the building, his duster briefly catching a burst of wind tossing it into the air, before disappearing into the night.

That makes this a lot easier sir. You can’t hear me, but thank you.

Minutes passed as the footrace continued. Step by step Harley felt himself gaining on the man that had fled him until turning a corner and coming face to face with the man.

Ah...well that was unexpected...

The words, barely recognizable fell from the lips of Quint as he gasped for breath. Both men rested their hands on their legs as they stared at each other, hauling breath in through their lungs.

“What the...fuck...are you...doing?”

Stopping you...

“From...what?”

Ruining my city!

Quint burst forth from his rested position his fist swinging toward the chest of the opposing man.

The first fist glanced off the man’s forearm as Quint’s second launched catching the man in the shoulder. The man stumbled backward temporarily absorbing the force of the blow before launching a counter attack of his own.

The fists of his attacker deflected harmlessly away as they too glanced off the forearms of Quint. Both men pulled themselves away from the other beginnings a tenuous circle around each other.

“You’re stepping in the wrong pile here. We ARE protecting the City.”

By perpetuating chaos and violence? HOW is that helping? How is that protecting?

Quint glanced at the man examining his throat. It was clean. No sign of any tattoo’s.

No tattoos eh? Something more than a tiring lackey?

The man rolled his left sleeve, revealing a worm wrapping around his forearm, it’s teeth barred toward the veins pumping blood from his heart to his hands.

“We keep ours hidden. Some of the dumbfucks put them on their necks, it gives everything away.”

Being awfully liberal with your information.

With the tattoo revealed the man tightened his fists, each knuckle popping simultaneously.

“Look you fuck, get the hell outta here.”

The fist swung at Quint’s head, missing thanks to a timely dodge. The second fist caught Quint in the chest winding him temporarily. The wind hissed as it escaped his lungs leaving Quint doubled over desperately trying to refill his airways.

“We’re bringing these Worm bastards down from the inside ourselves. We don’t need no vigilante steppin’ in.”

The rising knee of the undercover officer caught Quint in the Kevlar Plating absorbing most of the blow. A quick thank you ran through his mind as he fought to avoid the next swing.

“So what if we take a little while we’re at it? Ain’t no one gonna stop us. In case you haven’t noticed the Cities in a bit of disarray.”

Quint’s shoulder once again absorbed the blow of the officer’s fist. Pivoting quickly on his heels he tossed the same shoulder back into the man’s chest stumbling backward again.

Seems to be what it comes down to these days eh? Who can grab more the fastest?

“We do what we have too to survive. When that clown fuck disappeared he left everything in tatters. Half the force was dead by his hands. We have families to feed and the families of our fallen brothers to feed on top of that. You think you can do that on a Cop’s salary?”

So that means becoming the very thing you fight day in and day out? You’re part of the problem, these worms, these gangs run the city and your brilliant plan is to destroy them from the inside out while taking what you can? You succumb to the evil in order to rise above it?

Quint’s fist made contact with the officer’s clavicle dropping his left arm limp against his body.

This is what disgusts me. You sanctimonious fucks think you can get away with what you want and hide behind your laws for protection.

“No...We do this because we are right. Because we are correct. “

Wrong.

Quint’s fist connected squarely with the officer’s left ear sending his senses into override. The synapses in the man’s brain fired all at once as the next fist connect with an uppercut to his sternum.

Because you are the law does not make you above the law. It does not keep you from accountability. You have to be held to a higher standard.

As Harley pulled back his foot to connect with the man’s stomach a gunshot tears through the silent night’s air.

...Frost...

He closed his eyes, hoping and praying for the staying hand of Hannibal. Deep down he hoped, he knew the gunshot was not a killing shot. Frost was different now.

The foot crashed down against the man’s ribs winding him in a similar fashion to Quint.

And when you cross that line...I will be here to put you down.

I will be watching.

I will be waiting.

I will be vigilant.

It was then that the next noise he heard would haunt the Officer for years to come. What he thought was dead, what he thought was gone was right in front of him. Something stalked the streets once again, and terror followed close in its wake.



So you’ve been warned. You are just as corrupt as the rest of us. Whether you can see it or not. If we are evil, than you are equally as guilty. If we have broken your laws, you have done the same in an attempt to put us down. You feed the worm.

You strengthen him.

By abandoning your morals to try to destroy him, you empower him.

I am here to stop you.

Tonight...

Tonight Harley has some fun.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beepbeep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The monitor in the small room beeped overtop of the machine forcing air in and out of the lungs of the man unconscious in the small bed. The mechanical whir from the room was sealed in with the closed door, as outside Doctors, amongst others, scurried around checking charts and conversing about the man in the room.

Steadily the heart rate monitor beeped, as if uncaring about the rest of the world so long as it fulfilled its purpose. Continually it beeped as the sound escaped out into the hallway as the doors briefly slid open, before once again confining the noise into the room itself.

Dr. Oda: How’s he looking today?

Dr. Timms: No progression. We’ve seen no brainwave activities in the past week.

Dr. Oda: Hmm. I don’t particularly like that. Seems his outburst awhile back may have just been nerves firing after all.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beepbeep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Suro Oda hovered above the unconscious man in the bed. He glanced up from underneath his glasses. The room surrounding the man was created solely from glass. His condition had to be monitored at all costs. Those funding the project had brought in what seemed to be nothing more than a corpse at first. When the first of the monitors were hooked up the weakest of vital signs began to show through, barely registering as a human life. Under normal circumstances Oda and his team would have done what they could to preserve the man’s life for a reasonable time. But with the money provided, more was obviously the answer.

The lump sum of money given to Oda, Timms and their colleagues was enough to create a state of the art facility for this one patient while paying themselves generously. It was enough money that they were smart enough to not ask where it came from and why this man was important. They were asked to contact their beneficiaries if and when the man had regained his cognitive abilities. Oda had a single initial on a black business card, nothing more than a W emblazoned into the card below a number.
And that was enough for him.

Dr. Oda: How is the facial laceration healing?

Dr. Timms: Call it what it is. It’s not a laceration by any means.

With a semi-smirk Timms began to roll back the bandages from around the patients left eye. The swelling had gone down by an exponential amount with each passing day. Though the damage had been done. A single gunshot wound from a high calibre pistol had torn through the man’s left eye socket. Judging from the entry angle of the bullet the aim had been slightly off and fired from the right, as the bullet had passed through the man’s skull leaving the brain intact. Without hesitation Oda leaned in, cleaning away the blood that drizzled from the destroyed eye. It had become instinct for Oda and Timms, the wound bled and was in constant need of care, the nurses were will tuned to that fact. It was would be surprise enough when this man awoke, the last thing he needed was to be bleeding from a hole in his head.

The eye had been all but obliterated but the area of the skull and socket could be repaired. The surgery had been extensive, but luckily for the doctors the patient was comatose. Thus the psychological stress of the surgeries had been minimal. With each day that passed his body strengthened yet his mind had not healed. He had only awoken once for no more than a single minute before returning to his unconscious slumber.

Dr. Oda: Well, when he returns to the living he will be permanently disfigured that much is certain. It would take too many rounds of surgery to repair the damage to an acceptable level.

Dr. Timms: He’s alive, I think you’re overlooking that. This man was all but dead when he arrived, leaving the facility without a functioning left eye is probably the best he can hope for.

Dr. Oda: I suppose that’s the best way to look at it. Keep me informed of any developments.

Oda turned and exited the glass room that was the patient’s fishbowl leaving Timms alone with the beeping heart monitor. He studied the patient that lay below him, the whir of the machine pumped air in and out of his lungs to a rhythmic beat, entrancing the demur Dr. Timms. While Oda had no interest in where the patient had come from, it burned constantly inside Timms mind. The man in the hospital bed was quite clearly a muscular man. He had to have been an athlete in whatever life had existed prior to this facility for his body to recover in the manner that it was. Yet it was as if his mind had no desire to wake from its sleep. As if his purpose had been fulfilled and he had resigned himself to his fate.

It was as if this fate was to be expected.

With a slight shake of his head and a sigh more from exhaustion than frustration Timms turned to exit the room. As the door slid open and the beeps from the heart monitor mixed with the scurrying of the nurses a noise was heard from behind Timms. A noise he had never heard. A voice that was entirely foreign to him.

???: Mmmpphh....ughhh

Dr. Timms: What? Did...

Turning around the jaw of Dr. David Timms fell in shock. For the first time in the months he had been in the facility the patient had spoken. Or at least made noise. Regardless it was a small victory in a battle that had seemed to be stacked against them from the start.

???: W...Where am I?

Dr. Timms: You’re in a medical facility. You were brought to us near death, we’ve been nurturing you for the past 2 and a half months.

???: Tw...Two and a half months?

Dr. Timms: Yes, you’ve been in a coma, how do you feel sir?

???: My face...My face hurts, a lot.

Dr. Timms: I imagine it does. You came to use with an incredible amount of facial trauma, do you remember what happened to you?

???: No, no I don’t, but I feel like I got shot in the face.

Dr. Timms: Not to laugh, but that is precisely what happened.

With his newly conscious patient the hours passed as the two men conversed. Discussions where held on the implausibility of the man’s recovery, the damage done to his face and the adaptation he would have to endure with the loss of his left eye.

His memory was gone, for the most part. Fractions of his previous life remained. A man who ran his life in every manner, a lack of will to live and a history of unspeakable cruel acts. A life that was simply in the past, a fraction of something he could barely remember. From all Dr. Timms could tell this man was simply one who had been given a second chance. A clean slate to forget all the problems of his previous life.

It was later that evening that the celebration was held. Timms and Oda had brought all the various nurses with them out to revel in their successes. Their victory had been great when all the odds had been stacked against them, and tonight they celebrated that.

Excusing himself from the table of his colleagues Dr. Oda rose from his chair and slowly made his way to the outside of the restaurant. The cool winter’s air chipped at his cheeks as he pulled his phone from his pocket while thumbing the black business card that seemed to never be far from his hand.

Dr. Oda: Hello Mr. We--

W: No need for names Oda. I assume you are calling with good news as you know I don’t want to hear from you otherwise.

Dr. Oda: He’s awake. He was talking earlier in the day. He’s asleep now, but he has pulled from the coma.

W: His memory?

Dr. Oda: The procedures worked, he remembers little to nothing.

W: Well, enjoy your celebrations, I’ll be there first thing in the morning.

The unnamed patient lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, it too made of glass. His head pounded, each pulsed seem to resound through his body shaking him to his core. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing second as his struggle against the state of slumber he had inhabited for so long.

[i]It was later that evening while the fishbowl that was the man in the beds room was empty save for one man. Rather, save for two men. While one rested in his bed, struggling to cope with what had become of him, the other approached with a cocky swagger. His frame was far slighter than the man in the bed, yet he held himself with such power as he walked.

The doors slid open brining the two men as face to face as possible given the restrictions of the bed.

Thin Man: Well don’t you just look chipper.

???: You... You’re...

Thin Man: You can say it, use your words. Jaro. You never were kept around for your brain after all.

???: Why are you here?

The man’s voice trembled. The nerves had caught up to him almost as fast as his past had. Somehow this man had found him the moment he had woken up, somehow this man knew.

Jaro: So, we ready to go?

???: What? You just want me to go with you?

Jaro: You’re alive aren’t you? That means you’re my property, get the fuck out of the bed.

???: I don’t think it works that way.

Jaro: Guess he really did a number on you with that gunshot then. Quit being a little bitch and get up. Put this on, that thing you’ve got going on with your face is disgusting.

The man looked down at the pure white mask that had been tossed onto his chest. Slowly his fingers rose
from his sides touching the edges of the cold mask. The sensation exploding through his body like fireworks, after months of inactivity even the slightest of touches seemed heightened.

???: Is it really that bad?

Jaro: It’s disgusting, even to me. Now put that mask on so I don’t have to look at you and let’s get out of here.

The man rose to a seated position in his bed, fastening the mask to his face. As it adjusted the first drops
of blood began to leak down from the eye socket, dribbling slowly down the mask.

???: Fine, but before we leave, tell me who I am.

Jaro: That’s easy. You’re my virus. My disease to infiltrate, contaminate and destroy. You are what makes life miserable.

???: I’m…your…

The scene fades away from the two men, pulling away to a dark room. The dimly lit room makes only a single presence known amongst the shadows and fleeting light.

Virus: So now you know. The truth of where I come from. You’ve been told convoluted stories in the past. Stories which hold no bearing and were spoken with nothing more than deceit in their words.

The words crashed from Virus’ mouth against the white mask he wore to obscure his face.

Virus: Like all good diseases your initial speculation into my origins was incorrect. But now you know the truth. You know where I came from and who rose me up. But how does it affect your approach?

A single gloved hand rose up, moving the mask away from the face of Virus.

Virus: This where you have to ask yourself Wolfe. Really dig down deep for the answer. And ask yourself if you are truly prepared to face this disease. Has your body been cleansed of impurities? Is your mind thinking clearly and with pure focus?

The second hand of Virus rose up, now holding a small blade between his thumb and index fingers. With his face obscured by the poor lighting within the room, the man reached toward his right eye. Grabbing the skin of his lower eyelid.

Virus: The beauty of what is about to happen Wolfe is almost beyond description. You see I can see it in your stride and hear it in your voice. You believe me to be a stepping stone for you. Upwards and onwards towards brighter things correct? While you see me as an obstacle to hurdle, I see you as nothing more than a corpse at my feet. Your limbs and neck twisted and contorted in ways not fitting for a human being. But then again, much like myself, you aren’t entirely human anymore are you?

The point of the knife dug deep into the tear duct of the right eyelid of Virus. Cutting through the loose flesh the blood began to pour forth from the long gouge in the skin. With a quick nod of his head the mask slid back over his face, blood now easily running from both eye sockets of the mask, slowly streaming down the mask’s face.

Virus: Like a sheep to slaughter I will lead you Alistair. I will leave you bloody and contorted at my feet. After all, only something less than human can destroy something that is human no more. The Virus will become you.

Distortion 10.2

Sam: CROW! CROW HAS THE BELTS ALMOST IN HAND! DUNNWOOD AND CAPRICE RUSHING AT HIM! Crow could get a one man win!

Chase: Striker is setting Frost up for some kind of piledriver on top of the table right before us here! All focus is on the three men up top however! UH-OH! HOLY SHIT! DOUBLE SPINEBUSTER FROM CAPRICE AND EASTWOOD! GABRIEL CROW GOES FLYING!

Both Leon and Eastwood throw Crow from the ladder, causing a mass of flashes from cameras in the crowd as the fans stand on their feet. Crow sails through the air to the outside, slamming straight into Striker and Frost, before both the table Striker and Frost were on and the commentators table collapsed from the wide impact as Crow goes through both.

Sam: SHIT! MY FUCKING TABLE!

Chase: THREE MEN DOWN! HOLY HELL!

Sam: What the hell just happened?! Crow is completely out of it! I think Crow might be dead! He fell a long way down!

The Aftermath

I remember the flight, soaring through the air like my namesake , Gabriel thought as Leon and Dunnwood pushed him off the ladder. Unlike a crow, my landing will not be graceful. The flashes of hundreds of cameras fill the arena, creating a sunburst of light that would blind the other half of the crowd. As Gabriel plummeted from the heights, the sight of Leon and Dunnwood fighting over the titles appeared as the ascendancy to eternity, the path to glory for him and his tag team partner.

The impact was sudden, jarring every nerve in Gabriel's body with shocks of pain. Even with Skylar and Frost providing flesh-covered cushions, the gut-wrenching crash caused Gabriel's abdomen to involuntarily crunch, a move that would have doubled him over had he been standing. Two sharp cracks, barely audible over the thunderous chants of "Holy Shit!" resounding in Crow's ears like two breaks in an ice sheet causing an avalanche.

I don't feel anything..., he realized, thankful for the deadening of nerves. But that thankfulness evaporated like droplets of water in a desert when the paramedics placed him on a backboard and lifted him off the floor to a stretcher. Not once did his body register the sensation of feeling during that exchange. Even Gabriel's eyes fluttered unfocused, dulled to a small fraction of their usual awareness. It'll be nice to dream again, he thought as his eyes closed shortly after seeing the curtain close behind them.

Dance of the Dead

Darkness eventually gives way to light, some say. When Gabriel opened his eyes again, he lying on warm grass, freshly cut and maintained. Sitting up his eyes cast about, searching for who or what had awoken him. All he could see was a midnight sky, black and uncaring, with not even a sliver of moon appearing anywhere. Headstones scattered the landscape, mixed with reliefs of angels and gargoyles, silent guardians over that which did not need such things.

"This isn't any normal graveyard," he observed as he rose to his feet. Looking down, Gabriel found his clothes had changed. Gone were the loose-fitting leather pants he wore to the ring. In its place was sackcloth, a thick wool gown colored black and white, giving his dress the appearance of bones. A presence filled the surroundings, a sentience filling the shadows with a grim countenance. "I feel you Master."

"As you should," came a voice from behind him. [color=blue]"You did not think we would abandon you here, did you?"

"I think he did, Master," said another voice, a sharp tenor with an equally sharp Texas drawl. "Perhaps he thought this would not be his fate."

Gabriel turned to face the new arrivals, still puzzled by their familiarity with him. Then Crow realized they were fellow men of his Order. The first speaker was dressed in fine linens and robes. White and gold colors blended together perfectly, giving the appearance of high station and hallowed bearing. To Gabriel, he appeared as a holy priest would have appeared centuries ago, walking amongst the crowds to show God's favor amongst him. His head was shaved clean without even a hint of stubble. The Blessed Man's gait was easy but methodical, belying intelligence and cunning. Dark black eyes glowed with an intensity like the headlights of a car piercing the still night. On his right hand's ring finger was a signet ring emblazoned with a scorpion emblem. Despite his trappings, an air of unholiness seeped from this man's pores from time to time, showing that beneath the exterior was a man not worthy of trust but worthy of healthy respect.

The second speaker was exactly the opposite. Younger than the first, with a full head of black hair that was pulled back away from the face, letting his youthful good looks take center stage. Clad in black cloth with red flames embroidered across the lower half and sides, the Burning Man smiled but there was no warmth there. Beneath the calm dark eyes, there was a malevolence present, a thing of hunger that fed on violence and blood. Gabriel's eye met that being beneath the surface and immediately there was a hatred boiling between them. Not with the host, who Gabriel felt an immediate kinship with, but with the secret occupant. The Burning Man bore no rings or jewelry, giving the impression that he had not come from money.

Not sure on which course of action to take, Gabriel decided it would be best to play along with these two for the time being. Bowing deeply, Gabriel said, "Forgive me, I wasn't aware you were still here."

"We would not leave you to your journey alone," the Blessed Man said with a chuckle.[color=blue] "You are my servant and as such, it would be wrong for me to not see you through to your end."[/blue]

The ground near the three men stirred, molting and bubbling like a hot spring. Three figures, decrepit and decayed by time's soulless caress, burst forth from the crowd before the trio. All three corpses carried similar dressings to the three men. Hollowed-out eye sockets gazed back and forth, as if there were still gelatinous globes connected to them which allowed sight.

"Quod fuimus, estis; quod sumus, vos eritis," they gasped, words casting forth from empty skulls. With the message delivered, the three skeletons crumbled, their clothes flying away into dust and little else was left of them.

"What did they say?"

"It's Latin. They said, 'What we were, you are; What we are, you will be'."

"Not yet, at least. We are coming to the time when we must decide who among us will rise to the heights of Heaven and who will plummet to depths of Hell." The Blessed Man's eyes darted between Gabriel and the Burning Man as if his eyes were testing for weaknesses. They continued moving along through the cemetery, an eerie flute playing off in the distance. "What they said is true, my servants. They were once like us, consecrated with the blessing of life, just as I am sanctified above you."

"How might we attain the blessings you have received," the Burning Man asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. The sounds emanating from his throat were more guttural, not even belonging to a human.

The Blessed Man laughed, but it was not filled with mirth. Rather, the laughter coming from this unprofane man was dismissive, even bordering on contemptuous. "Foolish boy. You do not attain blessings, you take them. You fight for them, even if it means fighting underhandedly. But it isn't something you should worry yourselves about."

"And why's that?"

"Because this sacred honor is not for you, not yet."

A surge of anger filled Gabriel, his fists clenching so tightly he was sure there would be blood in his palm from his nails. "How dare you dismiss us as beneath you? We are just as capable as you."

The Blessed Man eyed Gabriel suspiciously before the covering of arrogance dulled the man's vision again. "We shall see."

Like in times of old, the Blessed Man increased his speed, distancing himself from those that were beneath him. Well out of earshot, Gabriel and the Burning Man walked side by side, a feeling that was both comfortable and reassuring to Crow. Neither man spoke for what would have been several minutes in the real world. Every so often, Gabriel could feel the eyes of the Burning Man's other occupant glaring at him, wishing to strike.

"Do you really believe we can take him?"

Gabriel didn't answer immediately. Instead he studied his companion closely. The Burning Man was large, taller even than Gabriel himself, with a solid frame that appeared to be chiseled from years of grueling labor. But something was missing from his walk, something essential. Finally Gabriel centered in on it.

"No, we can't."

"But I thought you had grown weary of his contempt and scorn for us? We are not his servants, we are men of destiny who will take our rightful place within the upper echelons of our order. Surely the pain we've experienced has warranted placing above the common rabble."

A cold streak washed down Gabriel's spine as he listened to these words. The Burning Man was no longer speaking, it was the Other who inhabited his eyes that had come to the forefront. Whispers came to him from the shroud of night that covered this graveyard, smatterings of talk that showed him the course to take.

Turning to an open grave nearby, Gabriel gazed down into the Abyss, the home of his Master. Gazing into the swirling shadows that seemed more alive than static, Crow felt the pull to return home but ignored it for now. "We are ready to move forward or at least we were. But you have lost the will to thrive. Look at you. The Burning Man who casts down all who stand before him with the fires of Hell. But you have lost your way. You are not worthy of this sacred honor."

With a shout, the Burning Man's eyes flared, a mixture of red with flecks of orange like an inferno. He lunged at Gabriel, hoping to cast Crow into the darkness from which he had come through. But Gabriel was rooted by the shadows, for this place was the gateway to the next realm. Here he was closest to his Master than any other place in the world. The careless Other presence that reeked of brimstone, soot, and hellfire had thought to overwhelm Gabriel in a rushing attack. Gabriel simply lowered his shoulders, placing himself below the Burning Man's center of gravity. With relative ease due to the Burning Man's instability from running, Gabriel lifted him and turned, casting him into the grave that awaited.

The Burning Man clung to the edge like a child fruitlessly digging into the floor to avoid being dragged away. "But we are brothers, aren't we?"

"Yes, we're brothers. We will always be brothers. But where I go, you can't follow. You see before you a new man, a being who's stronger with or without your presence. Cling to life, my brother. When I have settled my score and received this sacred honor, I'll return for you. And we will reach for even greater heights. Gabriel stood and began walking away. "But if you fail before I get back, I won't shed a tear."

Waiting patiently nearby was the Blessed Man, who had stopped when he heard the shout. Another smile painted his hollow face, once again bereft of cheer or comfort. It was the same smile Machiavelli would have worn when watching his plans come to fruition.

"You have done well, my servant. The Burning Man would only have slowed you down in the end. Only one of us can claim the prize and you know your place better than he does."

I wouldn't count on that, Gabriel thought. The two men continued their journey, the music of the flute becoming clearer and clearer with each step. Finally they came to the end of the graveyard, a cliff face with nothing but emptiness as far as the eye could see. Nearby a skeleton played a flute made from a thigh bone. The music struck something in Gabriel's soul, reminding him of his first kill.

A procession of figures danced in a line, all of them from various walks of life. Musicians, performers, perverts, and saints all aimlessly dancing off the cliff, leaping into the arms of Death without a care in the world. Gabriel watched each of them and the key to victory came to him instantly. Off to the right of line sat a gold and ivory stairwell, sparkling with heavenly light. Following the stairway, Gabriel's gaze fixed on his true adversary, a Saint who's shimmering cloak was losing its luster. Bloodstains covered the hem of his clothing, a Stain that could never be removed.

"The time has come, my servant. Only one of us may ascend the stairs to face the Sainted Man. As I am Sanctified and Hallowed, it is my duty to face him. You have done well to reach this point but you lack the strength to go further."

"You're absolutely right. I'm not strong enough. I'll accept my fate gladly."

Before the Blessed Man could ramble on any further about his own greatness, Gabriel broke into a swift run towards the cliff face. For the second time in his life, Gabriel ran to meet his true Master, the Face of Death. And just like when his mentor Morrigan placed him in the coffin, he was not alone. A crow with luminous wings followed him over and down.

Satisfied with his work, the Blessed Man broke through the line, disrupting the souls from reaching their just ends. The Blessed Man was about to set his foot on the first step when a shudder-inducing wind swept up from the cliff's edge. When the Blessed Man turned, he almost fell to his knees.

Resplendent in fine clothes made of living shadow, Gabriel hovered for a moment before his feet touched solid ground. Gone was the humble sackcloth that had been his garb beneath the Blessed Man. Now he was covered in the glory of Death.

"How can this be? You sacrificed yourself for my ascension?"

Gabriel's laugh echoed throughout the cemetery. "Why would I do anything as stupid as that? I didn't sacrifice myself for you. That's the job of the Martyred God. I gave myself over willing to my Master and I've been rewarded.

"But I am the hallowed man, blessed above all others."

Gabriel stalked the Blessed Man, each step graceful and filled with energy. Cowering from the shimmering shadows that swirled around Gabriel's body, the Blessed Man crept away from the stairwell.

"You aren't hallowed. You aren't blessed. You're the Desecrated Man, an unholy beast who deserves to be put down. That is my mission. And I don't even have to throw a single punch to do it."

The Blessed Man stumbled to his feet, trying to muster the courage to strike. But like all who's arrogance clouds their judgement, the Blessed Man had forgotten his surroundings. The step up was made on hollow ground, which gave way under his weight. Reaching for the earth to save him, he was surprised to find a strong, clammy hand gripping his forearm. Looking up, he saw the cold completely black eyes of Gabriel staring down dispassionately at him.

"I knew you would save me from this fate. We can work together to ensure your ascension to the heights of our order."

"No. I just wanted to make sure you fell.

Gabriel released the Blessed Man and watched as he entered the void far below. The Blessed Man would find an escape eventually, of that Gabriel was confident. Turning away from the cliff, Gabriel walked to the stairs leading into the heavens. He bounded up the steps, shadows trailing behind like a curtain of inky blackness that swirled in the wind. The Saint above stared down from his lofty perch and smiled, the bliss of certainty clouding his vision, much like the Blessed Man's arrogance had. Gabriel ascended the stairwell faster, determination setting his shoulders and legs to motion. The Shadow of Death vs. the Beacon of Life, winner take all awaited him. He had just reached the last step when...

...Gabriel awoke to find himself in a hospital room, his neck held immobile by a brace. Tearing the brace away, he sat up to see Jess, Damien, and Crystal watching him.

"Gabe, are you alright? You've been out of it for three days."

Jet black eyes with no whites bored a hole through Damien's, causing the larger man to back up a few steps.

"The Saint is mine!"

Fade in to a large Gothic style lounge. On a large oak table in the middle of the room is a laptop. As the camera approaches it, the laptop springs into life.


COLLATERAL DAMAGE IS DAMAGE THAT IS UNINTENDED OR INCIDENTAL TO THE INTENDED OUTCOME … “All that happens is that the destruction of human beings -unless they’re Americans - is called Collateral Damage” - Harold Pinter


Christian: Collateral damage is seen in different ways …



Christian: In a tell-all interview before his execution, convicted US bomber Timothy McVeigh sickenly referred to the deaths of the 19 children who were killed, at their day-care centre inside the government building, during the April 1995 Oklahoma City bombing as nothing more than collateral damage. I bet he wouldn‘t have thought that if one of his own kids had been in there.

Dominic: I bet he would! KAAABOOOOOM!!! WAAAAHHHHH! HAHAHA!



Christian: Collateral damage during the Gulf War included the 313 people crushed and burnt to death at the Amiriya bomb shelter in western Baghdad, which was DELIBERATELY attacked even though they KNEW there were no enemy soldiers in there!… Every single one of them were women and children with no ties to soldiers.



Christian: When a company moves into offices out of the city the loss of business to local vendors and restaurants is also seen as collateral damage.

Dominic: Oh no! All those fat Americans who’ll have to go further down the road to find a McDonalds!



Christian: Couples who divorce could also be said to leave behind collateral damage because their friendship and family relations disintegrate and their children are forced to choose sides.

Dominic: That’s what you get for marrying a cheating whore!



Christian: Other events such as an unexpected death in the family …



Christian: Or a tragic accident also causes some collateral damage as the lives of the remaining family members are negatively affected by the sudden change to their lives.

Dominic: Serves them right for drinking while driving … or getting in the way of a drive by shooting.


A VICTIM IS AN UNFORTUNATE PERSON WHO SUFFERS FROM SOME ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES … “I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” - Elie Wiesel




Christian: Over 230,000 people died when at 4:53pm on Tuesday 12th January 2010 a huge earthquake hit the island of Haiti causing their offices, shops, schools and homes to collapse on top of them … crushing and suffocating them.

Dominic: Yeah but shit like that happens all over the world so it’s no use crying over it.


THE WINNER IS THE COMBATANT WHO IS ABLE TO DEFEAT THEIR RIVALS … “A winner is someone who recognizes his God-given talents, works his tail off to develop them into skills, and uses these skills to accomplish his goals.” - Larry Bird




Christian The Great Britain and Northern Ireland Olympic Squad have, since the first modern Olympics in 1896, won 715 medals at the Summer Olympic Games and another 22 at the Winter Olympic Games … which definitely makes them winners.


“But what has any of this got to do with 10.3 Supremacy?”


Dominic: Oh that’s easy …

Images of Robb, TJ Tilli, Smoochy Da Frog and Ethan Black during some of their matches play out on the screen. Images of them battered, bruised and bleeding while the sounds of people laughing and booing them filters from the laptop.

Christian: Every single one of these men has been a victim. Whether it’s because of their own egos putting them in the firing line, or whether it’s because their lack of talent made them an easy target for others.

Dominic: And at Supremacy one of them will become a victim again.

A split screen of the four of men fades out and is replaced by pictures of Axel Van Osbourne, DGS, Try Spruance, Butters and Bryce Thorn slowly sliding across the screen.

Christian: These men will soon find themselves broken, battered, humiliated and defeated … These men will be left wondering where their lives went wrong …



Dominic: These men will soon become nothing more than collateral damage!

Christian: And when the dust settles, the smoke clears and the bodies are being cleared from the arena and sent to the morticians only the one TRUE victor will remain …



A hand reaches into view and slams the laptop shut. The camera turns to reveal the smirking face of Christian Moore.

Get the message yet lads?

Christian’s smile fades and his eyes become darker.

Or will we have to beat it into you?

Christian/Dominic reaches up and the camera switches off leaving only darkness.


OOC: Made a few changes after my feedback from Abel. Hopefully it's helped.

Good Morning, Mr. Lincoln

Daniel Lincoln found himself sitting bolt upright in his bed, his breathing heavy and panicked. What happened?

Smoke.

He swore he smelt smoke. He swore that he could still smell it, it lingered faintly in the air like an echo but when He inhaled deeply though his nose, nothing. Beads of cold sweat had formed on his warm and furrowed brow. Confusion reigned supreme in his head.

‘You okay honey?”

Daniel jerked his head left to where a woman lay, propped up on one elbow starring up at him through the darkness, he didn’t recognize this woman immediately but a voice within him, a low calming voice, told him that he loved her and that she was his wife. His gawked at her unfamiliar face until suddenly recognition set in. All was good in the world again.

He smiled. He loved her.

Concern was evident in her emerald green eyes.

‘I-I’m fine baby, just a bad dream.’

She reached out and touched his arm tenderly with her cool delicate hand. This relaxed him, centred him, and cleared away the clouds that darkened his thoughts.

‘You sure Dan?’

Daniel looked down at his hands, only now realizing the white-knuckle grip that he had on their blanket. He moved his hands from the duvet, turned slightly and placed them over his wife’s. He leant over and kissed her tenderly on the forehead before laying himself down again next to her, his arm holding her close. Within minutes she was sound asleep again but he remained wide awake, eyes wide starring through the darkness.

Smoke…

So real…

!SNAP!

‘Wake up Mr. Lincoln…’

!SNAP!

‘JOESPH, BREAKFAST IS ON THE TABLE! GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HER NOW!’

The smell of toast and fresh coffee filled their humble kitchen and slowly brought Daniel back down to earth. He was miles away, he struggled to remember what he’d been thinking about just then. Work? He sat in his usual chair at the head of the table, the newspaper laid out in front of him. He lazily leafed through the morning paper.

“Same shit, different day.”

Jane stood at the worktop, her back to him, juicing an orange for her son.

“I thought I told you to stop reading the newspaper at breakfast . It always puts you in such bad mood first thing in the morning. What’s happened now?”

A strange calm came over Daniel as he read quickly through the article in front of him.

“They found this Rabbi hanging in some warehouse upstate with a swastika craved into his chest.”

Jane stopped momentarily and blessed herself before going back about her business.

“Jesus Christ, what kind of monsters would do that?”

For a moment Daniel knew the answer but only for a moment.

“Who knows...”

Silence.

‘Oh before I forget babe, my Dad called for you earlier.’

Daniel looked up from his paper, a crooked smile spreading across his smooth clean shaven face.

‘Really? What did Detective Brown want from little old me so early in the morning?’

Jane laughed quietly to herself.

‘He just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget your racket. He doesn’t want any excuse when he beats you in squash tonight.’

Slowly Daniel rose to his feet, grabbed his briefcase off the table, stepped up behind his wife and kissed her gently on the back of her neck.

‘You can tell Kojak that my racket is already in the car. So no excuses tonight unless his knee feels like “flaring up” again.’

Daniel shot a quick look at the old clock above the door.

‘I got to go babe, Black will crucify me if I’m late again.’

‘Bye baby, have a good day and don’t forget Karma’s invitation, make sure you give it to Dante.’

Dante…

The name sang to Daniel, he felt his eyes momentarily widened, his jaw clenched. His jaw, a dull pain ached in his jaw. What the fuck…

“Daniel?”

Her voice brought him back to reality.

‘Will do boss.’

Daniel picked up the small red envelope off the kitchen table and slipped it into his pocket. Walking towards the front door he stopped at the foot of the staircase which led upstairs.

“See you later Joseph!”

Just as he reached the door he could hear his son’s footsteps at the top of the stairs, removing his hand from the door handle, he turned around just in time to see his son appear on the top step.

“Bye Dad!”

Daniel’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, he felt all the colour flush out of his skin. The smell of burning, of smoke, was unmistakable. He stared up at his son, his face destroyed, burnt, charred and bloodied. His clothes in places where melt seamlessly in with his skin and in others it was burnt away revealing the scorched raw infected patches of flesh underneath. He looked like a macabre patchwork voodoo doll. Large sections of his cheek and forehead were hanging off his face like burnt chicken skin. His eyes were protruding, unblinking and troubling, the skin around them burnt away. Daniel fought the urge to vomit as he gazed upon his son.

“W-w-what happened?'

His son’s broken and blistered face twisted into a sickening, unnatural grin.

“You hurt me Daddy…”

!SNAP!

“We need answers Daniel, this won’t hurt one little bit…”

!SNAP!

'MR. EASTWOOD TO MR. ROY'S OFFICE, MR. EASTWOOD TO MY ROY'S OFFICE'


The voice over the PA system brought Daniel back to reality. What was he about to say?

“Karma is really excited about the party Dan, I was afraid she wouldn’t sleep a wink when I gave her the invite last night. She was worried that it was going to be “a stupid boy party”, her words not mine.”

Daniel Lincoln stared blankly at the man in front of him. A voice told him that this was his best friend of fifteen years, the best man at his wedding to Jane and was somebody who he loved like his brother. It felt wrong. Daniel felt light headed suddenly and lurched forward putting his hand on the water cooler for balance. Immediately he felt the strong hand Dante Jones on his shoulder.

“Jeez Danny Boy! You alright?”

Daniel broke away from his friends comforting grip with a shrug.

“I-I’m fine…”


Almost doubled over, Daniel heard footsteps approach.

“What the fuck is wrong with Lincoln? Period pains?”

That voice…

He knew that voice, is clawed at the inside of his skull like a rat trying to dig itself out of a trap.

“Ah fuck off Walsh…”

Walsh…

Peter…

'You're no fun Jones, you should go for a drink with McDaygo sometime. Loosen you up...'

Daniel straightened up and turned around only in time to see Walsh turn the corner out of sight and Dante Jones glaring at him every step of the way.

“Fucking Walsh, acts like such a fucking Saint…”

Dante turned and smiled at Daniel, a classic Dante smile. Dante Jones: The Man Who Never Stopped Smiling. That's what the voice said anyway, somehow Daniel knew that this wasn't true.

“What’s up with you today, man? You nervous about the interview later or something?”

Daniel didn’t answer; he was too busy securitizing his surroundings. Everything seemed off.

“You can’t be any worse than the last guy who had that job, fucking Robb. How big of an idiot do you have to be to nearly erase the whole fucking database? The havOc that caused was unbelievable. It’s your time man, Big Danny Lincoln going up to join the big boys, sitting across the table from Ethan Black himself. You just have to have Faith…”

Faith

Faith

FAITH

Angry rushed through Daniel Lincoln’s body awakening him. He could feel long dormant synapse firing, blood pumping around and into underused muscles. He stared at the man in front of him, still talking. Always fucking talking. He wasn’t a man; he was less than a man.

Fucking nigger…

NIGGER!

The voice roared and the clouds cleared and reality started to unspool around Daniel Lincoln. The room spun and quickly filled with dense dark foul smoke. Daniel’s ears rang with the sound of timber snapping and people crying, shouting, pleading.

!SNAP!

“I can help you Daniel.”

!SNAP!

“Dr. Quint called while you were out, he’s so funny. He wanted to make sure that we knew he was going on vacation next week, some kind of Theatre tour. He said his replacement is a really nice guy, Dr. Frost I think his name was.”

Daniel Lincoln glared at his wife as she carefully cut a thin sliver of steak and placed into her mouth. Cold sweat dotted his brow, he was confused. What the fuck was happening. Something she said stuck in his mind. Him. The Laughing Man.

Harley



“You hear that?”

He didn’t answer her; his eyes were fixed on her. She looked up from her plate, smiled and in an instant changed.

All colour and vitality vanished instantly from her skin, it was now eggshell while and paper-thin. Dark, heavy bags appeared under her eyes, her hair had lost all lustre and life. Dark purple bruises were dotted here and there all over her neck, chest and arms.

“I love you Daniel…”

As she spoke, think black smoke trickled from her mouth. He could smell it, smell the death in it.

“I love you Daddy…”

Jane was gone and in her place sat Joseph, his arms tied behind his back, that familiar sick twisted smile on his face, his cold dead eyes staring across the table.

“I love you too”

The smoke burnt his nostrils now, it filled in the room, thick and dense. All encompassing...

!SNAP!

'I can help make your wildest dreams a reality.'

!SNAP!

Where was he? He could feel her lips on his neck, kissing it passionately. Her fingernails digging deep into his naked back. He felt his hand move up beside her head, grab a handful of hair and pull back violently , jerking her head away from his neck. He stared at her mangled features. A large purple welt over where he left eye should be, her nose shattered, her lip swollen and building. Yet, she smiled at him.

'Fuck me Daniel..."

He could taste the smoke on her breath, smell it in her hair. Heavy with death.

'FUCK ME DANIEL!'

He reached down to his side and found what he was looking for, it felt right in his hand.

'FUCK ME DAN...urgh...'

Her throat slit open with the greatest of ease under the blade of the knife. Dark, viscous blood poured forth and ran down between their two bodies. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, her breathing steady.

'Rise and shine Mr. Lincoln.'

It wasn't her voice even though it came from her.

'We need to talk.'

!SNAP!

'You can be a hero Daniel.'

!SNAP!

Daniel Lincoln awoke with a jolt. His nostrils were on fire and a dull throbbing pain at the back of his head welcomed him back to consciousness. The room he was in was small, damp and dark. He wasn’t alone, he knew this but he didn’t know how.

“Good morning Mr. Lincoln, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance finally.”

Syanide shook his head in an attempt to shake loose the cobwebs that clouded his mind, his vision and ability to speak. They stayed. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. It was controlled and calm.

“That burning sensation in your nose is just smelling salts. I was going to wait for you to wake up naturally, but I’m a busy man and who knows how much shit they gave you. Don’t worry it’ll wear off eventually…I think.”

Syanide jerked forward and to his surprise found that he was tied to a chair, a chair which seemed to be firmed fixed to the concrete floor. The Sadistic Skinhead uttered a low animalistic growl.

“My apologies about the chair but I thought just to be on the safe side that it would be best for everyone involved if I restrained you. Ironic though, I believe you have a history of tying your nearest and dearest to chairs and doing the most wonderful things to them.’

In the distance Daniel thought he could make out two eyes, red eyes. The room spun and he struggled to concentrate on a single thing.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The eyes moved closer. Redder.

“I’m the man who helped you kill your family and get away with it.”

The room was smoky.

‘The Company…’

‘Yes, The Company is company.’

‘What the fuck do you want?’

Laughter, the eyes were laughing.

‘I’ve been following you for years, watching you. I know everything about you Daniel Lincoln. The Company needs somebody like you but my business associates weren’t so sure. They were worried that you weren’t all that you were made out to be, that this was an act, a character. They needed to see the real Daniel Lincoln, hence the highly hallucinogenic drugs and the torture. Call it a test. ‘

Pain. Daniel was in pain but couldn’t sense where. He was dizzy, confused, his eyelids were heavy, the smell of smoke again lit up all his senses at once.

‘You passed…’

‘Why…’

‘Why you ask? Daniel, there are people out there who look at you and don’t see what the others see. They don’t see a racist, a monster, a murderer or a rapist. They see a hero, somebody they can relate too. These people, these social outcasts, these sick, twisted, depraved people need a leader, a figurehead, a hero. They need you Daniel.’

‘….’

Nothing came out.

‘The fear, the anger, the havoc, the vitriol, the chaos, the madness that you bring needs to be channelled.’

‘…’

‘We will make you great once more…’

‘…’

Smoke.

!SNAP!

‘My name is Onkar Samael'

!SNAP!

It was cold here. The name on the marble headstone had been etched into Daniel Lincoln's mind already. He wasn't alone here.

'Is that where I'm buried Daddy?'

Daniel Lincoln turned around to find his dead son standing behind him, smiling up at him.

'Yes...'

Smoke. The smell of smoke lingered again in his nostrils. The drugs had long ago left his system but the smoke stayed, followed him, haunted him and now....this.

'I love you Daddy...'

!SNAP!

!SNAP!

!SNAP!

Two men sat idle in their late nineties black sedan. Stale air filled the car, tainted with the stench of cigarettes and body odour. Neither man noticed of course, they had been breathing it in for hours now and were blissfully unaware of the pungent odour assaulting them. As the two men sat silently in the car neither spoke for they had exhausted all friendly banter several hours ago. Now they were simply here to watch and to wait.

A sudden burst of light accompanied by the grating synthetised tones of “Uptown Girl” pierced the calm. As one of the men quickly rushed to silence his chirping mobile phone the other spoke.

???: For god’s sakes Lenny shut that fucking thing off!

Lenny: What the hell do you think I am trying to do Karl?

Karl leaned over and wrenched the phone away from Lenny’s fumbling fingers and mashed the keypad until the phone fell silent. Karl quickly snatched the phone back with a glare for his accomplice, laced with venom.

Karl: You want me to mash your face too?!

Lenny didn’t respond to the much larger man, at least not with words, the murmurings under his breath however made it pretty obvious that neither man was particularly fond of the other.

Karl: Don’t get the fucking sulks on again. I told you if that stupid bitch called again tonight I would smash your phone into pieces. You’re just lucky the boss calls us on that number.

Lenny: That’s because I’m the fucking brains of this operation fatboy. Strongarm thugs like you are dime a dozen. If you piss me off too much I might just have you gutted like a pig.

Karl merely stared back down his crooked nose at the much smaller rat faced man in the driver’s seat beside him. It was unfortunate that a stakeout job required a second man otherwise he would end the pathetic runt’s life right there and then. Karl knew the only reason the boss called on Lenny’s phone was because he wasn’t dumb enough to hand out his personal number. If people knew where to find you then you were a target.

Lenny: Yeh that shut you up didn’t it?!

The smarmy grin was wiped clean off the face of the smaller man as he felt the force of Karl’s paw clench down over his windpipe. His face slowly turned blue as the larger man choked the oxygen from his body.

Karl: If you speak again, FOR ANY REASON, I will end your pathetic life here and now. Got it?!

Lenny somehow managed a slight nod from under the weight applied to his throat, gasping for air as Karl’s giant fist moved back into his coat pocket.

Karl: Just watch the damn building like we are getting paid to do.

*********************************

Lenny Walker didn’t really know how his life had gotten to this point, it wasn’t like he was a bad man, and deep down Lenny just wanted to earn respect. That was why he took a job with a “government” agency in the first place. Working for an organisation “From the People, By the People and For the People” seemed like a great place to make a name for himself as a pillar of society.

Lenny: I’m going to get a coffee, you want anything?

Karl: Get me a chocolate thick shake and a Twinkie…

Lenny nodded his acknowledgement and pushed open the car door. His throat still rasped with every breath as he lifted himself out of his seat, a remnant of the choking he had suffered recently.

Karl: and a bucket of chips and a snickers.

Lenny: Fat shit…

Karl: What?!

Lenny: …that’s it?

Lenny turned and walked down the alleyway toward the Seven Eleven on the corner. He didn’t need to look back to know that his partner was wearing a look of rage. He might have to hang about in the shop a little while to let the big man calm down.

Lenny: No one appreciates me around here.

As he wandered into the store Lenny stood a moment and allowed himself to appreciate the warmth. No one had promised his life as a public servant would be glamorous but he had never envisaged midnight stakeouts at sub zero temperatures.

Customer: Pardon me…

An old man bumped into Lenny as he moved toward the coffee machine. That was the biggest problem for Lenny; no one seemed to notice him anymore. When he had first landed at C.R.Y.P.T his supervisor had been quick to praise his aptitude for the job. He could still remember his exact words “Lenny has progressed faster than any other recruit I have had the pleasure of training in my twenty four years in this job”. He had won the employee of the month award in just his second month on the job and quickly attracted attention from the management hierarchy.

Customer: Could you pass the sugar?

Lenny turned to glance back at the customer who had previously collided with him. He turned back to his coffee and promptly ignored the request. These days Lenny wasn’t interested in helping out anybody, working at C.R.YP.T broke his spirit. As he began stirring his coffee the customer bumped him heavily as he reached for the sugar, knocking hot liquid over his gloves.

Lenny: Hey watch it!

The customer avoided eye contact and slunk away without his sugar and Lenny turned back to his drink satisfied.

Lenny regretted ever taking that promotion he was offered. As soon as he stepped into the role things changed. No one praised his work anymore, they only demanded more. No matter how hard Lenny worked he just couldn’t satisfy the demands of his supervisor. Late nights, weekends and no lunch breaks became Lenny’s way of life for three long years until finally he snapped.

Cashier: Fourteen dollars and thirty five cents.

As Lenny reached into his coat pocket and searched for a twenty he knew was floating around somewhere inside he thought to himself that the cashier looked familiar

Lenny: Do I know you from somewhere?

The cashier took his twenty and handed back the change without a hint of a smile.

Cashier: I doubt it, I normally work at the Seven Eleven across town but my cousin got sick and I’m filling in for him.

Lenny looked sideways at the cashier before nodding.

Lenny: You must just look like your cousin then I guess.

As he left the shop Lenny shivered and not only for the cold. He could clearly remember the day his spirit was broken. After working so long and so hard on an assignment he finally was about to turn it in. There was just one last crucial piece of his report that needed to be completed.

The warmth permeating through the Styrofoam coffee cup was in complete contrast to the thoughts in Lenny’s mind. He felt cold just thinking about what happened next.

As he researched the final element to his report Lenny came up against road block after road block. A crucial piece of data had been classified as restricted information. Lenny had nearly quit in frustration until finally he snapped and circumvented the system.

Lenny: Open the door.

As his partner leaned over and nudged open the car door Lenny sank down into the seat and handed him the thick shake as they settle into the stakeout together once more.

That had been the story since Lenny first broke the law. C.R.Y.P.T. were smart about it, every new assignment required him to go just a little further until now breaking legs and standover jobs were nothing unusual. Lenny despised what he had become but if there was a way back now he didn’t know it.

Karl: Pass me the Twinkie.

As Lenny fumbled around inside the plastic bag the still night was interrupted with the sound of “T.N.T” by ACDC blaring out louder than most people could stand their mobile phone to go.

Karl: What the fuck did I tell you about your god damn phone?! You think changing the ring tone makes it any better dickhead?

Lenny didn’t know what the hell Karl was talking about until the fat man reached across and grabbed a mobile phone that was not his out of his coat pocket.

Lenny: Who put that there?

Karl: Don’t be fucking cute. This had better be the boss calling!

The larger man glared ominously at Lenny as he pulled the phone in front of his face and looked at the caller ID before throwing the phone out of Lenny’s open window.

Karl: Abel Steele?! Is this some sort of smart ass joke? I’m gonna fucking ki……

Karl’s voice was silenced as the shattering of glass was followed very quickly by the thud of steel on skull. A single blow to the head laid him out cold as Lenny panicked and dropped his coffee into his lap.

Lenny: AAAAARGGH!!

Through the pain he somehow managed to force himself to push open the car and flee but as he took his first step the car door closed back on him and the last thing he remember before darkness took him was the voice of the old man from the Seven Eleven.

Old Man: Abel, this one’s out too. Let’s get em off the street.

Cashier: Wait a minute, let’s find your phone first.

********************************************************************


Flashing fluorescent lighting blazed upon the brow of Abel Steele between the rotating blades of a whirring ceiling fan. His face was a picture of calm, despite its somewhat haggard appearance. His eyes were drawn and punctuated by dark rings, days of stubble lined his chin and a speckling of silver was beginning to show.

Brian: What do I do with this one?

Abel looked over to where his old friend was struggling to drag the larger of the two men they had assaulted earlier in the night. He gave a brief no toward a small closet.

Abel: In there for now I guess. I hadn’t ever really planned on having guests to my hideout.

As Brian grumbled something about “leaving an old man to carry an unconscious gorilla across the floor Abel turned back to the other man who sat on the chair before him. Wet hair from being dragged through the snow and a good smearing of dirt didn’t do anything to help what was already a rat like face.

Abel: I’m not even sure a mother could love that face…

Abel turned away from the bound man and grabbed up his wallet from the bench top beside him. Aside from a mobile phone and some junk food it was the only clue to who these two men camping outside of Brian’s gym were.

Lenny: What the fuck are you going to do to me?

Slowly Abel spun back around to face the rat man. With his head now lifted up off his chest Abel noticed for the first time the choke mark bruising on his neck.

Abel: How did you get those? Brian only hit you with a car door.

Lenny: Fucking Karl, stupid fuck. What did you do to him?

Abel glanced over to the large man Brian had finally managed to squeeze in through the closet door.

Abel: We try not to indiscriminately kill people. Until I figure out exactly who you are and what you were doing outside my friend’s business Karl will be safe enough.

The rat faced man spat on the floor beside him leaving a small blood stained puddle on the floor.

Lenny: Pity, I dare say no one would miss the fat cunt.

Abel picked the drivers licence out of the wallet and flipped it over in his hands a couple times. The photo matched his rat faced captive alright.

Abel: Something tells me Lenny Walker is an alias but it suits you well enough so lets run with it for now. Truth is I don’t overly care what yours or Karl’s real names are. I just want to know why?

Lenny: Fuck you

Abel put the wallet back down and picked up a crowbar from the bench top beside it. He spun it through the air, air humming and light glinting back into Lenny’s eyes as he spoke.

Abel: You know something Lenny? This whole situation sickens me. I mean I never contemplated something like torture before. Truth be told I never really contemplated it tonight either, see I just don’t have the stomach for it and a torturer loses a bit of respect if his lunch is all over the floor wouldn’t you say?

Lenny’s head bobbled back onto his chest, the strain of holding it upright after the blow he sustained from the car door earlier tonight taking its toll.

SLAM

Abel smashed the crowbar down hard into the steel bench top.

Abel: Am I boring you Lenny? Well how about I skip to the point then? See I couldn’t torture you, but I am giving you three attempts to tell me a story I believe.

SLAM

The crowbar sent sparks flying this time as Abel smashed it into the steel bench once more.

Abel: Now I suggest you go with the truth, because if I don’t believe you then the next time this crowbar comes down…. It won’t be sparks flying across the room.

Abel placed the end of the crowbar under Lenny’s chin and lifted his face up to meet his own.

Abel: So tell me...., Lenny....why were you watching this building? Who sent you?

Lenny: Santa Claus

SLAM

Abel: That’s strike two Lenny. Don’t think I won’t do it, because I have one very good reason to do whatever it takes.

Lenny smirked at Abel, mocking him to do his worst.

Lenny: I’ve watched you for weeks now Steele... I know what you are capable of. That little boy you care so much about will suffer the same fate as his mother and you will stand idly by and let it happen.

Abel’s fist crashed into Lenny’s temple with a vicious snap, rocking the bound man’s head back like a bobble head doll.

Abel: I will do anything for that boy. Do you hear me, ANYTHING!

The pupils in Lenny’s eyes began to constrict as the tide of unconsciousness began to wash over him.

Lenny: I.... uh....hmmm

Abel: Fucking... Answer me!!

Abel swung the bar with all his might. He had every intention of spattering Lenny’s brains across the far wall but at the last instant Abel brought the bar down across the arm of his prisoner. As the steel met flesh he felt the bone beneath shatter under the sheer force being applied. As his victim momentarily screamed out in agony before passing out from the shock, Abel dropped the cold steel to the floor with a crash.

No, what have I done? Tim... what have I become?!

Abel staggered across the room, crashing heavily into some nearby tables and knocking a machine to the ground in a shower of sparks. He tried unsuccessfully to steady himself on a set of shelves but only managed to knock a series of glass containers onto the floor, each shattering into a million pieces and spreading their contents across the room.

Brian: What the hell’s going on? Did he get loose?

Backing out of a nearby doorway Brian was just in time to see Abel empty his stomach onto the mess he had already created on the floor. As bile and partially digested food spewed forth Brian rushed forward to help his friend.

Brian: What happened?

Abel waved him away as he flopped into a nearby office chair. After a few moments Abel regained his composure and motioned toward a glass of water next to Brian’s arm. The tepid water was barely drinkable but it helped to wash away the taste of bile and as he wiped away the last remnants from his chin Abel dropped his head into his hands.

Abel: I was ready to kill him Brian. I was ready to split his skull like a melon for T.J.

As Abel stared blankly into space Brian lifted him up out of his chair and directed him out of the room. Each step Abel took was like dragging concrete boots through a muddy swamp as he suddenly felt like the world was pressing down upon him.

Brian: Let me deal with these two Abel. You should go and look after T.J. anyway. I’ll fill you in on whatever I learn in a couple of hours.

Abel could barely nod his acknowledgement as he stepped out of the room. With a final nod of thanks for his old friend and a glance that said “thanks for doing what I can’t” he passed through the door and slowly made his way to the area of Brian’s gym that doubled as Abel’s apartment.

*********************************************************************


Abel awoke to a wet pillow and a crusty stream of drool from the corner of his mouth. As he wiped away the dried saliva from his cheek he spied the clock on the dresser.

Abel: Fuck.

He had slept far longer than he intended. Sitting up he pulled on a sweat shirt and quickly made his way out of the room. Something didn’t seem right to Abel as he made his way through the building. Nothing was obviously wrong but he had a nagging feeling that he was about to walk into a storm.

Whatever it is I can handle it

As he opened the door Abel reeled back in shock at the scene before him. The smell of his vomit still permeated the room but that was the least shocking thing. The small amount of mess he had made as he stumbled from the room earlier was lost amongst the chaos that was laid out before Abel now. Every desk was overturned, every chair lay broken on the floor and every last item from every single shelf was strewn across the room.

Abel: Brian? Are you all right?..... Brian?

There was no response to his call and Abel could not see his friend anywhere. The door to the closet where they had put the fat man earlier was busted open and the rear exit was open, the door banging in the wind as Abel searched the chaos for his friend.

???: Hahahahaha. You’re friend isn’t here.

Abel strode quickly across the floor to where the voice had come from. As he lifted up a pile of books Abel uncovered a bloody and beaten Lenny from underneath.

Abel: Where is he?

Lenny’s eyes were completely closed over with swelling, no doubt a result of Brian’s questioning.

Lenny: I wish I could see your face you dumb fuck.

Abel: Where is he?

Lenny: They took him with them

Abel was growing frustrated, and he kicked a chair across the room

Abel: Who? Who took him?

Lenny smiled a sick smile as he answered what he knew was the knockout blow.

Lenny: The same people who are in your precious little gym right now taking your son off to join the old fucker.

Abel spun and sprinted a few steps back towards the door before Lenny’s chilling voice halted him in his tracks.

Lenny: It’s too late already. The boy is with them now.

Abel went cold at the words. He knew that Lenny wasn’t bluffing, the smarmy knowing confidence in his voice said as much.

Abel: Who? Where are they?

Lenny shook his head at Abel and began to laugh. A hacking laugh that brought blood from his lungs with each cough.

Lenny: As if it matters.... we both know you don’t have it in you to do what it will take to get them back.

Abel swung his boot and sank it into the side of Lenny’s temple, sending the rat faced man back into the gentle caress of unconsciousness.

Abel: We’ll see......

Security Guard: Here’s your stuff Spruance.

The officers hands Trey some clothes including ripped jeans and a Bob Marley t-shirt.

Trey: Yeah… Great.

Trey gets dressed quickly and is escorted to the main gate.

Security: Remember the conditions on your release Spruance, if you re-offend you’re straight back in here, and next time, Full Metal Wrestling won’t be able to save your ass.

Trey: Yeah, yeah, see you in hell.

Trey walks out of the prison a free man…


**


Cut to later on the same day, night time. Trey is in Georgia, home of FMW’s Supremacy, in a bar playing heavy metal. “Where you come from” by Pantera is playing and Trey is drinking a Budweiser trying to chat to some girl.

Trey: You know what it is about prison I don’t like (hic)?

Girl: The lack of women?

Trey: I was gona say the lack of (hic) drugs… but yeah that too.

Trey pukes on the floor in front of the girl.

Girl: Ewww, gross.

The girl gets up and leaves.. Trey wipes the sour spittle from his mouth.

Trey: Ah fuck. This is shit.

Trey gets up and stumbles out of the bar. On his way to his hotel room Trey goes to pick up a six pack and a 24 hour liquor store. He grabs the 6 Budweiser’s and goes to pay at the till.

Trey: (hic) I got money… Hold on.

Trey fumbles around and pulls out his wallet.

Trey: 1 dollar? What!? What the? What hell did I drink!? (hic). Hey, er, dude. Could I possibly get this on loan?

The guy at the till simply shakes his head. Trey scowls.

Trey: (hic) I would (hic) punch you… But I can’t be fucked.

Trey drops the cans on the floor and walks out back to the hotel. The camera follows him as he stumbles along his way.

Trey: Motherfuckers… So (hic) bored…

Trey gets to his room but can’t find the key.

Trey: This really (hic) isn’t (hic) my day. Fuck this.

Trey kicks the door open only to find two people having sex.

Trey: Eh? Oh, my bad. Wrong room.

The two people just glare at him angrily as he closes the door.

He finally makes it into his room. Which is clean. Unbearably clean. Trey looks down at his feet. There is a notice vfrom FMW regarding his impending rehabilitation.

Trey: (hic). Goddamm FMW ruining my miserable fucking (hic) life. WHY CAN’T I STOP HICCUPING! … (hic) FUCK!

There is a knock at the door, a hotel attendant has come to see about the noise.

Attendant: Is everything ok sir?

Trey: Yeah.. sorry… I’ll be quiet.

The guy leaves Trey in peace, but that isn’t exactly what Trey wants.

Trey: So bored. Man, I thought I’d be ecstatic to get outa prison. But I guess that’s it really. Life is a prison for me. Theres no ins or outs just plain old same shit different day.

Trey turns the TV on and watches a re-run of FMW’s Distortion.

Trey: Heh, at least I won my stupid match. I’m glad I got out, just wish I wasn’t always alone.

Trey puts the Tv on mute and grabs his MP3 player. There isn’t much of Trey’s stuff in the hotel room, just a rucksack and a duffel bag.

Trey: I know I’m supposed to be cutting some edgy promo right now. But I don’t have the energy. I just got released from prison and to be honest drained isn’t the word. I’ve never felt so alone and unfulfilled.

Trey grabs his rucksack and a pulls out a small bag from it. He empties the contents showing the preparations of heroin. .After he injects “Hand of Doom” by Sabbath starts playing.

Trey: See… You… later

The scene fades out on Trey laying on the floor.

...and fades back in on Trey staggering to his feet by holding onto the wall and dragging himself up.

Slipknot’s “Duality” starts playing, cutting off Black Sabbath’s morbid tune.

Trey: Naw.. Aint going out like that. This aint the end, friends. You see, I may be high on smack right now but I’ll goddamm finish what I’m supposed to do.

Trey lights a cigarette and breathes a cloud of smoke at a no smoking sign on the wall.

Trey: I’m gonna win this stupid little match and kill that faggot Ethan Whack. Why? Not because I give a shit about what he did, because in all honesty I don’t. So, what is the reason. Fame. I want it.

“I PUSH MY FINGERS INTO MY... EYYYYES”

Trey: I gave up long ago of been the next Jaro, the next Drew Michaels, Rampage, Ethan Black or that clown guy that laughs at my failures. I shouldn’t have. This is far from over. I’m not quittin’ now, not ever. I will goddamm CLAW my way to the top if I have to break every bone from my skull to my little toe. Fuck it all, I’ll do whatever it takes. For too long now, for too long I’ve sat back and watch people supass me. Well I aint having it no more. Not again. I will not sit by and watch the next flow of rookies overtake where I want to head. It’s like been in a rowing boat with one ore while the rest of the rowers in the race pass you by. I’m missing an ore because of the drugs.

“All I’ve got… All I’ve got is INSANE”

Trey: I’ll do what FMW asks of me and go. I’m not saying I’ll quit because you know as well as I do by now how hard it is to quit. It’d be a slap in the face to say, yeah, I’m gonna quit next week and then have me doing it again on your TV screen. So fuck it, all I’m gonna say is I’ll damn well try my best.

The door to the hotel room suddenly bursts open and a fire extinguisher flies past Trey and smashes the hotel room TV.

Trey: What the? Who the FUCK?!

An extravagantly dressed rock cliché steps into the room with a bottle of Jim Beam in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Trey: Don’t you fucking knock?

Axel: I did, for like five minutes. Damn man, the music is so fucking loud all you can hear is you shouting crap about been a failure over the top of it.

Trey looks embarrassed for a second before looking angry again. As the look turns to anger, “Sic” by Slipknot starts playing.

Trey grabs Axel around the collar and holds him up against the wall. Axel looks shocked then pissed because he can see the whiskey spilling from Trey’s surprise attack.

Trey: Who the fuck are you? Why are you here?

Axel: You moron I’m from Full Metal Wrestling. We spoke backstage remember?

Trey looks perplexed, trying to unscramble his drug ridden mind. He releases Axel who promptly pimp slaps him.

Axel: That’s for been a jackass and spilling my fuckin’ whiskey! ARGH!

Axel grabs the bottle, tips it upwards over his mouth and then drops it in disappointment as nothing but a small drop comes out.

Trey: Sorry dude… Here.

Trey hands Axel a cigarette. Axel puts out the cigarette that’s nearly finished on the no smoking sign and lights up the fresh one.

Axel: Dude.. You need to get you’re head straight… Well not straight, just, you know, do a little less smack. We gotta do this right.

Trey: All right… I know, I know. I just got outa prison and got over excited with the drugs.

Trey suddenly looks very pale.

Trey: Oh.. Fuck… Coming down.

Trey pukes on the hotel bed and falls over as “Sic” reaches it’s climax.

“SICKKKK, SICKKKK, SICKKKK!!!”

Axel: Fuck man, what do I do? Call an ambulance? Is it an overdose?

Trey: Naw… Just… working it through.

Trey crawls over to his bag and takes a capsule of some kind filled with cocaine and takes a big whiff.

Trey: Much better.

Axel: What the fuck? You’re ballencing out one addiction with another?

Trey: It’s called speed-balling, but basically yes.

Axel: Cut the crap man, you NEED rehab.

Trey: That I most certainly do.

Trey grabs his bags and looks around the trashed hotel room.

Trey: Run?

Axel: Run.

They both exit the room, Trey running into the wall first but Axel pulls him up and they leave.

The scene starts to fade out on a pan around look and the destruction of the hotel room.

Our scene opens up with our hapless hero sauntering into a bar in Bumfuck, GA, somewhere near the next FMW show. Lately, the weight of the world has been on his shoulders, with his in ring return not going quite to plan and the return of Mikado Corporation into his life. Mikado's return has kept our hero on the run ever since he got that mysterious phone call weeks ago. He has been living out of a duffle bag, running solely on Jim Beam, Marlboro cigarettes, black coffee and bar peanuts. Axel slides off his shades as his eyes adjust to the dim room. He slides onto a stool at the end of the bar trying not to be noticed, that evidently was a bad idea.

Gimme a double Beam straight up....Leave the bottle

The bartender smirks, sliding a glass of the coppery colored liquid down the bar and placing the bottle next to it....

"Aren't you that new guy the FMW hired on...Alex Van Beethoven or something like that?"

It's AXEL VAN OSBOURNE barkeep and how's about you keep my boose coming and your nose out of my fucking business, got it?.... He shakes his head, not everyone can be like Ralphie.....

The bartender grumps under his breath and resumes rubbing at some unseen spot on the bar....Its just par for the course in AVO's world, his losing streak has done nothing but turn him into a laughing stock regulating him to wonderful clusterfuck matches like the one he has been booked in currently. Even forming a tag team with fellow booze and drug hound, Trey Spruance, affectionately known as The Dude, has done nothing to lift his spirts much. Hell, in order to notch a win in this latest match, he has to beat the crap out of his new found running buddy, amongst others.

Time to drown my sorrows in true SFW fashion....Who truly gives a rat's ass anymore....

[i]Our hapless hero's thoughts drift to better days when he was at the height of his popularity, when he had his lovely Becky and the world in the palm of his hand....It is at this point we are treated to a montage of flashback clips, we faintly here Bryan Adams' "Heaven" floating in the background....

Oh - thinkin' about all our younger years
There was only you and me
We were young and wild and free

We see Axel and his beloved walking through an unnamed city's crowded streets, not a care in the world. Becky points out things in passing shop windows. Axel is laughing shaking his head, knowing that one day he will give her everything she needs, one day. The world rusehes about around them, but it's only about Becky for this young man, who would soon become the Axel Van Osbourne we know and love, now he is simply Brian Coogan, young and niiave...

Now nothin' can take you away from me
We've been down that road before
But that's over now
You keep me comin' back for more

Time has moved forward a bit for us....Brian's band has taken off and he is being thronged by fans at every turn...He is becoming Axel, becoming the blinding, shining star. We see just on the fringe of our vision, the beautiful woman the young Becky has become. She smiles proudly, her man is finally getting the fame he deservesshe assures herself. Sure he is gone for months at a time, comes home smelling of sweart, stale cigarettes booze, and God knows what else, but he is hers...Right? She has nagging doubts in the back of her mind, fights have become more frequent, he keeps a flat all to himself, but she stands by him remaining strong in her conviction to make this all work....


Baby you're all that I want
When you're lyin' here in my arms
I'm findin' it hard to believe
We're in heaven

And love is all that I need
And I found it there in your heart
It isn't too hard to see
We're in heaven

"Babe, there is nothing better than this," He whispers softly in her ear as the morning light begins to stream in...

"What do you mean Bri?" she looks at him quizzically but knowing full well what he is refferring to....

"This right here....Me and you...No screaming idiots, no beggars and hangers on, noone but you demanding my attention, just being here in your arms..." He slides out of bed reaching into the nightstand for something...."Bec....Say you will be my lady...Say you will marry me..." He opens the little crimson box revealing the sparkeling ring inside....

"Oh Bri, yes of course I will....You are so amazing...." She says tears welling up in her eyes. This was meant to be she thinks, he is finally going to get clean and quit this crazy life....They hug and roll back into bed the hazy light fades away as we do....


Oh - once in your life you find someone
Who will turn your world around
Bring you up when you're feelin' down

Ya - nothin' could change what you mean to me
Oh there's lots that I could say
But just hold me now
Cause our love will light the way

We are now priveleged to sweep through the courthose wedding ceremony of one Brian Coogan, aka Axel Van Osbourne, and his beloved, Becky. Fittingly it is just the Justice and the our couple. Just the two of them, like Brian wanted so many years ago....He knows that he can shake all the darkness out of his life with this woman in it. Becky is his once in a lifetime love.

Baby you're all that I want
When you're lyin' here in my arms
I'm findin' it hard to believe
We're in heaven

And love is all that I need
And I found it there in your heart
It isn't too hard to see
We're in heaven

Time goes by, and Brian sinks deeper into his addictions, it doesn't get better like he hoped it gets nothing but worse. He is now out of the rock scene, his band no longer putting up with all that comes with addiction. He is now doing drugs, drinking and gambling. Down to near nothing, Becky is at the end of her rope. She loves this man with all her heart, but he is a shell of who he was. He is in debt to a gangster of sorts, Mikado something, for hundreds of thousands of dollars in drug and gambling money. They have moved dozens of times in just months hiding from him. They have been found and Axel is forced into a wrestling career in some no name Federation just to stay out of a coffin built by Mikado and his cronies. He surprisingly enjoys the warm spotlight again, but the drugs and booze loom large. It is only Becky's love keeping him together....


I've been waitin' for so long
For somethin' to arrive
For love to come along

Now our dreams are comin' true
Through the good times and the bad
Ya - I'll be standin' there by you

It is from here we are treated to the grim scene of the break in we heard mentioned so many times before. Mikado's thugs bust in the flat's door, looking for Brian, but find Becky instead. The rough her up demanding to know where money is, Brian owes and its time to pay they say. They take turns raping and beating her knifing her over and over in the stomach. They will take out what is owed on her they say....They leave and Brian comes home to see rain pouring in the broken window pattering down on the lifeless form of his only love.....He drops to his knees head in his hands as the rainwater pours over him, uniting the lovers one last time as he cradles her lifeless body...It is from here he falls deep into the bottle and begins doing drugs even more....The wrestling Federation folds and he has nothing....

The song, and therefore the flashback, mercifully end for our hero and we are back in the bar Axel is clearly in the bag. He stands up saluting the whole bar with a double middle finger salute....

All you Motherfuggers are dead....you just don't know it yet!! WHOOO!! I am number friggin ONE BABY....WITH A BULLET!!!

With that the bartender has had quite enough, he puts AVO in a pretty ugly full nelson dragging his almost lifeless ass out the back door dumping him by the dumpster....

"Who's the dumb mother fucker now asshole..." The bartender kicks him in the ribs....

Three street toughs notice him and take his wallet and jacket as he flops around like some puppet with his strings cut...He mumbles curses in their general direction....He dials his phone trying to find Trey....He leaves a message somewhat intelligiably....

Trey muh man...come get me I'm ...hell where the fuck am I....Just come fuckin get me....Tell Becky I'm sorry....Bring her with you!!

The scene fades as Axel slumps over in a puddle of God knows what near the dumpster....

True Believers....Tune in next time as we find out if Our Hero ever gets to the match on time and if he is sober enough to stand up much less win.......Until next time....Same Bat time....Same Bat Channel.....

Tengu, my dear little nephew, are monsters. The ghosts of priests, nuns, ordinary men, and ordinary women. They are enemies of Buddhism, robbers of temples…in short bad guys.

Uncle…are there Tengu in real life?

Hahaha! Perhaps, boy. Perhaps. Who am I to know?

Then how are your men so brave? How do they go out at night? And how will I go out at night with them?

That’s easy. The only way to get rid of a scary thing is to be scarier. You must become what people are afraid of at night. Scarier than Tengu. Then no one will ever bother you.

From the heart of thriving Los Angeles rise the grooves of gorgeous business cathedrals. The blue Avocado Building, bawdy like a peacock’s tail,. The golden Lubrication Building, one of the glories of Southern California, which had just failed for fifty million dollars. The regal and greenish Citrus Building, made throughout of the purest lime candy, which has gone a little sugary from the heat. Somewhere in the middle of these is little Tokyo. A cultural butterfly preserved in amber and raw sewage. A tiny little Japanese cancer lump. And in the lump is the cell. Gambling dens. Cheap restaurants. Massage parlors. Whorehouses.

Little Nakasu.

Kaoru sat in a chair several sizes too small for him, fanning his buttery neck from the heat. Everywhere else in the country, there was a cold front. But reliable LA sat right in the middle of an eighty eight degree stink that made shirts stick to armpits. Spring was back. Even so, no one felt much like going gaming or whoring at high noon on a hot day. Business was slow. The girls, instead of waiting patiently upstairs like they were supposed to do during their working hours, lounged around downstairs where the air conditioning worked better. No one yelled at them. It was too hot to yell.

Across the round, wooden table was Sonny, who occasionally took a break from twirling a Mah Jong piece between his fingers to wipe the sweat from his upper lip with a handkerchief. Sometimes he would forget, and a single bead would slither to the edge of a moustache hair. When that happened, Kaoru would watch. But when he would watch, Sonny would instantly remember his duties and self-consciously wipe his lip clean while muttering angrily.

Sonny: *Muttering* Stupid fatso…stupid younger generation with no respect…

It was loud enough for him to hear, but Kaoru only turned back around and glared out of the window. Every passerby outside would look down at their shoes to avoid looking up at the sun. The women had started wearing strapless sundresses again. Some of the more conservative Asians could be seen walking with umbrellas to avoid tanning too much, and thus becoming indistinguishable from Mexicans.

If he could have helped it, Kaoru wouldn’t be here. But Full Metal Wrestling hadn’t booked him for any publicity events. Only the match. And if he didn’t have FMW engagements, he could only be here, guarding whores to keep busy. But there wasn’t anyone to protect the whores from today. Only the heat. And the A/C was doing a good enough job of that.

Sonny decided to cut through the heat with an elderly little cackle.

Sonny: Hee-hee-hee…hey, butterball. I think I’m getting thirsty again. Go over to the mini-fridge behind the bar and get me another bottle of water. And be quicker this time! Consider it cardio for your upcoming tag team match.

The words came out of Sonny’s mouth, and lingered in the room a little while, as if unable to unglue themselves from the humidity. Then a tepid breeze blew them out onto the street with no result. Kaoru hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even turned his neck to face his caretaker.

Sonny assumed that volume was the problem.

Sonny: *Louder* Hey…whale-boy! I SAID I wanted another bottle of wat-

Kaoru’s neck turned snapped around quickly enough to cut Sonny off just before midsentence. The old man flinched reflexively, expecting a hand or even the table itself to come flying at him. But Kaoru only started for a second, and blinked rhythmically.

Kaoru: It’s almost ninety degrees outside. Maybe you should wear something other than a sweat-suit. You wouldn’t be as thirsty.

Sonny looked curiously down at his attire. It was indeed the usual banana-yellow sweat-suit. He had several of them that he wore, depending on the day. The tiny old man stared inquisitively down at his own thighs like he had lost something. Then, satisfied that he had found it, looked back up at Kaoru triumphantly.

Sonny: Psh…what do you know, whippersnapper! I wear the suit every day. And besides, the laaaaadies looooove it, hee hee hee!

Sonny let the cackle ring on a little longer than it was supposed to, hoping to gauge a reaction. Kaoru didn’t turn around this time. Almost disappointedly, Sonny let the laugh die down. They were back in humid silence. Somewhere closer to the bar, one of the whores fanned herself with a folded up magazine. The whipping noise made by her wrist, along with the old ceiling fan rotating decrepitly above, made for a kind of steady backbeat to the uncomfortable silence. A metronome keeping time to no music.

Sonny: So…

The old man fired a verbal test shot. Hanayama sat there, motionless and uncomfortable. Somehow, a fat man always seemed to be uncomfortable on a hot day.

Sonny: What’s…what’s your deal anyway?

At first, the massive bulk across the table sat as motionless as ever. Then, almost grudgingly, he acknowledged the question without turning his head to face Sonny.

Kaoru: My…deal?

Sonny jumped at the chance to reply.

Sonny: You ,you know. Your deal. All you ever do is sit, mope, or stare. Just because I call you an ogre or a gorilla, doesn’t mean you actually have to be one. The only time I’ve ever seen you put forth any effort is when you’re ordered to beat people up. Don’t you have any hobbies? What do you do in your goddamn leisure time?

Kaoru sucked in his pudgy cheeks in contemplation, as if he was trying to absorb all the juice in Sonny’s question. He rapped his fingers on the table and, still not turning around to face the old man, gave his muted response.

Kaoru: It’s all I enjoy.

Sonny: What is?

Kaoru: Beating people up.

It was the kind of answer that sucked all the argument out of a room. The whore who had been fanning herself with the magazine stopped to give Kaoru a curious look from behind the bar. Seeing nothing but the back of his neck in response, she rolled her eyes and continued fanning. Kaoru’s eyes were transfixed at the people who passed by the window.

The residential people of Los Angeles were a cultivated enervated people, lovers of mixturesque beauty – the kind that liked to express their emotivation in homes that imaginatively symbolized their favorite historical films, their best-beloved movie actresses, their luckiest numerological combinations or their previous incarnations in old Greece, romantic Egypt, quaint Sussex or among the high priestesses of love in old India. They probably came to Little Tokyo for help building their ideal Pekinese pagoda made of fresh and crackly peanut brittle. The white people who thought of this place as a vintage curiosity.

That was what Kaoru hated about Little Tokyo. It seemed more like a Japanese novelty cake than a real place.

Sonny: Hmph…well if you’re going to be a prick, the least you could do is get me that glass of water like I asked.

Kaoru allowed Sonny the privilege of seeing his face again. Only this time, the vacant stare was not benign.

Somehow, the blank, porky complexion and the narrow eyes had something biting to them. Something so aloof, so negligent, that a powerfully built man with a sneer like that was unsettling to be around. Sonny’s tongue patted the roof of his mouth, which had suddenly become dry.

Kaoru: Get…it…yourself.

And that was the end of that conversation. Sonny took a deep drag of his own saliva, and pulled out a brightly-colored pack of Hubba-Bubba chewing gum. Popping one of the tiny, pink squares into his mouth would have kept his mouth from drying out. Looking back over to the whore behind the bar, Sonny thought better of it. He’d have his Dasani one way or another.

Sonny: Well…what are you waiting for, bitch? YOU get me some water! Hee hee hee hee hee ho ho ho ho ho ho!

Sonny took the handkerchief previously reserved for his lip, and wiped the sweat from the top of his nearly bald head. He was the kind of person who laughed with his whole body. When something struck him as truly funny, he looked like a wrinkled baby.

The whore cocked an eyebrow at the curious little geezer, before resigning herself. She swung open the door to the mini-fridge, and pulled out two water bottles. She held the both of them up, and questioningly waved them at Sonny, wanting to know whether two bring two. Sonny shrugged his shoulders, but decided to ask anyway.

Sonny: How about it, fatty? You want some too?

No response. The whore put one of the water bottles back in the fridge, before noisily walking over in her absurdly sized transparent heels. Sonny tried to drink the water as conspicuously as he possibly could, slurping noisily and smacking his now moistened lips.

But Kaoru didn’t take the water. He wouldn’t have taken it. He enjoyed the feeling of thirst. It amused him to think about it. Los Angeles, when its brief history comes to an end, would probably be destroyed by drought. Its water comes two hundred and fifty miles away from the Owens River. Too far dispersed for effective bombardment, too unimportant strategically for the use of expensive atomic devices, it would fall swiftly and silently. A handful of parachutists or partisans anywhere along that vital aqueduct could make the coastal strip uninhabitable. Bones would whiten along the Santa Fe trail as the great recessions struggles eastward. Nature would reassert herself and the seasons would gently obliterate the vast, deserted suburbs. Its history will pass from memory to legend until, centuries later, as we have supposed, the archeologists prick their ears at the cryptic references in the texts of the 21st century to a cult which once flourished on this forgotten strand.

Sexless images of infertility.

Sonny: You’ll die like a dog you know.

Sonny tightened the plastic cap around the neck of the emptying water bottle.

Sonny: Ho-ho, yes-sir. I’ve seen your kind come through the family before. Even through Los Angeles. Even through Little Nakasu for that matter! The boys that fancy themselves real sadists? You bet your fat buns I’ve seen them. They don’t last. The ones who use violence as a means to an end…the under-bosses, lieutenants, even your uncle…they’re the ones who MIGHT live long enough to see the fruits of their labor. But the ones who get into the game because they enjoy it…the ones who think that the killing IS the end? We fish them out of the bay. It’s the law of averages, fat boy. The longer you stick around the pit, the more likely you are to die. It’s science, hee hee!

Kaoru blinked for a second. The force from his eyelids freed a drop of sweat to go racing down the slope of his nose, before resting on the tip.

Sonny: That’s the difference between Frederick the Great and Hitler, you know. Frederick the Great stopped fighting as soon as he got the land he was after. But Hitler just kept fighting. That’s why Frederick the Great is “the Great”…and Hitler is history’s bum! Ho-ho-ho-hee-hee-hee!

Hanayama rested his palms against his thighs, bending his elbows outward, and slowly rose. Both his chair and his kneecaps creaked, as he stood up to full height and slowly turned his gaze to Sonny. The old man gulped loudly and looked upward with wide eyes, as Kaoru’s frame blotted out the light from the ceiling fan.

Taking the cue she had taken her whole life, the whore at the bar turned her face away. The larger man curled in his pinky, followed by his ring, followed by his middle finger, and all the way down row, until he finally bent in his meaty digits and fastened them securely with his thumb. Sonny’s came just slightly ajar, as he put his hand on his seat and prepared to eject at full speed.

It was a fight scene about to begin in slow motion, held up by the oppressive mugginess hanging in the air.

Mutually assured destruction. And then…


The old man’s ringtone. He loved that song, mostly because he thought that if his phone went off in public and a young girl heard it, he had a chance. Whatever the reason, the ringtone immediately drained the agitation. The vibration of his phone took Sonny by such surprise that he lurched back, taking the chair along with him. Smacking his head against the dirty linoleum, he let out a ridiculous sounding howl.
The whore let out a chuckle, gently covering her mouth with her hand. Kaoru scoffed and sat back down, turning his attention back to the window.

Sonny: God DAMN IT THAT HURT! OWWWW!

Finally fishing the phone out of his pocket, Sonny pressed the button with the greenish receiver on it, and took the call while still lying on his back.

Sonny: Who the HELL is th---Oh…oh hello, sir! Why…why yes I didn’t know it was you. Oh really? My apologies sir. Let me just get a pen and paper.

With all the deftness of an agile, bald, slightly wrinkled little boy, Sonny scrambled up to his feet and ran for the bar at full speed. Pushing the whore out of the way, he fished around in some invisible drawer and finally pulled out a notepad and a pen. Taking prompts from the voice on the other end, he began to scribble furiously, holding his phone between his neck and shoulder.

Sonny: Uh huh…uh-huh…uh-huh…and what’s his name? Alright…uh-huh…-uh-huh…uh-huh. Got it. May I read that back to you? …what’s that? No sir, I’m not stupid. You’re absolutely right. I should have gotten it all the first time. Yes…yes. No, thank YOU, sir.

As he hung up the phone, Sonny slapped the pen authoritatively down on the bar, and called out to Kaoru, his confidence in his own authority restored.

Sonny: Suit up, butterball. You have an assignment. And on your way out, grab me another water bottle!

Kaoru:…that’s it?

Sonny: That’s it.

The car pulled past the house in question. Kaoru would be unloaded a few houses down to avoid alarming anyone inside.

They had driven something like six miles on I-100 before swinging west on 42nd, and following it almost to the Pacific. Turning the other cheek when they got to the intercoastal, they went North again, until they had finally arrived on the outskirts of Venice Beach. Specifically, Oakwood.

It lay inland, a few blocks away from the noise of the boardwalk. From what Kaoru understood, the black and Mexicans had owned this place some time ago. Now it had become one of those peculiar places where going down the same street long enough would take you past homes in excess of $1 million along with ghetto huts with bars on the windows. “Homes were replacing homies” Sonny joked, as he rolled down the window to spot.

Like anything else, gentrification followed geography. The rich whites and Hispanics wanted to be near the coast. They had returned from their retreat to the suburban outskirts. They had even brought new weapons with them; eminent domain and bulldozers. And where the money went, increased police presence was sure to go. The gangs, having scoffed at the police department a decade earlier, were surprised to see how effectively the LAPD could stop crime when the money was right. Most of the gangs were now in Inglewood and Long Beach, working cheap industrial jobs and keeping their distance from the new, tourist-friendly West LA.

But the house that Kaoru and Sonny had pulled up in front of was not one of the new bulwarks of gentrification. It was a holdout to the old days of Venice Beach. One of those faded-stucco deals, sporting a useless iron gate that any adult could either hop over or walk around. The color, pastel to begin with, now looked like a light crayon diluted with spit on a sheet of paper. There wasn’t anything conspicuous laying in the lawn like, say, a broken bicycle. But the steady advance of crab grass meant there was nothing friendly about the front yard.

Kaoru opened the backseat door and stepped out to survey the scene. He always rode in the backseat when Sonny drove because he knew it irritated Sonny, who thought he was being treated like some kind of chauffeur. They had pulled up in the most conspicuous car possible; a black sedan with tinted windows. It was the kind of automobile that screamed bad intentions to anyone peeking through the blinds. Hanayama walked over to the driver’s window, which was already rolling down in expectation.

Kaoru: Hey, circle around the block. Or make toward the boardwalk and come back.

Sonny: The fuck? Why?

Kaoru: Because the car looks like death. Go and come back.

Sonny blinked rapidly in succession, wondering why that obvious detail had slipped his mind.

Sonny: Oh well…well, right. How long do you need?

Kaoru: Make it twenty five minutes. I have my phone on me. You’ll get a text when I’m finished. If you don’t get a text, do not come back here and pick me up. Assume that I’m caught up with something or dead. Either way go back to Little Tokyo and wait. If I’m alive, I’ll take the bus back.

Sonny threw his head back against the driver’s seat and laughed.

Sonny: HAHAHAHEEHEEHEEHEE! Well now…we’re all business aren’t we? So serious! Alright then, Terminator. I’ll pray that you take a bullet in there. That way I can save on gas and go straight home. Hee hee!!!

With that, the little old man put his shrimpy little foot to the pedal and noisily peeled out of the street. Kaoru had to take a step back to make sure Sonny didn’t run over his foot. The screeching of the tires could have easily undone all of the stealth up to that point.

Kaoru:Idiot. I’m still going to kill you before I leave LA.

Hanayama spit onto the sidewalk, and started down the street.

The first thing that struck him were the voting signs. On every possible corner, someone had stuck bright red signs with the word “VOTE” painted in white. Almost like a stop sign, but smaller in diameter and rectangular. Kaoru smirked. The only use the rich had for the poor was winning their vote. Overwhelm them with media! Fill their senses with signs and commercials and frightening speeches! Send them to church, get the pastors on your side! They may have a right to their opinion, but they aren’t smart enough to know when that opinion is being manipulated!

Kaoru: Long live American Democracy.

He gently tapped a “VOTE” sign with his knuckles as he continued towards the house. The heat kept most of the people indoors. Across the street, a couple of little black kids were playing with a garden hose and a panting dog to keep cool. Their wrinkled grandmother, wearing a faded old sundress, sat on the porch watching them. As Kaoru passed, her stare switched targets.

She was probably old enough to know every car and resident on the street. Kaoru was not dressed opulently…sometimes, you would need to wear a suit on the job. Given the geography, he had opted for oversized jeans and a black t-shirt. He could have easily been a fresh-off-the-boat Japanese who lived in a poor neighborhood. Or had friends who did.But then he’d live in little Tokyo, not Venice Beach. Kaoru acted natural, not meeting her gaze. A few houses more and she would be gone.

Finally, he hiked back to his target. Giving the plaster abortion a once-over, he thought about the best course of action. Bars on the windows. No dog in sight. There was a car in the makeshift driveway. He would have to go around. Frankly, this job was better done at night. You could just run a simple drive-by then.

Crouching his large frame just below window level, Kaoru tip-toed with surprising stealth down the left side of the shack . If the bum was already expecting company, then all the stealth would be for nothing. The house didn’t have many escape routes.

Just as predicted, the place had a dingy backyard and a screen door. Peeking over the dilapidated wooden fence that separated the backyard, Kaoru sighed. It would have been easier to do some kind of distraction and kill the guy right in the street. But it was broad daylight, and his getaway car was off at the boardwalk.
No choice. The entry would have to be quick and clean. Kaoru spotted a mostly rotted plank, swollen with rainwater, and silently peeled it off the fence. The hole it left behind was just wide enough for him to squeeze through.

Poking his head into the backyard, Kaoru looked into the interior of the house. He wasn’t in the living room or the half-kitchen. Now was the time.

Creeping over with pace, Hanayama’s large fingers worked with surgical precision. He felt around for the best grip on the screen. One quick pull…just one…

*TWUNK*

It was as quiet as it could have been. Kaoru pulled one of the screen panels clean out of the frame and rested it against the house. Now came the hard part…the actual door. His fingertips glided over the surface like it was Braille, looking for a weakness. It was lodged much deeper in the frame of the house. He could come into the living room at any moment. Come on…come on…

Finally satisfied with his grip, Kaoru took a deep breath in. One quick pull. One quick…

*KAAA-TWUNK*

Out came half of the screen door. Kaoru quickly set it aside and pulled the silenced Heckler and Koch 9mm from the gun holster under his baggy t-shirt. It was fluid enough to have been one motion. The dislodging of the door, setting the door aside, pulling out the gun, and dropping to one knee.

He HAD to have heard that. It was relatively quiet…but he HAD to have heard it. Would he attribute it to the house just making noises? A neighbor doing some work? Was he asleep? Hell, was the bastard even HOME?

He could have left the car and gone for a walk.

Kaoru stood there, on one knee, his gun pointed into the dimly light abode. All he could hear was his own breathing in the humid air.

Kaoru: *Whispering* You are what people are afraid of…be what people are afraid of…you are what people are afraid of...

A few seconds went by. Nothing. Either he wasn’t home or he didn’t hear. Kaoru quickly lunged into the living room. The last thing he needed was a neighbor coming into the backyard and seeing him in firing squad pose.

Hanayama’s eyes darted from corner to corner. Behind the kitchen counter? A quick tip-toe and a glance over the top…no.

Bathroom?...There was a small half-bathroom by the front door that Kaoru had ignored. The door was wide open. No chance.

That only left the bedroom…if he was home at all.

Kaoru: *Whispering* Small house…bad for firefights…bad for noise…but I’m not afraid…I am what people are afraid of…If I die here, I die in service. No shame. I must be determined to die…

Hanayama walked slowly towards the bedroom door. He could feel every bit of sweat on his body get impaled by his rising hair.

No more room to be stealthy. If he was back there with a gun, then opening the door slowly would make Kaoru a sitting duck.

Quick and clean.

*BOOOOOOOOM*

Kaoru’s meaty foot cocked back and snap-kicked the bedroom door off the hinges. He dropped back onto one knee. Every muscle in his body tensed up, a ripple of energy from his legs up through his hips and up his spine, into his arms, and finally settling at the tip of his trigger finger.

He exhaled.

No one in the door frame.

But he could hear a subdued hum from the corner.

Kaoru stepped into the bedroom and whipped his gun to the far side.

George: Hehehe…

He was sitting there. Back to Kaoru. Back to the door. Back to what passed as a master bathroom. He was staring at an old TV. One of those cathode-ray jobs. The rabbit ears looked like they protruded from the outline of his head.

They stood there, like an exhibit behind glass. Kaoru’s gun pointed straight at the base of the man’s clean-cut skull.

Utter silence outside the glow of the TV.

When he began to speak, it was in a hushed, drunken tone. He had an empty slug of whiskey sitting by the leg of his chair.

George: I was wondering when someone would show up. Figured it would be at night. Things are scariest at night, right? Ghost or whatever. And here you are…it’s what? One thirty? I haven’t looked at the clock in a few days. Anyway…I know why you’re here.

Kaoru kept his gun fixed.

Kaoru: George Welsh. Prizefighter.

George: Hah…I already know who I am.

He didn’t turn around. Only the featureless back of his neck.

Kaoru: You’ve had the week to pay back the fifty thousand. A losing fighter is no good.

George: No, I don’t suppose he is. So pull the trigger and cut the small talk.

Kaoru let his eyes wander to the wall above the bed. Over it hung framed portraits of a young boxer, having his hand raised in victory by the referee. Newspaper clippings. Headlines. Victories. Odes to dominance.

George: *Sing-song* I’m waaaaaaiting. You’re insuuuuuulting me.

Hanayama’s eyes shot back to his target. He scolded himself at being distracted. If the bastard had wanted to live, that would have been his chance to get off a clean shot.

George: You’re looking at the pictures on the wall.

How did he know that?

George:Hehe…gunman goes soft, right? Isn’t that how the story goes? Look here, kid. I never had the intention of paying you fucks back a damn thing. I knew this was how it would happen. I would get older. I would start losing…and then I would die. Maybe in the ring, maybe out of it. But always by force. And you know why? Because force is how I operate. Force is the only thing fighters know. I want this. I want this because I’m an old dog. And this is how old dogs die.

The word “dog” rattled in Kaoru’s brain. Dying like a dog.

George: I won’ tell you who I am. We aren’t going to stand here while I regale you. Hell, I’m not even turning around for your ass, understand? This is what I want. A lifetime of servitude through force. Honest work. The kind of work that makes you feel good and tired when you get into bed…the pleasant ache of usefulness. And then master puts a bullet in the back of the head. And then master puts a bullet in the back of your head. And then master puts a bullet in the back of y---

1 new text message.
Fat Boy (1:32:16): I’m finished.

Sonny looked at the screen one more time as Kaoru got into the backseat. It pleased him to remember that in the world of his cell-phone, Kaoru’s name was “Fat Boy”.

Sonny: How was it?

No answer. Sonny smiled as he casually pulled out.

Sonny: Hee-hee-hee…well that doesn’t matter so long as there’s no fuss.

They drove in silence down the street and all the way to the boardwalk to make sure no one was following, and then doubled back downtown.

Sonny: By the way...call from the boss. He says no more assignments until the tag match. You’re expected to stay in and get a good night’s sleep every night, and treat Chris Austin as an eq---

Kaoru: We drive in silence the rest of the way.

The air conditioner of the sedan whirred quietly. The kids on the boardwalk ran around in bathing suits. One of them had a dog, panting from the humidity.

It was a hot day.

Uncle, what is a Tengu?

The characters for Ten-Gu mean "heavenly dog." Tengu, my dear little nephew, are monsters....

“Is everything finalized, Tiberius?”

Romeo swiveled around in his huge-backed leather office chair, a little too dramatically even, to face the man who had just walked in his study. His aide-de-camp, the bodyguard-turned-personal assistant, now possibly evolving into something else as well, the imposing Tiberius Jefferson, was standing there with a stoic expression on his face and a folder on his hand.

“It’s just waiting for your go, boss.” Tiberius seemed tired tonight, and with good reason. He had been orchestrating Romeo’s affairs all day. He was thinking of asking for a significant raise after all this was over. Romeo, being himself, was oblivious to all of it, as usual.

“Good, good. What time are we expected there tomorrow?”

“9 a.m., so we could get the show going by 10.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Things are going smoothly so far. Have you contacted our guest?”

“He says he’ll be there for sure. He’ll be taking a red-eye from LAX in a few hours.”

“Very good. The people love him, give him a gift basket before he goes back home tomorrow. And how is Cain’s progress?”

“Mr. Blake has been left shaken once more, as has quite a few more members of the Board. That should finally do it, I’d bet.”

Cain Ravid was the other bodyguard brought in with Tiberius when Romeo put out the call. Tiberius and Cain had been working together as partners for some time when they received Romeo’s offer to work for him. Ty was the metal man, and Cain was the monkey. Cain was a master of coercion, the stealthy, crafty edge Romeo required to truly secure leverage for himself in his various ventures, and lately Romeo found himself thinking that the two of them was all he ever really needed to become successful.

“Good, good, good. I still think those pigs will still have the nerve to hold out on me, but I will take any development that comes my way.”

“Will that be all, boss?” Tiberius interjected almost suddenly, but he did not intend to be snappish. It was late.

“Yes, yes, Tiberius, that will be all for tonight. Thank you.” Either Romeo had forgiven it, or he did not catch it at all. Tiberius wins. He would also have been preferred to be called Ty, and Romeo had previously called him Ty, but after making his feud with FMW World Heavyweight Champion TyranT a little more serious and personal, Romeo had abruptly switched to calling Tiberius by his full name again, possibly because he and the rival share the same nickname. Better to not remind Romeo’s disgust of his enemy, and, besides, Tiberius is a badass, imposing name, despite what other people might say about it.

That’s not all Tiberius would prefer nowadays. His job was to be a bodyguard. He thought that that was what he would be when he accepted the offer to be the bodyguard of one of the most important men in Manhattan. But since he had joined the Romeo camp, his job evolved into that of a personal assistant. Romeo got him to stay by offering him a substantial raise a few months ago, but his passion was in danger, in the heat of combat, not as a consigliere working behind the scenes. That was not where his real heart is.

“Oh, hold on, Tiberius, one last thing,” Romeo called out after him.

“Yeah?” Tiberius said over his shoulder.

“Place an order for five boxes of your most favorite drink,” Romeo said. “I don’t care if it’s champagne, wine, beer, whatever. You’ve been working so hard; you deserve it, my friend.”

Tiberius smiled. Romeo did know how to reward his most loyal men, after all. “You got it, boss.”

He walked away, closing the door behind him. Romeo swiveled his chair again to face the large window, through it viewing the tranquil evening March sky. He laid back, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a victory. Something he needed most of all, now more than ever.


Central Park was abuzz with life. It was a busy morning, and a platform was already set up in one of the center plazas. A crowd had already gathered in front of the platform, waiting to see what the setup was all about, even though huge tarpaulin streamers bearing Romeo’s name and the number 2010 in big, bold silver letters gave away the point clearly.

It wasn’t long before the event began, and begin it did with a considerable bang. The emcee, overconfident to the point that it was pretty obnoxious, announced the beginning of the program, starting with an upbeat medley courtesy of popular hip-hop group, the Black Eyed Peas, which did not help the crowd to decipher what the event was for. Luckily, the somewhat long medley was all the Peas were contracted to do, as apparently there was more business to get to.

The emcee returned, to the annoyance of the crowd, striding back onstage with purpose.

“Thanks, Peas,” he said. “That was a great way to start off today’s program!”

People were almost at the point of throwing something onstage to find out what the program actually was.

“Anyway, thank you for coming here this morning, ladies and gentlemen. I know you’re all wondering what this is all about, and I’m here to tell you that right now. First of all, a show of hands – who here’s a wrestling fan?”

A considerable number of hands shot up from the crowd. It seems that these people knew what was going on, and that news of this event reached the internet dirtsheets.

“Great, great. And which of you watch FMW?”

Only a few hands dropped. Yep, this was definitely on the dirtsheets last night. A few people from the audience had already left.

“Awesome, guys, awesome. So, given that, I assume you’re familiar with the guest of honor this morning. This man is a fighter for the greater good of not only FMW, but of everyone else.”

The crowd boos, and some of them, a minority from the crowd, cheer on. They know who the emcee’s talking about, but the brave man isn’t fazed.

“This man is looking to free FMW from the immoral bonds that chain it down. He is looking to liberate FMW and turn it into a place where everyone gets an equal opportunity.”

The boos intensify. The emcee’s merely reading from cue cards. Don’t shoot the messenger, he thought.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your next FMW World Heavyweight Champion, and your next FMW owner... give it up for... Romeo!”

The mixed reaction intensifies even further as the controversial FMW superstar takes the stage with a microphone in hand.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Romeo began. “You’re all far too kind.”

Romeo was merely being an entertainer. The crowd is just about ready to pelt the stage with garbage, if not for the numerous guards positioned along the perimeter of the stage’s foot.

“I could go on and on this morning about how I will lead FMW into prosperity, about how I can turn it into something better, and how I will rid it of all its personified diseases. I could very easily do that. But, I had a different idea.”

Someone in the crowd couldn’t hold it any longer. “So you just gonna shut the fuck up instead?” went the heckle.

Romeo took the jab with well-rehearsed professionalism; he was smart enough not to start a controversy with a civilian. “Very clever, sir, but I trust you’ll want to hear this. So, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I had a different idea. Instead of me talking about what I stand for, I will let a beloved figure do it for me instead.”

That did spark another buzz of curiosity in the audience. Which celebrity would it be?

“This man is very dear to me,” Romeo continued. “We are so much alike, that sometimes I think we are two peas from the same pod, as the saying goes. Ladies and gentlemen, please give all your love to the current Lords of Pain Wrestling Western States Heritage Champion... Jude Maxwell!”

The same wrestling fans who booed Romeo now cheered as Jude strode onstage, with the Western States title belt slung over his shoulder. As the audience of FMW is pretty much the same as the audience of LPW, Jude was indeed a very-beloved figure in wrestling, having gone on to maintain a very lengthy winning streak that has been going on since his LPW debut.

Romeo gave Jude the microphone.

Jude (fired up). I came all the way here from California, something I would not do for anyone else, for a very good reason.

No matter where he was, Jude’s personal style commanded attention. The crowd fell silent, hanging on to Jude’s every word.

Jude (voice rising). Like Romeo here, I am sick and tired of the old generation holding on to the upper echelons of our industry, staining and polluting our respective federations. Like Romeo, I am actively crusading against these polluters.

The crowd doesn’t say a word.

Jude (like a preacher). Like Romeo, I believe in a Renaissance. A Revolution. Sound man, hit it!


The crowd cheered at a Beatles song, a Jude Maxwell tradition, and at that moment, Romeo stepped in and grabbed the microphone, to the disappointment off the crowd.

“Hold on, Jude, this isn’t one of your promos,” Romeo said to a startled Jude, trying to sound understanding, but urgent. He didn’t know if Jude would take it the right way. “Can’t you just say what you were going to say?”

Jude (visibly annoyed). Very well, very well. We don’t need the song, it seems.

The crowd boos Romeo again.

Jude (a little robotic now). I support Romeo’s Renaissance. Our generation must take over now, because this is our time. Because if not now, when?

The crowd cheers for Jude.

Jude (wrapping up). Even though he’s a huge party pooper, Romeo has the right idea, and it would be a huge mistake not to trust him. My name is Jude Maxwell, and I thank you. Be sure to follow The Next Jude Maxwell premiering at Inferno 16.1!

Jude gives the mic back to Romeo, who extends his hand, but Jude snubs it, immediately walking to backstage, much to Romeo’s chagrin and the cheers of the crowd.

“Thank you, Jude,” Romeo said, still unfazed. “I appreciate your support, and good luck with that little project of yours.”

Now that Jude is gone, the crowd returns to booing Romeo.

“And that’s it for our short program for today, ladies and gentlemen, I personally thank you for taking time out to be here,” Romeo said. “I thank you for all your support, and remember, a vote for Romeo is a vote for a better FMW, and a vote for the new generation!”

The crowd’s boos re-intensify again, as Romeo leaves the stage while waving to the crowd, as if he actually had fans there. Perhaps he did indeed have some, but they were probably afraid of a riot if they made themselves known. Romeo was also thankful for that, for fear of a public scandal, in the form of a physical controversy.

When he got to the backstage, he found out that Jude had already left Central Park. No matter. The shot had already been fired. Maybe it didn’t take, or maybe it did, the important thing was that he fired the salvo. At the very least, he would sell himself better than his opponents, and it would translate to publicity worthy of something big.

Romeo was the better man, the lesser evil. He knew it in his heart. There was only one choice for the public, and he intended it to be him.

Today’s victory was won.


He was the last person she expected to see tonight.

Faith was busy preparing for bed when she heard an urgent knock on the door, bidding her to delay going to sleep. She threw on something to make her look decent for what she hoped would be a brief encounter. Just somehow tell whoever it was at the door that it was late and hopefully he or she’d be off on her way. She’d have to think, though, how exactly to do this, given her impairment.

But like the rest of the things in her life, these things just aren’t that easy. She opened the door, unsure of what or who to expect at this hour. Standing before her was her opponent for Supremacy, and her father’s challenger to his championship, Romeo. Deciding she didn’t have time for this, she moved to close the door.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Romeo said, putting a hand forward to stop her. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only have something to tell you. This will be quick, I promise.”

Faith sighed, and left the door open. She turned her back and walked. Romeo took this as an invitation inside, which it really was. Romeo wasted no time.

“Look, Faith, I want to offer you a deal.”

Faith raised an eyebrow.

“First of all, I know you’re a tough one, so I won’t make any offers to pull any punches at Supremacy. I know you hate being patronized like that,” Romeo said. “In fact, I’m here to make an offer... that you join me.”

She then gave him a look that can cut through glass, which he took as a sign to keep going.

“I’m not talking about joining the Broken Saints,” Romeo continued. “I’m talking about your father. It’s no secret that you hate him.”

Faith nodded slowly.

“Together, Faith, we can bring him down!” Romeo pleaded. “And if you help me win his title, I will guarantee you the very first shot at it, because I know you’ve earned it. Come on, I know you want revenge.”

Faith didn’t react immediately, apparently mulling it over in her head... or not. She then looked at Romeo, and shook her head slowly. Romeo sighed.

“Why not?”

She gave him another piercing stare, as if to say, “How do you expect me to explain?” Either way, Romeo understood, and just sighed.

“Very well. If that’s how you feel about it.”

Romeo turned to face the door. “See you at Supremacy,” he said over his shoulder, and left.

Faith just sat on a chair, laid herself against its back, and closed her eyes. Her battles are never over.

...
Board#1: Look, Jason, I understand what you’re saying, but we really don’t have a choice. You’ve gone against regulations, we can’t exactly do nothing.

Keane: Look at him! Do you see anything wrong with him? He just retained his title in a ladder match and then defended his tag titles against Faith AND VanGuard, for Christ’s sake, what more can you ask of him?

Board#2: The condition of the patient isn’t what we’re concerned about, Dr. Keane. What we’re concerned about is having staff who will devote themselves to the proper medical treatment of FMW’s employees.

Keane: Show me evidence that I’ve failed him, then! Go on!

Board#4: Wins and losses don’t factor into our decisions, doctor.

Keane: You know I’m right.

Board#2: And you know our decision is final.

Board#1: I’m sorry, Jason...

Keane: You can suspend me if you want, but every single one of you knows that I’ve got a perfect record in regards to my medical treatments. Not one of the medical staff on the Full Metal payroll knows the roster like I do. And on top of that, none of them are as experienced as me.

Board#2: This deserves more than a mere suspension, Dr. Keane.

Jason Keane, Full Metal Wrestling’s senior doctor, stared across the black slate floor at the board of directors. Five sets of suits and ties sat at the desk, three men and two women. Jason knew the first - he had long been good friends with the man – but it didn’t change his disposition towards him for not defending him. The woman to his immediate right looked like a prude if Jason had ever seen one. Secretarial glasses, a tight-fit black suit and a stern glare... he knew her type. Her vote wouldn’t be favourable. The fourth man would probably side with her as well, he didn’t appear to approve of Jason’s controversial decision. The woman on the far right, who had yet to speak, would side with him. Jason knew her to be a proponent for medical staff in the company. His best hopes lie with the vote of the third man who had not yet spoken. While dressed in a similarly professional manner, he might be Jason’s saving grace in this tribunal, because if it came to a tie vote, that man would be the one to decide the outcome. For now, however, the woman continued speaking, and Jason could sense her every syllable laced with venom.

Board#2: I move that Dr. Jason Keane’s position in Full Metal Wrestling be terminated immediately.

Board#5: Come on, Andrea! You want him gone completely? That’s absurd.

Board#2: No more so than his own forms of ‘treatment’.

Board#5: Well, while I agree that there must be consequences, they deserve to be weighed against the seriousness of the offence. I move for a one month suspension from the company.

Jason sighed, this was a slightly more lenient punishment than he’d expected. Nonetheless, there were now two options on the table and it could go either way.

Board#1: I agree with Janette. A one month suspension is a sufficient reprimand. Barry?

Board#4: I must cast my vote with Andrea. Dr. Keane is not only treating the company’s employees, he is setting an example for our other medical staff as our senior doctor, and I cannot condone his actions. I vote for Dr. Keane’s termination.

At this point all eyes went to the middle of the panel, where the silent third member sat. It wasn’t until Jason looked at him that he realised the doctor had been staring at him for the length of the recent discussion. His eyes bored holes into Jason but Jason stared right back, determined to show he would not back down from his decision. When the doctor eventually spoke everyone else stayed silent, his voice deep and authoritative.

Board#3: Dr. Keane. Your actions in regard to your patient and FMW employee Skyler Striker suggest recklessness and negligence. This industry is one sorely in need of those whose primary concern is for the health of the patient, not his ability to continue wrestling. While you have been an exceptional member of staff and the medical team within Full Metal Wrestling, we simply cannot tolerate a decision of this magnitude. Although your intent is noble, I must regretfully move for the termination of your contract, doctor.

Keane: No...

Board#3: By a vote of three to two, as chairman of the board, your contract is hereby terminated beginning midnight tonight. Any personal items you have to collect from your office should be removed within 48 hours. You will be expected to sign your termination form when it arrives in the mail or legal action will be taken. Do you have any further questions before we close, doctor?

Keane: I... No.

Board#3: Very well. This meeting is adjourned.

Keane nodded faintly and walked out of the dimly lit room, strangely oblivious to his surroundings. Fired? Jason wasn’t kidding himself; he had expected ramifications of some sort. But fired? The risk he had taken had allowed a good man to keep fighting for his family. Was it worth it? Jason wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen Skyler in person since a brief check-up after Distortion 9.4, in which Striker had defeated Slegnadamus in a ladder match quite convincingly. Skyler’s injury appeared to be about the same as before. The match had seen some damage to Skyler’s wrist, although the painkillers were doing their job enough. He’d heard the result of the tag match and also of Syanide’s attack on Skyler and his friend Leon. It hadn’t fazed him too badly – Skyler had seemed determined to come back, but this was different. He wouldn’t have been called to a review panel if Skyler had been fine. That meant something had gone wrong, and Jason had a disastrous feeling he knew what it was.

He’d interfered enough, though. He was now without an income, his reputation as a doctor was tarnished, and he may have given an honest man an addiction he could have prevented.

Now, indeed, was the time for drinking.


“You are now at a crossroads. This is your opportunity to make the most important decision you will ever make. Forget your past. Who are you now? Who have you decided you really are now? Don't think about who you have been. Who are you now? Who have you decided to become? Make this decision consciously. Make it carefully. Make it powerfully.”
“A peacefulness follows any decision, even the wrong one.”
You would think, at this moment in my life, that the setting would be a little more spectacular. Alas. Let’s put it this way, I’m finally discovering who I really am, and I’m liking that.

Yes, I love – loved – love – Leah (I haven’t quite decided on past or present tense quite yet), but I’ve discovered a newfound freedom in being separate. In being apart. Now I am my own person. Although judgment hasn’t faded entirely, Drew Michaels, the Broken Saints and Leon Caprice seem a lot farther back in my mind. Their judgments don’t mean anything to me – I am, essentially, what I construct myself to be. What I define myself as. An existentialist at heart, that’s who I am.

What I fear is not being me. And I think that’s what I’ve been doing. I think that these pills have gone beyond simply allowing me to fight. They’ve allowed me to see through the veil and understand what’s actually going on. And I do understand. I know my purpose.

To find freedom.

At this moment, I cast aside all the things that constrained me. All the bonds that bound me. Friendship, family, love and lust – what are these things to tell me who I am? Good and bad, so too what are they? They are chains. The threats of a so-called saviour or the help of a so-called best friend; they are now meaningless to me. I will find my meaning in simply living, in going with the flow and discovering.

Where once Skyler Striker was me...

Now I am Skyler Striker.

The slightly overcrowded house of Leon Caprice is, for once, peaceful. With Leon out at training, and Leah at a doctor’s appointment, today Jade Striker rested and watched her two younger siblings with the assistance of Leon’s increasingly pregnant wife Sarah. So far, the day had been filled with a rather enjoyable blend of laugher, social discussion and changing diapers, but it had been educational for both.

Sarah: I mean, Leon’s had to tell me to cut back on shopping a few times, but I can’t resist! I mean, my baby would look so cute in that little sailor’s outfit!

Jade: I never get the whole sailor outfit thing. If my father had tried to put that on me...

There’s a sudden awkward silence. Skyler had not yet come up in conversation, and neither of the two knew quite what to say next. Jade turned her attention back to April and John, who were fast asleep. Sarah craned her head sideways to look out of the window. The palpable tension was not caused so much by Skyler’s situation, but by the name opposite his on the card for Supremacy. Both Jade and Sarah knew that their respective family members were due to meet in the ring and fight until one verbally submitted to the other.

Silence reigned in the room for seconds and minutes.

You see it too, don’t you?

Jade: I just... don’t know what to wish upon my father. I don’t know whether I should support him because I’m his family, or whether I want Leon to beat him and knock some sense into his thick skull. I get the feeling that physicality may be the only method we have left of bringing him back.

Sarah: I’m sorry, Jade. It must be hard for you. But you’ve been through a similar situation, haven’t you?

Jade: It’s not like last time. Last time, I abandoned my father – and with a sound mind at that. Last time, he was concerned about me. This time, he’s made a stupid decision, and now whether through sound mind or not, he’s abandoned me.

Sarah: It’s an ironic coincidence that he holds the Abandoned Championship.

Jade chuckled to herself at this, her eyes locked on her sleeping sister and brother.

Jade: It’s one of the few things that makes me believe in fate.

The difference.

Sarah: Is there really no other way? Does it have to be Leon who fights him? They’ve been best friends for so long... I don’t want to see them break apart.

Jade: Well, despite the fact that it’s under TyranT’s orders that this match take place and no-one can change the match, I think Leon’s probably the only one who can do it.

Sarah: There are plenty of other superstars on the roster who could beat Skyler, though. Romeo's done it before, even TyranT could-

Jade: Leon is undeniably the closest member of the FMW roster to Skyler. He shares a connection with my father that no-one else does. He knows how to get through to Skyler. But it needs to happen now, or else the addiction will get worse. Then? Who knows how we’ll get through to him.

The room falls back into silence for a few minutes.

Between who I used to be...

Sarah: Well, I believe in Leon. He’ll win. He's desperate to win. He's fighting for the child inside of me. To provide a future. He'll do it.

Jade: It’s not quite that simple.

Sarah: What else will he have to do? You wouldn't make him attack Skyler afterwards?

Jade: No. I’m not concerned about him doing enough. Leon’s an exceptional wrestler, don’t get me wrong. It was my father who taught him, after all. Leon may well surpass him if he trains hard enough. But the contenders, the stipulation, they’re not the problem. The problem lies in what’s on the line – the Abandoned Championship.

Sarah: So what? It’s just a belt.

Jade chuckles again. She alone remembers the expression of utter loss when Romeo defeated him for the title the first time. And she alone remembers the look in his eyes when he fought Romeo to get it back. She can remember every glimmer of sadness and fury, the haunting sounds of his screams and the quiet whispers of joy upon his victory at No Holds Barred to win it back.

And who I am now.

Jade: At a first glance, yes it’s just a belt. But the Abandoned Championship means so much more to my father. The tag belts, while representing the strength that he and Leon share, could only ever be secondary to Skyler. He sees something in that belt that pushes him to unbelievable feats of endurance and power. He sees his family. Maybe that’s been distorted now, but I know that no matter what he’s taking, he will fight tooth and nail for that belt. And to ask him to quit, to give it up? To his student? It would be utter humiliation for him. Leon doesn’t have that same drive. I’m worried he only sees that belt in the same way you do, just a prize that says he’s a good wrestler. He wants to help Skyler, that much I know, but if the title is on the line... then I don’t think Leon can outfight him.

Sarah: I think you’re wrong.

Jade sighs, resting her head on one of her hands.

Jade: I hope you’re right.

Sarah: I am. Leon’s stronger than you think he is. He’ll win, and he’ll bring Skyler back. I have faith in him.

These words echoed throughout the room. A small gurgle from little April turned Jade’s attention elsewhere. Sarah stood and exited to the kitchen in silence. Holding her younger sister, Jade just hoped. Hope was all she had left now.

And you can tell this is no small change.

-pain tears him apart its not localized anymore its screeching screaming in his eardrums-

-spreading and multiplying worsening horrifying and crushing all opposing thought-

Leave me!

-leaving tiny scratch marks everywhere but the voices inside his head yell at him that this is what he needs its his very lifeforce that he needs to grab a hold of and shove-

GO!

-wretchedly down his throat to make the pain stop to make it stop and disappear forever but he knows the consequences he wrestles with the decision but reflex pulls his hands up-

Leave me alone!

-across the bench and to the bottle unscrewing the lid he sees the tiny pills inside one left just one itll do for now though anything would do right now he claws it up with his fingers and desperately-

Get out of my HEAD!

-desperately throws his head back and throws the capsule in and once its in it starts dissolving and once it starts dissolving...

No...

...then, and only then, does his freedom return, and a sinister smile decorates his features. His light blue eyes flutter with that freedom, and his stride is confident as he disappears.

The empty bottle rolls off the bench top, dropping onto the floor with a light clatter.

The dingy bar downtown is somewhat abandoned tonight. Few of the regular patrons are in attendance, including the most recent drunkard to join their motley ranks who sits alone on a barstool, and a young duo eating each other’s faces in the background. Many of the overhead lights are broken and leave the bar to be splayed in a mixture of grey darkness and a dark mustard-coloured light. The barman washing glasses watches the television with little emotion, watching the local sports channel despite a lack of interesting content. The snooker table lies unused and the toilet door swings on its hinges, creaking loudly whenever anyone uses it.

The entrance door swings open to this scene late at night, admitting one extra man to the building. Walking down the steps slowly, he surveys the landscape of his chosen watering hole and with an amused yet somehow arrogant smile at the couple in the corner, he sidles to the bar and sits two seats down from the man who is resting his head on his arms. Observing the sleeper, the new man examines him intently. The stubble on his chin indicates he has not shaven for quite a number of days. His hair, too, is tangled and messy. His light brown overcoat drapes down his back and skims the floor, hiding a creased light blue business shirt and tattered brown trousers. Something about him seems familiar, but the new patron cannot put his finger on it quite yet and so turns his attention to the barman.

Man: Any international beers in your fridge?

Barman: European?

Man: Fosters, if you’ve got it.

You can see there’s something you like.

Reaching into a fridge to the far left of the bar, the barman pulled out a bottle and set it in front of the man, opening the lid with quick expertise. He took the man’s coins and put it through the register, although the sound of the process woke the sleeping man to his left. Clumsily putting a foot through his stool, he quickly held onto the bar to regain his balance and wiped his eyes, looking around. His voice was gruff and mumbled, no doubt the effects of a long day and a strong drink.

Sleepy: Wha time izzit?

The formerly sleeping man’s voice rang the final bell in the new man’s head.

Man: Doctor... Doctor Keane?

Sleepy’s head turned towards him, recognising his own name. In turn, Jason recognised the man inquiring him, although that was not particularly difficult as the man was dressed impeccably and his image looked just like it did on all the promotional videos for FMW Supremacy on television.

Keane: Sky...ler? Skyler Striker?

You can see I’m the Champion for a reason.

Striker: What the hell are you doing in a place like this?

Keane: I could ask you the goddamn same thing! Are you following me around? Is it not bad enough that you got me fire? That the decision I made that allowed you to keep wrestling now haunts me every night?

Striker: You made the decision, not me. I was a semi-conscious man on a stretcher. You’re the senior doctor, you should have known better.

Keane: Hah! The irony’s thick here. I sacrifice my career for you to fight ‘for your family’, and now where are you, Skyler? You’re sitting pretty on top of your new supply of pain meds, polishing off your golden belt, while apparently rumour has it your wife and kids are staying with your best friend. I threw away everything I had, all for nothing.

Striker: Wrong. You changed my life. You allowed me to see. You helped tear the wool away.

Keane: Hah. The words of an addict.

You can see I won’t back down, won’t ever give up...

Keane attempts to take a drink from his bottle but realizes it is empty. He rests his head on his arms again and speaks with his eyes closed, not bothering to pay any sort of respect.

Keane: Your fancy clothes and shiny belt may make you look different, but you’re a member of the misfit club just like me, Striker. I’ve seen hundreds of cases like yours before and you’ll end up just like every other man and woman who followed that path; alone, depressed and weak.

Striker: An addict-

At this point, Jason interrupts Skyler violently, standing from his chair and throwing his empty bottle against the far wall, shattering it. The couple in the corner depart quickly, and the barman turns his attention to the men, not bothering to break up the fight.

Keane: An addict is YOU, Skyler! You can deny it all you want, but it’s true! I don’t understand what makes you think you’re any different!

...and I will NEVER quit.

Striker: An addict I may be, Mr. Keane, I don’t deny it. But an addiction, when controlled, can be a weapon. And this weapon has released me. Now I have two unchained fists, one well-functioning mind and most of all, I have clarity. Clarity to see the truth, the ability to define the world in the way I choose and not be held back by others.

Keane: You’re an idiot. You’re not controlling this at all. You’re just plain delusional. A common symptom.

Striker: You’re just being ignorant. Whether you want to have taken part or not, you’re the one who has freed me, Jason. I owe you a great deal of thanks.

Not to someone like him.

Keane: Don’t blame this on me.

Striker: I’m only speaking the truth. And you know it, too. It scares you. You’ll get used to it, though. One day.

Striker finishes his drink and sets his bottle on the bar with a clunk. Swinging his arm around, he clasps Jason’s hand and shakes it firmly before turning on his heel and exiting the bar. Jason just stands there dumbfounded. Was Skyler serious? Jason knew that he didn’t have it under control at all, and if anything the drugs had taken control of him, but had he really changed that much?

After a lot of thought, Jason decided he didn’t need to care and ordered another drink, his head lolling into his arms again.

Not to a mongrel.

Dusty books filled out the shelves behind the heavy oak desk. Of course books with various titles relating to the letter of the law made up the majority, but amongst them titles on topics such as medicine and sociology held presence. The Celt wondered how often they were actually used or if they were merely such a facade, placed to give the impression of knowledge.
Feeling bored in the stiff leather bound chair he’s sitting in, the Celt digs into his pocket and brings out his cigarette lighter. He always just picked up the cheap plastic ones instead of shelling out for a metal one; the plastic ones were just too fun. Another habit he’d picked up was constantly flicking on the flame of the lighter and occasional darting his fingers across it.

Swish

Swish

Swish

While a simple distraction, Celt found he always needed to be doing something in life. Just sitting sit never really appealed to him...he needed to be doing something, however trivial.

Smitten: Now then...

Christian Gregory Smitten walks into his office with a powerful stride and takes a seat behind the giant oak desk that dominated that half of the room.

Smitten: So...you made it out of Hospital.

The Celt shrugs.

Celt: Just about I guess.

Smitten: I’ve been informed you’ve been cleared to compete, all I need now is confirmation of your health and it’s a done deal.

Smitten reaches down in his drawer and pulls out a form and a pen which he then hands to the Celt. Celt casts his eyes over the document, skipping most of it. Half of it was legal waffle anyways; he wasn’t going to waste time on it.

Smitten: I presume you’ve no complaints?

Celt: Oh you know me, I’ve got plenty...this insurance stuff gets a pass though.

The Celt begins ticking off the required boxes.

Smitten: Let’s try and not waste time, I’ve other business today.

Celt: Whatever Smitten, it’s not like I’m a fan of hanging around in offices all day.

The Celt finishes adding all his details to the form and hands it to Smitten

Celt: I just want to get back to taking down the worst there is

Smitten chuckles quietly to himself

Celt: Something humouring you Christian?

Smitten: Oh no...it’s nothing.

Smitten continues to quietly laugh to himself

Celt: I’m just out of hospital after dealing with one of the cruelest men in FMW, so forgive me I’m not laughing Smitten. I don’t find what I do funny.

Smitten: Ha, Oh come now Celt...I think you’re overstepping your role just a tad

Celt: Is that right?

Smitten peeks over the paper that he’s holding to his face

Smitten: You don’t seriously consider yourself being capable of truly tangoing with the
most...open minded of the roster, do you now?

Celt: Well actual Christian, I do.

Smitten places the sheet he was holding down on his desk.

Smitten: Ha.

Smitten leans forward, placing his two hands together before rest his chin upon them.

Smitten: Please, I will you some credit, you’re a step above the pawns, but your influence is still highly limited. Of all the chess pieces in FMW, I’d have thought you’re position was obvious Celt.

Celt: Oh, do enlighten me Christian; it’s clear I’m not quite grasping the situation

The Celt rolls his eyes subtly.

Smitten: Well, in FMW we have our bishops and rooks, kings and queens...but you Celt, you’re that most awkward of pieces; a knight.

Smitten turns his right hand over to show his palm, his body language almost saying “Voila”. The
Celt dips his head for a second, not so much agreeing as showing interest in the concept.

Celt: Do you go...It sounds like you’ve thought about this before.

Smitten: Hmmm, well it’s a simple analogy isn’t it? Think about it Celt; you, just like the knight, are bound to a strict code. The knight is forced to follow the awkward rules it has set its self, that is to say it may only move one space forward before it must continue either two spaces to the left or right, almost illogically so. With any other piece its progression is clear, the bishop goes diagonally, the rook travels in straight lines, the queen goes where she pleases.

With you, the knight, things are never clear, not even to yourselves, are they? Only slightly more valuable then a pawn, you’re ultimately just another piece suitable for sacrifice. You’re role is to take care of some pawns, threaten some of the more important pieces, but in the end Celt, you’re just not a key player in this game.

Celt: Hmmm, and here was I thinking that any chess piece could take another. Different ways of movement, but equal lethality.

Smitten: How very democratic of you Celt. But watch some chess games, watch the masters, and almost never see a knight survive up until the end, never-mind be the piece to win the match.

Celt: So I’m the lowly Knight huh? No power to truly influence?

Smitten: I’d word that differently perhaps...hmm, I’d prefer to say that you’re not of vital importance...not a game changer.

Celt: So HavOc and Quint-

Smitten: Oh please Celt, spare me that speech, even I’ve that one a thousand times over. Come now...just because you took one important piece does not mean you have reached the end of the board.

Celt: Look Smitten, I’ve give this: It’s a nice metaphor. I can see the logic behind, it’s come from your own little view point and I’m going to choose to respect that. I disagree with, but I respect.

Smitten smiles.

Smitten: Oh, you don’t buy my idea Celt, well now...what if I said I could prove it? Right here, right now in fact.

Celt smirks and raises a single eyebrow

Celt: Really now? Christian Smitten delivering decisive action? Ha, I feel like I should be paying to see this.

Smitten: I’m completely serious Celt. If you’d be as mannerly to hand me one of those sheets from that shelf over there on the left I will gladly demonstrate.

Celt points to where Smitten’s eyes are directed.

Celt: Those over there?

Smitten: That’s right

The Celt lifts himself out of his chair and takes a sheet from where Smitten said. He eyed it suspiciously, carefully that Smitten not attempt to trick him somehow. Walking up to the table, the Celt tentatively hands the form over to Smitten.

Smitten: Now then, I’ll show you my law degree is not something I wasted.

Taking a pen Smitten quickly begins filling out different sections of it. Writing at a speed only a motivated judge can reach, it takes Smitten mere moments to finish writing. Smitten then takes a stamp and notarizes the piece, before finally placing his signature on it.

Smitten: Tell me Celt, who has the most power in Full Metal Wrestling at the moment? I’ll give you hint, it’s not the future Mrs. Celeste Roy.

Celt: The office of Commissioner has its influence I suppose...

Smitten: Quite the understatement Celt. The board of Directors, who are represented by Ms. Rousseau, rarely exercise much power over the roster or even the structure of FMW. No, that power is left to moi. Presently I have the power to arrange and rearrange cards to my own desires. The power to reward or punish any worker I wish is vested upon me via the influence of my office. In essence, I control the fate of whomever I cast my eye upon, including men of such influence as a one Jason Roy.

Quite the arrangement, wouldn’t you say?

Celt: No need to gloat Christian, I’m quite aware of your position within the company.

Smitten: Well actually I have to wonder at times...compared to the vigour you normally employ in dealing with some of my peers, you seem almost ignorant of me-

Celt: Trust me Smitten, I’m not a supporter of yours...I just have other priorities before I tackle your position. But anyways, you were trying to prove I’m just some un-influential chess piece in FMW?

Smitten: Yes...indeed. As I was saying, I truly am an influential man in FMW, if not the most. Now, what if I said you could take over take same position?

The Celt furls his eyebrows; this is taking an unexpected path...

Smitten: Take this (Smitten hands the form he’d wrote out over to the Celt) On it you’ll see that I have just ensured that in the event that I am unable to perform my duties as Commission of Full Metal Wrestling that you shall be the man to replace me in the role.

Celt: ...the fuck?

Celt scans the form and yes, the information seems to indicate Smitten is telling the truth.

Smitten: And there you have it.

Celt: But what exactly is “it”?

Smitten: The means by which you could change FMW.

And in a flash a silence falls on the Celt and Smitten.

Celt: Hey Smitten, how bout maybe you just say what you mean, spell it out for a simple-minded “knight” like me, huh?

Smitten sighs

Smitten: Perhaps I was being too presumptuous when I assumed you’d see the obvious.

The Celt rolls his right hand, as if to say “get on with it”.

Smitten: Oh I don’t know Celt, perhaps if someone, say yourself, was to...assault me, then perhaps, maybe, you’d no longer be the non-influence you are now, but in the position you’ve always dreamt of: a position where you could cast out from FMW whomever you deemed undesirable.

The horrible realisation of what Smitten is suggesting dawns on the Celt.

Celt: You’re not-

Smitten: Oh yes I am, quite frankly.

Smitten pushes himself back from his desk quite aggressively. Instantly tension fills the air.

Smitten: So have you got it in you Celt? You’ve been chasing Jason now for months, but should you incapacitate me right here, right now you’d be far more powerful than him. You could deliver whatever punishment you deal warrantable. And all it takes is some courage.
The Celt stares up at the hulking Christian Smitten from his seat. Painted on Smitten’s face is an expression of totally seriousness. It doesn’t take the Celt long to formulate an answer.

Celt: No.

Smitten let’s out a singular, humourless “ha”.

Smitten: No?

The Celt leans forward

Celt: You want me (points at himself) to get up, right now, right here, and assault you so that I can take your position in the company? (The Celt shakes his head) No.

Smitten: I don’t think you understand the opportunity that’s in-front of you here Celt. In your hands is a legal document, signed by not only by the potential “victim”, but also a judge, that explicitly states that should anything happen to me, You[b] will be commissioner of Full Metal Wrestling. That’s thee power in the company there, all here for the seizure. What’s stopping you? What. Is. Stopping. You?

[b]Celt: Are you serious? I’m the law Smitten...I’m not going to break the law by assaulting in the hopes of stealing your position and maybe changing FMW. That’s not how I do things.

Smitten: It’d be for the greater good Celt. It’d take months of court dates for you to be charged with assault, and by that time you could make significant changes in FMW to allow whatever moral change you want-

Celt: That’s not how I do things

Smitten smiles

Smitten: Of course it’s not

Smitten slams his hand down on his desk before letting out a hearty laugh and sitting back down his seat.

Smitten: Oh Celt, of course you won’t assault me. And therein is the reason why you shall never be influential enough to carry out your mission statement in FMW. HaHaHa, so predictable.

That’s the problem Celt; you have a code that cannot be manipulated. Your solid dedication to the law, just like the knight’s dedication to his, quite frankly, stupid system of movement, prevents you from doing what’s needed to be done. I know it might seem a tad rich coming from a judge, but as a former lawyer and current judge I’ve always known how to make the law work for me.

But it’s different for you; because of the supposed moral standard that “the law” holds you to, you could not seize the power necessary to change FMW.

You are, and seemingly always will be, a non-influence here. Why? Because you’ve made a decision, you’ve dedicated yourself to that damn code of “honour”.

You know pawns can do more than you Celt. Pawns have made no such decisions, that’s why they’re pawns. They obey orders, and maybe one day they’ll have the opportunity to change. Knights, knights don’t have that opportunity to change because they’ve made the decision to be knights instead of pawns.

Yes Celt, by being the knight you took a step up in value, but a massive step down in potential, and ultimately influence. A brilliant metaphor if I do say so myself.

Smitten sits back in his chair, beaming with delight at seemingly having ripped his status apart.

A sour look pours over the Celt’s face, his reaction is definitely not positive to Smitten’s comments. Slowly Celt puts his hands together and begins a mocking slow clap


Celt: Amazing stuff Smitten. I mean wow, were you in the debating society when getting that law degree of yours?

Smitten: Ha-ha, amazingly not...amazingly not.

Celt: I’m almost sorry to say though...there are a few holes in your argument.

With that the Celt lifts his jacket with his left hand and with his right hand reaches for something. Smitten is shocked by what he sees; Celt’s Colt .45 resting in a holster. Without any problems Celt draws the firearm out from its pouch and holds it with his right hand.

Celt: Gimme your hands Christian

Smitten: ...

Smitten makes not a sound nor a movement, save only for his eyes which darts between the .45 and Celt’s face every few moments

Celt: Come on now...you were demanding I assault two minutes ago, hands, gimme.

The Celt makes the “come here” gesture with his left hand but no movement is forthcoming from Smitten. The Celt looks at the gun.

Celt: Oh, it’s this isn’t it?


In one swift movement Celt places the barrel to his side temple.



...



Smitten eyes widen at this bizarre turn of events



...



CLICK




Celt has pulled the trigger but only the hammer CLICKs.


Celt: Quit worrying, I don’t go around with the damn thing loaded, Gods.

Celt points the .45 at the ceiling and squeezes the trigger repeatedly.




Celt: Now, show me your hands Smitten.

Hesitantly Smitten reaches forwards with both hands. Using his two hands Celt places the .45 in Smitten’s hands, keeping his own hands over Smitten’s, forcing Smitten’s index finger to be placed firmly on the trigger.

Celt: Oh kay now, here we go...here’s my little critique of your metaphor; you know it’s not actually bad, in points you’re absolute right. I am a knight when it comes to the chess board of FMW. That is, in fact, a good metaphor. But here’s my question:

What happens to pawns and knights and non-influential pieces on a chess board Smitten?

Smitten’s eyes are still drawn to his own hands being wrapped around a gun.

What happens, to non- influential pieces on a chess board Christian? Come on now, wake up

The Celt shakes Smitten’s hands a bit, which seems to snap Smitten out of his trace.

Smitten: Um...they’re removed by other pieces?

Celt: Bingo! Correct, pawns and the like are-

The Celt forces his thumb down on Smitten’s index finger, causing him to squeeze the trigger
[i/][i]CLICK

Removed in play. Other, more influential pieces take CLICK them out. Not the other way around, non-influential pieces don’t CLICK take out important pieces, there’s no strategic value in that, it only goes one way.

Okay, so lemme ask ya another question: Why am I still here? Why haven’t I been CLICK removed from play?

Smitten: ...

Celt: Plenty of people have come and CLICK gone through FMW. When was the start of the game Christian, when did FMW kick off?

Smitten: Three years ago

Celt: Right again, we CLICK kicked off three years ago, that’s when this game of chess started. You were there, I was there, game was in session. So why am I still here, why haven’t I been CLICK picked off yet when so many others have?

Smitten: I’m afraid you’re going to have enlighten me this time Celt

The Celt smiles

Celt: Because to remove me is folly. You take me out of the game and CLICK bang! You’re got a shitstorm of epic proportions. See, If I get removed, people will stand up. I stand for something Smitten, like it or not, that people care about. If I go down, others will rise up. You’ll have made a martyr out of me. That will cause alot of people to become upset, and angry, and they’ll rise against the people who did it.

You, and plenty of others, know this. That’s why I haven’t been dumped in a river with a carpet wrapped around me at any point.

Smitten: Ha! Is that right Celt? Well, why haven’t you sacrificed yourself so? Knowing that an army will spring up in your stead? Is that not in your interest?

CLICK

Celt: Because: Martyrs begat Martyrs Smitten. If I go CLICK down and a bunch of people get angry and unleash themselves upon guys like Roy, it’s going to get violent, very violent. Having set the example of martyrdom more would follow me. That’s going to get

CLICK messy, it’ll turn things to hell, and I’m not leaving FMW to turn into that. It’d get rid of the evil, but at too high a cost.

But what does that mean?

Ha, it means I can’t be removed from the game. So what do you do with a piece that can’t be removed from the game? You try and box him in...only I can’t be. See, as you said, I don’t move like the other pieces, I’m a knight. I’ll just break out.

So slowly but surely this little knight who can’t be CLICK taken out moves forward and takes out the pieces opposed to him on the other team.

Yeah Smitten you got it right; I’m a knight, but that’s just perfect for me. I get the CLICK job done.

Celt takes his hands off Smitten’s before taking the .45 by the barrel away from Smitten, and then places it back in its holster. Smitten immediately readjusts him in his seat as well as checking his ties, in a flustered fashion.

Smitten: I cannot believe you carry a firearm around with you

Celt: Eh, only in states where it permitted...if it makes you feel any better I’ve a permit.

Smitten: So, you’re the little chess piece that could Celt.

Celt: Looks like it Smitten

Smitten: Hmmm, well, mind if I venture one final point?

Celt: Oh why not? We’re in deep enough now that we might as well go all the way

Smitten: Sure. See, if a...if we do follow this “logic” of yours, where your moral code protects you, then there’s a chink in your armour Celt, a fatal flaw if you will

Celt: And what’s that?

Smitten holds up his index finger at Celt

Smitten: One solitary slip up, one singular mistake, and you’re gone. Finished, “Buried”.
You do a single thing to break that code of ethics of yours, and every man who opposes or has opposed you has the ammunition they need to wipe you out.

Celt suddenly has the urge to spit, but thinks better of it.

Celt sighs instead

Celt: Technically, you’re not fucking wrong...technically.

Smitten: Ha ha! (Smitten claps his hands together in delight) That’s the thing of it! You Celt, have drawn a line in the sand but here’s the thing: It doesn’t matter how far in that your enemies have crossed it, should you place one toe over that line, they may turn and say you too, you too Celt are on our side of the line!

That’s almost a fatal a flaw as they come.

Celt: it’s bull-shit. I’ll say it again, bull-shit!

See that’s what they’re all hoping for Smitten, nah, they’re DESPERATE for me to do that, to justify them. They want me, the man who puts them in their place, to be the same man to validate them all! It’s bullshit Smitten, total bullshit.

Smitten: Hypocrisy can be such a delicious dish served to the right person

Celt: They think that no matter what they’ve done, not matter how many times or how evil the action was, that they can get away with it so long as there’s no one who has a moral high ground over them, it’s pathetic.

For all them, they think if there’s no one to say there’s morals then morals don’t exist. It pisses me off no end.

Smitten: There certainly seems to be an element willing your downfall, much to my amusement.

Celt: I mean, I’ve been called obsessive right? And maybe I am. So following “takes one to know one” logic I can tell you their quest to see me trip; it’s obsessive.
Roy, Lincoln, guys like Virus, fucking Chris Austin...even Quint, even fucking Quint who wants to turn over this new leaf! He NEEDs me to be a hypocrite so justify what he’s done. They all NEED to be on an equal footing with me so they can try and get away with whatever they want!

Smitten: And it’s just you?

Celt: Well, yeah actually! Look, you know there’s plenty of people in FMW who’ll stand up for what’s right, but so many of them will break the rules to do that, the same rules those scum break to do wrong. I’m the only one who won’t break the rules, so I’m the one they need to be a hypocrite.

Take Quint; he’s doesn’t need anyone else to fall. Not Johansson or Omega, not even Drew Michaels. Why? Because if you’d have waved that chance to be commissioner in front of any of the Saints they’d have beat the shit outta you! But I wouldn’t have. I can hold people to account of themselves.

Celt stands up out of his seat now, his passion taking over.

But you know what? I won’t be the hypocrite they need be to be! I fucking won’t!

There’s black, and there’s white and there’s nothing in between!

Everything is choice! And I choose to do what’s right! I choose not to be their fucking justification! I choose not to be their validation! No matter what they say or how much they want it, they’ll never turn into something I’m not! I’m the fucking law damnit!

Celt walks over towards the door of the office

Celt: You know what? I got to get out there. Just thinking about all this reminds of how much work is left to do, I gotta get out of here Smitten.

Celt makes for the door.

Smitten: Celt!

The Celt places his hand on the door but turns his head back to face Smitten, who has just picked up the sheet which would have made the Celt commissioner in the event of Smitten’s injury.

Smitten: Let me us give you this piece of advice as you leave:

Smitten turns towards his right and feeds the sheet into a shredder.

People don’t want someone to look up to anyone anymore...they don’t want to stain their necks.

They want people who are flawed to make them feel equal. Your code of morals, the “law”, makes you different. And historically, people fear what is different. If they can’t find reasons to hate you, they will invent them. You are different, and thus you’re somewhat of an outcast in society. Being the outcast is painful, and to be honest, I don’t think anyone is so strong that they can be an outcast by choice their entire lives, not if they can help it. So when you crack, whenever that day eventually comes...maybe you come to me, and then maybe we could do business ok? I mean, the law and the judge? Two sides of the same coin.

Goodbye Celt

Celt: The Law is not for turning Smitten, not for anyone.

The Celt opens the door, and exits.

Fin

“When I whet my flashing sword, and my hand takes hold on judgment, I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who hate me. Oh, LORD, raise me to Thy right hand and count me among Thy saints.” - Deuteronomy 32:41

The Legend of Christopher Bryson

The story opens on Christmas Eve 1776 in the battlefields of New York, a colony consumed by revolution. The British have driven General Washington’s forces out of area thanks to the support of a number of German mercenaries and conscripts known as the Hessians. These soldiers, promised to King George III by local German leaders in order to help him suppress his American problem, made up around one quarter of the British led forces in North America and were instrumental in putting the rebellion on the ropes in early days of the war. These men knew no personal stake in this war yet have been forced to make it their own, putting their lives and their livelihoods on the line for a world they have never before known.

But one of them, a young semi-nobleman named Christoph Bryson, would eventually look to use it to change the world.

Rall: BRYSON!

Christoph curses under his breath, he knew he should have taken this assignment to work for Johann Rall. He was a nobleman, a man of moderate wealth and power in Hesse-Kessel. He kept a summer home in London, a winter home in Paris. He was a man of just enough influence to get what he wanted in Europe, to rub shoulders with the upper crust without having to carry the burden of their responsibilities.

That is, until he agreed to go fight in a war half a world away. It sounded like an adventure, like a nice change to a mundane life of privilege. He was promised a spot as an officer, a chance to bring some honor upon his name after they quickly crush the rebellion in the American colonies, a simple job to push his name up the ranks of society. So he, and his brother Erik, enlisted under Count William and shipped off for the New World. Once there, they were put under the command of seasoned soldier Johann Gottlieb Rall; a legend of various European theaters of combat such as the War of the Austrian Succession, the Fourth Russo-Turk War, and the Seven Years’ War. It was in that particular engagement that the British saw his expert abilities in action and led to them recruiting him to help in the colonies once again, this time against men he had once served with such as his often opponent General George Washington. It was Rall who was now calling Christoph from out of the ranks and to his side.

Bryson: Yes sir?

Rall carried himself like a veteran soldier, his strides were long and powerful and his glare seemed to look straight through you and into your soul. He had an obvious distaste for Christoph, a child of privilege who never knew service before today. As he strode away, Christoph pushes himself to keep up.

Rall: Your brother.

Christoph waits for a minute, as if he expected something. When Rall does not speak for a few seconds, Christoph responds quickly.

Bryson: My brother sir?

Rall: Yes, your brother. Are you both dumb and deaf too?

Bryson: What about my brother sir?

Rall: I need him to run a mission for me, to meet with a recently freed loyalist named John Honeyman. He claims he has information about the American forces that could be instrumental in our holding of Trenton.

Bryson: Why my brother?

Rall: Too few of my men speak enough English to communicate with the locals, you and your brother among them. And, not due to any choice of mine, you are an officer so I cannot send you. That leaves little Erik.

Bryson: Where is the meeting point sir?

Rall: In his home in the city, nothing Erik should not be able to handle.

Bryson: I am going with him.

Rall: And why is that?

Bryson: To make sure the soldier obtains all necessary information. That is my right as an officer,correct?

Christoph knows his real intentions and fears Rall does too as he glares at him deeply, that he is less concerned about the information and more so about his brother’s welfare. Christoph talked his little brother into joining him in his “adventure” at the age of eighteen and is now beginning to regret it as the realities of their situation begin to set in.

Rall: Fair enough. You are dismissed.

Christoph nods and runs off to find Erik and begin preparing for their journey to Trenton as our scene fades to black…


The scene reopens to the home of weaver and British loyalist John Honeyman, a British loyalist living in the currently British (and Hessian)-controlled Trenton. Erik and Christoph are sitting in the den of the home sipping tea as Honeyman seats himself across from the two and weakly smiles.

Honeyman: I hope your trip from the encampment wasn’t too harsh.

Bryson: No, not at all. Luckily, we control much of this area so it is very unlikely for resistance pockets to spring up between the temporary base and the city.

Erik: And if they did it wouldn’t be good for them; what with two well trained German soldiers to deal with.

Erik laughs and Honeyman attempts a weak laugh of his own while Christoph just shakes his head.

Bryson: You will have to excuse him; he is new to the Jäger. His inexperience makes his eager.

Christoph speaks slowly and deliberately, trying his best to convey a sense of nobility and pride befitting of an officer so to earn the respect and trust of Honeyman. Honeyman takes in each word attentively before speaking again.

Honeyman: So, you have come for information. Correct?

Bryson: That is it indeed, we were sent by Commander Rall due to the fact he heard you had some type of information on General Washington’s forces?

Honeyman: I recently escaped captivity from Washington’s encampment across the Delaware River. His forces are disorganized and scattered; I think the winter has been harder on them due to their lesser training and (Looking towards Erik) pedigree.

Erik: I would imagine so, the savages.

Bryson: Quiet Erik. Now Mr. Honeyman, do you think General Washington will be able to bring his forces together for a strike during the holiday season?

Honeyman: I completely doubt it, with the holidays beginning tomorrow I expect nothing less than a record number of desertions as men begin to want to see their families again.

Christoph stares at Honeyman intently before turning back to Erik.

Bryson: Private, can you please go outside and wait for me. I think we have everything we need but I have a couple more questions for our friend Mr. Honeyman.

Erik: Why do I have to go outside for that Christoph!?

Christoph jumps out of his seat, anger filling his face. Erik may be his brother but he is also his subordinate.

Bryson: Private, I am your SUPERIOR OFFICER and you shall NOT question my orders. Understood?

Erik stares at his brother and just shakes his head before heading out the door. Bryson turns back to Honeyman and his face maintains the stern look of disapproval.

Bryson: Why are you lying to me John?

Honeyman: Wh-What?

Bryson: You are lying to me and I do not appreciate it John.

Honeyman: I don’t know what you are talking about sir and I do not appreciate the accusations coming from you.

Bryson: Just tell me the truth and we will be on our way. My superior never has to know that you had a failure in your judgment temporarily and we can go on our way winning this war.

Honeyman: I told you, I have no idea what you are talking about sir. Now please leave my home, I am very busy!

John stands up as if to usher Bryson out of the door but the soldier is quicker with his reflexes as he pushes Honeyman back into his seat, the stern look of disapproval still plastered all over his face.

Bryson: I would prefer you sitting please. Now, the truth if you will.

Honeyman: You German bastards have no place here! This isn’t your fight you gutless sons of bitches!

Christoph allows a smile to finally cross his face as he laughs weakly.

Bryson: So now we reach the truth or at least a little bit of it, don’t we? This is a job Mr. Honeyman, nothing more and nothing less.

Honeyman: This is our freedom!

Bryson: This is rebellion, a disgusting poison that has no place in our society. This could inspire uprisings all across Europe if you are successful! Families could be toppled, crowns lost forever! The order of our lives could be destroyed because some backwoods farmers want “independence”.

Honeyman: And why would that be so bad?

Bryson: Excuse me?

Honeyman: Why would this order you talk so highly of falling apart be so bad? Why would tyrants, placed on the throne for no reason other than familial ties, descending from the position of power be such a horrible thing? Why should we sit back and do nothing while the English rape our land and defile our existence?

Bryson (Laughs): Funny, when I first met you Mr. Honeyman I thought you were too intelligent to buy into the colonials’ bullshit. I guess I was sadly mistaken.

Honeyman: How does a German come to speak English so fluently?

Bryson is taken aback by the random line of questioning. He stares at Honeyman trying to figure out his game before answering him.

Bryson: I don’t see what it has to do with anything but my mother always insisted Erik and I knew the languages of the continent. German, English, French, Italian, Russian.

Honeyman: Just as I thought, you are of privileged birth; a child of the system.

Bryson: And you are a traitor, a simple craftsman involved in a game he cannot hope to understand! Now tell me the truth or God help me I will execute you right here for the Crown.

Honeyman (Scoffs): God, you dare call upon God in your war against liberty.

Bryson: God smiles favorably upon the nobility.

Honeyman: Is that what you believe…or what you were raised to believe?

Bryson: What does it matter?

Honeyman: It matter a lot, why is a nobleman like you serving in the Hessian army under British rule and not even standing as a commander? Why are you here? What business brought you to the New World, to our home?

Bryson: I am doing my duty.

Honeyman: Bullshit. Something brought you here sir and I want to know what.

Bryson: I have no reason nor need to explain myself to the likes of you.

Honeyman allows a slight smile to now cross his face as he speaks.

Honeyman: No…you do not. But sir, I think you will indeed do just that.

Christoph stares at Honeyman, confused by his indigence and pride yet…yet he does indeed feel compelled to talk to the man. Instead of allowing his anger to possess control, Christoph seats himself again across from John and begins to speak despite his previous objections.

Bryson: Adventure, I was looking for adventure. I have become bored with my life in Europe; one can only attend so many formal functions in so many venues before it begins to become dull and repetitive. I needed something more in my life and then I found this opportunity to see the New World, to fight for my people in a cause I thought I could believe in.

Honeyman: “You thought you could believe in?” What does that mean?

Bryson: I mean…(Thinks for a minute before speaking again) I understand where the British Empire is coming from. The colonies seem ungrateful for all the help given to them during the Seven Years’ War and now refuse to pay back for any of that help through taxes.

Honeyman: Taxes levied without representation.

Bryson: Exactly, the colonists have novel ideas and they seem to also make sense. Especially that Thomas Jefferson fellow, he is quite good. I just…I’ve been taught my whole life that I am better because of my station in life. How can my family, which has given me so much in my life and so much to the people of Hesse-Kessel, be so wrong?

Honeyman: It’s not about what you have been taught; it is about what you believe to be right and wrong.

Christoph stares at John closely, his eyes narrowing as he thinks for a second before speaking again.

Bryson: Who are you?

Honeyman: What do you mean?

Bryson: You…you are something more. I can feel it.

Honeyman: I don’t know what you are talking about sir.

Bryson: I know when you are lying, we have established that.

Honeyman: Yes…yes you do Chosen One.

Bryson: Chosen One? What are you talking about Mr. Honeyman?

Honeyman: Christoph Bryson, you are the Chosen One of the LORD Almighty. You have been selected to lead mankind in this turbulent time of revolution and chaos. You will guide them, protect them, and save them for the LORD.

Bryson: No…no. You have the wrong person, this is crazy, this cannot be me. I refuse to believe this is me. Besides, who are you to decide this? You’re insane, touched in the head!

John stands up, a knowing smile on his face as he steps towards Christoph and places his right hand of the shoulder of the young man in front of him.

Honeyman: You know Christoph, you know.

A shining light seems to begin to permeate from Honeyman and Christoph just nods because yes, he knows. Oh how he knows…

Bryson: You’re…beyond this world.

Honeyman: Yes, for now. This form is mortal, I took it temporarily. We knew you would come Christoph, you would find your way here. It was foretold.

Bryson: What am I supposed to do?

Honeyman: Nothing, do nothing. Allow your brother to make his report, do as you’re told. You know what the right thing to do is, now just do it.

Bryson: Help them…

Honeyman: Go Chosen One, go and save this land.

Bryson: Thank you, thank you so much.

Christoph shakes John’s hand violently and rushes out of the door to meet his brother as John just sits back and watches.

???: Do you think he is in?

Honeyman: Yes Gabriel, the Chosen One has manifested.

The archangel Gabriel appears from the ethers next to Honeyman and places his hand on the man next to him.

Gabriel: That is all we can hope then. Your mission is complete spirit, you are free to go.

Honeyman: Thank you so much for this opportunity to attempt to prove my loyalty archangel.

Gabriel raises his hand over John’s body and a bright white light bursts out of it and dissipates in the air. Gabriel just smiles.

Gabriel: Anytime Beel, anytime…

And with that, our scene fades to black…


Marion: Who are you sir? Redcoat or Continental?

The scene reopens on November 1780 in the swamps of colonial South Carolina where the legendary “Swamp Fox” Francis Marion, scourge of the British forces in the colony, and Marion’s Men have encountered a rugged man. His bead and hair are long, his clothes are basically rags, and his appearance would be described as disheveled on his best day.

The years have not been kind to the Chosen One.

Bryson: I am…neither. Both? I don’t even know anymore…

Marion stares at Bryson for a minute, seemingly in deep thought. Finally, he waves his men off.

Marion: Stand down gentlemen. You (points at Bryson), sit on that stump.

Bryson stumbles his way over to the stump pointed out by Francis Marion and crashes upon it. The look in his eyes is that of both confusion and apathy as he stares upon the Swamp Fox.

Marion: Who are you?

Bryson: Chris…Christopher Bryson.

The final syllable of his first name comes out awkward and stunted, he had recently made the decision to change his name in an attempt to hide his past and Americanize himself.

Marion: What are you doing in these swamps Christopher? You have to have heard the stories of devils and demons that lurk out here.

Marion’s Men begin to snicker; they know the legends themselves because they are those creatures of legend. The British refuse to believe that any colonial regiment could do to them what these men have and instead have begun to attribute their actions to the supernatural.

Bryson: Actually, I was kind of hoping as much.

Bryson smiles weakly as Marion’s Men all look among themselves, shocked and amazed by the seeming arrogance of the stranger.

Marion: How did you find your way here Christopher?

Bryson: I…I got lost.

Marion: Where are you from?

Bryson: Far away…too far away.

Marion: You playing games with me is not helping anyone stranger. We have a war to fight dammit and we cannot afford to have random men wandering around these swamps.

Bryson: Ah yes, the war. Is it still going on?

The men start laughing again as Marion looks around, a look of disgust on his face.

Marion: Yes, it is still going on. Have you not noticed?

Bryson: I’ve been avoiding it since Trenton.

Marion: Trenton?

Bryson: The Battle of Trenton, you know when they captured the Hessian army?

Marion: Yes, we heard. That was years ago though…you were there? Are you a deserter?

Christopher thinks for a minute before answering, he had never really pondered that question.

Bryson: Yes…yes I think I am. But not from your side, of course not from your side. You are in the right; I could not stand being wrong any longer. Of course, a lot of good that did me…

Marion: So you are British… (Thinks for a minute) Or Hessian. You’re a Hessian mercenary, aren’t you? That would explain you having been at Trenton.

Bryson: That would be it indeed sir. Good job, I see why they say you are one of the best minds of your time. Yes, I was at Trenton. Hell, I caused Trenton.

Marion: What do you mean?

Bryson: I received information from a colonial masquerading as a loyalist claiming that Washington’s forces were scattered and in a total state of disarray. I knew he was lying but kept that to myself because…because I thought it was the right thing to do. Two days later, Washington’s forces crossed the Delaware and slaughtered our forces. My brother….my brother died on that day. As did Commander Rall and everyone in my unit for that matter.

Marion: War is hell.

Bryson: So cold, so uncaring; I sometimes wish I could be such a grizzled veteran. Instead, I just ran and continue to run.

Marion: And your running led you here it seems.

Bryson: Actually I am looking for something here. I just, as I said, got a little…lost. Yes, lost.

Marion: What are you looking for?

Bryson: Roanoke.

Marion: The island?

Bryson: Yeah, where the supposed “Lost Colony” was.

Marion: Why would you look for such an accursed place?

Bryson: I…I have a destiny to fulfill.

Marion: Again with your cryptic words, could you not just be clear when you speak?

Bryson: I am sorry sir I just…I just need to get going. Is there any way you could point me in the right direction?

Marion: You are going to want to head north up the coast, just trudge forward until you cross into the North Carolina colony and begin asking around, someone there should be able to help you if you are so insistent upon this fate.

Bryson: Thank you sir, I will not forget it.

Bryson begins to make his way into the distance when he yells back, without even looking towards the path behind him.

Bryson: By the by, General Tarleton is on your trail and has been for four days. I would suggest changing directions and heading west and you’ll flank him. If not, he’ll surely be upon you within two more days at the most.

Marion and his men stand astonished as Bryson disappears into the darkness. It is this darkness that consumes him completely, he sees no need to stop or rest for he never feels tired. He never hunts for he never hungers. He simply just is and it is in this state that Christopher travels for weeks on foot, his entire will devoted to making it to Roanoke Island. Once there, he can solve the mystery and discover the source of this calamity. Once there, he can find what he believes to be the most powerful supernatural area on the eastern seaboard. Once there, he can save him…

Erik will be returned to him, hell or high water.

Christopher pushes forward until eventually he reaches a clearing. The clearing is unusual for the area, one that was intensely wooded and luscious for miles. Christopher, however, thinks little of it and attempts to continue on his way. However, every attempt to leave the clearing leads him back to the same clearing. After four or five attempts, Christopher has become frustrated…

Bryson: DAMMIT ALL TO HELL!

Very frustrated.

???: Having a little trouble Mr. Bryson?

Bryson: Who’s there!?

A figure, dressed like a member of high society not unlike those Christopher rubbed elbows during his life in Europe, steps out of the opposite side of the clearing with a twisted smile upon his face.

Beel: Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Beel and I am here to have a discussion with you. My job is to implore you make the most prudent of decisions, shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, you seem to be a reasonable man even if you do not look it at this moment.

Bryson: Speak fast; I have important events to attend to.

Beel: Oh yes, your fool’s errand to Roanoke. Yes, I have heard all about that. In fact, it is why I am here today in your presence.

Bryson: What about it then?

Beel: You must turn back.

Bryson: I keep hearing that but no one can really give me a convincing reason.

Beel: It is not your mission.

Bryson: It is my only mission!

Beel: Listen Chosen One…

Bryson (Interrupting): I never wanted that damn title and you know it!

Beel: It was never a question of what you wanted Bryson.

Bryson: Listen, I did as you asked of me. I eliminated the wild magic in this land so that a nation may grow while revolution still raged. I removed the werewolves, hid the sasquatch, released the spirits. What more do you want of me!? What more could you want of me!?

Beel: You have a child.

Bryson: Wait…what!?

Beel: Do you remember the woman in Philadelphia? Betsy? The one you professed your love for and spent a year with while you hunted spirits? The beautiful damsel-

Bryson (Interrupting): I remember. She…she was with child?

Beel: Jacob has to be around what, two years old now?

Bryson: Why didn’t she tell me?

Beel: You left before she had a chance. He is a beautiful child Christoph and he shall carry the Bryson name proudly.

Bryson: I have to go back to him…

Beel: You do indeed.

Bryson: …After Roanoke. I will go back with by brother by my side. We will make this nation into our home and work together to protect this nation.

Beel: You can’t do that Christoph. Roanoke is unstable; a being of your power entering the area could throw the entire equilibrium out of balance. The results would be devastating.

Bryson: If I have such power then I will be able to handle it. After all I have done for you, trust me.

Beel: I wish I could Chosen One, I wish I could. However, you seem intent to waste your talents and go without our blessing into the void. You need to be there for the future generations Bryson, to guide them and this nation into tomorrow.

Bryson: I know what I need to do and that is follow my heart. My child will be there and I will guide him but first…first I rectify my mistakes. Now let me take my leave of this place.

Christopher turns to walk away but Beel dives forward, anger and total frustration fueling him.

Beel: YOU SHALL NOT DO THAT TO ME! Not now, not after I worked so hard for this!

Bryson whips around as he feels Beel closing in on him and throws up his right hand. A bright white light explodes out of the palm of his hand, causing Beel to freeze in his steps.

Bryson: From whence you came you shall return!

Beel: No, no, no; not the Pit…

Beel seems to explode into a thousand shards and each shard fades into nothingness. Along with these shards, so fades away the clearing back to a normal patch of woodland. Christopher looks around as this occurs; he does not even seem shocked anymore about the supernatural. After the magic of the area fully disperses Bryson just shakes his head and turns back towards his rugged path.

Bryson: I am coming Erik, I promise…

And, with that solemn vow, our scene fades again to black…


Michaels: And what happened next?

Uriel: It is unknown; the story of Christopher Bryson ends there. There are mentions of a stranger being sighted in the area around Roanoke Island in what is now Dare County during that summer. He was asking for a boat to ferry him across. However, nothing official is known about Christopher Bryson after his enter with the demon Beelzebub.

The scene returns to the present, more specifically a dim room lit only by a handful of candles and occupied by the current Chosen One Andrew Michaels and his guardian angel Uriel, a Prince of Presence. Drew is seated in front of his guardian listening intently to the tale being weaved but now seems full of nothing but questions.

Michaels: So Bryson reached Roanoke?

Uriel: One can only assume as much. He went off our radar completely after his encounter with Beelzebub; speculation is that he used the massive amounts of magical energy put off by the banishing of the demon spirit to hide himself from us. And once he entered Roanoke, he seemed to be lost forever.

Michaels: That brings up another question, why was Beelzebub working with Gabriel? I know he is not the most honest of the archangels but I have never known him to consort with demons. In fact, through his interactions with Seir he has shown nothing but contempt.

Uriel: Beelzebub was a Lord of Hell, his power feared by both demon and angel alike. He came to Gabriel and begged for a chance for redemption though around this time and hoped to use it to escape the Abyss.

Michaels: But Christopher sent him back.

Uriel: Indeed, Beelzebub was given a mortal form as a reward. It was an intelligent ploy by the Hosts of Heaven, trap the demon in mortal form and when he passed on to the other side; he is no longer possesses the power he once did. Beelzebub thought he was getting redemption and a second chance when in actuality he was destined for an even greater punishment.

Michaels: But I ran into the same demon during my struggles against Ethan, the Morningstar.

Uriel: Yes, you did. Lucifer, in his guise as Ethan Black, was able to give Beelzebub flesh once again and attempted to use him as a pawn against you. However, like with Christopher, he failed.

Michaels: Okay, second question...what is at Roanoke Island? I have heard the stories of the Lost Colony, the entire colony of people who simply vanished without a trace but what was there that would cause so much destruction.

Uriel: Wild magic. The area of the world now known as the United States was once ripe with untapped supernatural potential which is why so many mind altering drugs like peyote still grow so freely to this day. Roanoke is a concentration of that magic; some believe it even opens into another world.

Michaels: “Some believe”?

Uriel: Even we who stand in His Presence are not privy to all.

Michaels: I see. What happened to his son Jacob?

Uriel: Jacob never knew his father but thrived on the proud tales passed on him by his mother that were in turn told to her by Christopher. He believed strongly in the Bryson name and worked to make it a powerful name in the new nation. He invested heavily in the Ohio territory, and eventual state, and profited greatly from it.

Michaels: Which is why the Bryson estate is in Cleveland, that makes sense. The real question I have though…why tell me this story now?

Uriel: Because you have developed new enemies and those enemies are your of your own blood. The matriarch of the Bryson family, your grandmother, has discovered you know of your Anak heritage and now have completely moved out of their realm of influence with your forced break from your estranged cousin Nicholas. You have become a liability and must be removed from the table.

Michaels: So you hope by me knowing my familial past, I can understand them?

Uriel: Somewhat. Have you ever wondered why your father Matthew was in South Carolina?

Michaels: What do you mean?

Uriel: Your mother lived in South Carolina her entire life; your biological father met her there. Why was he there away from the estate?

Michaels: I…I have never really thought about it. Business perhaps?

Uriel: He was following the footsteps of Christopher. Due to Jacob’s hero worship of his absent father, Christopher Bryson is seen as a hero within your family. He was the first Bryson to set foot in the New World and the first, and only until you came along, to carry the title of the Chosen One. His actions became legendary among the family and Matthew hoped to imitate them.

Drew thinks for a second before answering.

Michaels: He was in South Carolina because that is where Christopher met Francis Marion. And he was in Florence because that is where Francis Marion University is located, the Swamp Fox’s namesake.

Uriel: And that is where he met your mother and their affair began.

Michaels: She taught at Francis Marion University for years…

Uriel: She was considered on expert on the history of the region, particularly that related to the Revolutionary period. He hoped to learn about Francis Marion and see if any record was ever made of Marion’s encounter with the wild individual in the swamps of South Carolina. Matthew has successfully tracked him from Philadelphia to there without much record, as the stories told to Jacob ended there, and the diary of one soldier who traveled with Marion had made mention of the name Bryson. He hoped your mother could shed more light upon the subject.

Michaels: So, because of Christopher Bryson, I was conceived and thus the Chosen One lineage was again revived within the Bryson bloodline.

Uriel: Exactly but unlike Christopher your father never made it to Roanoke Island. Your mother distracted him, kept him in the area for too long. He had to return home to Ohio and, at one point, took you and your mother with him.

Michaels: Yeah, I have seen the picture. So knowing about Christopher helps me determine the mindset of the Bryson family.

Uriel: That is what I hope.

Michaels: It is more than that though, is it not? I…I have to go to Roanoke. I mean, the area is civilized now so the magic much have dispersed. However, finding out what happened to Christopher has to be a priority, right? I mean, he was a predecessor both biologically and as the Chosen One. To know that is to have a one up on my family.

Uriel: I am not sure how wise that may be Andrew…

Michaels: I am not sure how wise any my decisions may be but I have to see this through. I have to discover the truth.

Uriel: Then you shall be forced to do it alone.

Michaels: What?

Drew gets no answer though as Uriel is gone, vanished into the mists of time. He stares for some time at the empty spot where his guardian had once been before speaking again.

Michaels: Alone…why? What is on Roanoke Island? What is this “wild magic”? (Drews laughs to himself) Leave it me to stumble into an over four hundred year old mystery. And to think, I still have a match at Supremacy with the other Saints coming up too.

Drew sighs, not wanting to think about the upcoming conflict with his brothers-in-arms.

Michaels: I guess like my ancestor, I must brave the unknown. I must dive headfirst into the insanity of my station and discover the truth at all costs. But first… (Sighs again) But first I must also be like my ancestor and put aside my family and friends for what I think is right and just. I must be willing to do harm to those I love in order to accomplish my tasks ahead of me.

To protect liberty, I must watch the blood of my brother fall to the Earth. Man, do I hate this shit sometimes…

Drew just shakes his head in disgust at his situation, both personal and professional, before blowing out the candles and welcoming in the ever creeping black…




“The end is never the end. A new challenge awaits. A test no man could be prepared for. A new hell he must conquer and destroy. A new level of growth he must confront himself. The machine in the ghost within. This is the journey of the man on the moon.” – Common

Where did it all go wrong?

It wasn’t the first time Faith had asked herself such a question, but never did the mute anticipate just how worse her situation could become. The world around her had become nothing but an empty void, nothing but ropes separating her from the deafening sound beyond the dark. Her breathing rate was heavy, her left leg still trembling from the trauma of the heaviest kicks her body could allow. The bones in her ribs and upper back complained, a temporary pain, but one she would remember for the next few days for the mistakes she made tonight. There was bloodlust in the air, that much evident from the approval of the unseen thousands that lay in the darkness. Hidden eyes stared at Faith, seeing her as their champion, their slayer of man and beast alike. It was so close to the days of old, such primitive reactions fuelled only by violence. Faith used to bask in such an atmosphere, but no longer it would seem.

Before her lay Syanide, a monster of a man, the very man who ended VanGuard’s career as a wrestler, the only person Faith had to fall back on. Faith wasn’t suppose to defeat him, that much was more then clear as Faith knew the great chains of Syanide lay in wait somewhere. The chains were suppose to be her parting gift, a message Syanide was suppose to carry along with another victory, but now they lay somewhere out of sight, untouched, unused. Faith was suppose to lose, she was always suppose to lose. So why was it that she kept on winning? Was it her success and her victories that were driving people away from her? Was it why Striker would not even acknowledge her anymore? Is that why her father had become so hostile? Faith certainly wasn’t the girl she used to be as she stood in the squared circle, feeling her arm being raised by the referee as she was declared the winner of her latest Distortion match. Faith should have been ecstatic, it was the fight she wanted, her chance to gain vengeance for VanGuard despite how small her chance of success was. She never expected to win, yet she stood victorious to the chants of the mindless, glaring through an unkempt fringe that hung over her emerald eyes..

As the crowd cheered on and as her arm was raised up high, Faith felt nothing. No sense of glory or achievement, no rush from snatching victory against one of the toughest opponents she had faced. Faith didn’t even feel any anger towards her father, despite the reality that TyranT had just once again robbed her of the biggest opportunity of her life, nor did she feel anything against Syanide anymore. There was nothing there, no real thought or emotion, it was as if some of her life had been sucked away from her, and Faith didn’t even care anymore. Had she finally broken? Perhaps this latest betrayal from her father had left her numb at the soul. Was the trauma finally getting the better of her? If she had reached a point of madness once again, It warranted the question…

Where did it all go wrong?

---------------------

Days had passed, bruises had faded and injuries no longer screamed and complained at her every movement. Faith sat alone, within an apartment provided to her by the FMW before her Main Event match at Supremacy, giving her plenty of time to recover before her next fight. She wore a black vest, faded from too many times being thrown in the washing machine, as her lower abdomen was left bare. Navy pants coated her legs, old clothing that provided for Faith’s nightwear as she stared out into the night sky with little but a side lamp to create an eerie glow around her. Faith had never taken part in any Main Event since her debut, Faith thought she should have been excited, but no emotions found their way upon her face nor in her core. She sat with letters scattered across her table at her side, glancing over them as most of the light was shed upon them, giving her a view of their contents.

Faith received letters every day, the FMW provided them to her, and the young mute wrestler normally cast them away. Faith had always considered fans as insignificant, mere faceless and fickle forms of life that knew nothing about the sport they loved and watched. Every letter she had ever received, she had cast away into the garbage. That was until today after the lack of feelings she experienced in the ring in the aftermath of Syanide’s defeat. Faith found herself becoming worried, wondering if she had lost what little sense of humanity she spent years trying to build, all just because one man didn’t want to see her holding the World Title, her own father. The letters before her felt like a last resort, a desperate attempt from Faith to try and feel something again, to bring back the fire she needed if she hoped to defeat Romeo at Supremacy.

So far, her efforts were proving fruitless and agitating. Faith’s heart was not in the game, and the so called fans who wrote to her did little to inspire the flame she hoped to re-ignite. Most of the letters Faith had scanned through seemed almost mocking. Men writing of their desires to fuck her senseless, women claiming to be her sisters, chanting over her success, feeling that her presence in the FMW gave power to women. Children all wrote from their dreams, such petty things not even worth mentioning. They wrote to her as if they knew her, but they had no idea who she was. All her searching through words and letters only cemented her opinion of the fools that watched her fight. She didn’t acknowledge them for good reason. TyranT for all his faults and treachery had taught her well when it came to knowing the ropes of the business and what lay beyond.

Two hours after reading, and Faith’s patience grew thin. She was due her medication, something she had taken less of over the past few days. They did little for her, especially with no bloodlust building up within her. She was ready to give up her reading when she fumbled with a letter in her hand, noticing a brown kiss stain upon the white surface. The kiss seemed like nothing more then part of the design of the envelope on initial glance, but Faith knew better, she knew the once red liquid when she saw it, a kiss made in blood, long congealed through its journey to her. With a frown Faith slid the letter from its trap, opening it up with curiosity. Something felt wrong about this letter, as if it had carried its own atmosphere with it, bringing an uneasy sensation to Faith as she regarded the note addressed to her.



Dear Faith McKenzie

You’ll probably never read this letter, I bet you get hundreds everyday from people who watch you all around the world. My name is Abigail Winters, just a simple colleague student trying to make her way, but I find every day in my life becomes more of a deep struggle to which I see no end. Between my father and the guys and girls at school, I have a pretty hard time. Apparently they don’t like me because I’m different. Teachers tell me I’m special, that I’m smart and attractive, but my views and my own personal beliefs make others see me differently. I guess I’m an outcast, I feel all alone and useless and no one is ever there for me. I have no one to rely on, the teachers don‘t do anything to help me past words, even though they can see I need help. I didn’t think there would be any hope for me, that I was destined to live this life of suffering, and that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. That was until I found out about you.

I never really watched wrestling. I guess I had a little bit of a thing for it, since you always get to see a few topless guys getting sweaty with each other, but I never took any real interest in the sport, that was until I found out about you. I saw you, and you really opened my eyes to a world I never even comprehended. You, just a young woman, a girl only a few years older then me, fighting in a place against giants and monsters, tormented by your father and always picked on by those around you. But unlike me, I watch you fight them. Instead of cowering and dreaming of better things, you took your life into your own hands and you took control. Despite what they throw at you, somehow you always rise up. I watched you fight Syanide, and I never felt such a rush when I saw you defeat a man that others thought would slaughter you. The look in your eyes, I always see such hatred, something I see only a glimmer of in my own….



A knock on the door brought her away from the note when there was still so much more to read. Unusual, given it was getting late in the hour. Faith walked barefooted back into the warmth of her apartment, approaching the door with a frown. She wasted no time opening it, having nothing to fear in such an established hotel the FMW provided her with. She was only half surprised by the rugged face she was greeted with, one that winced in discomfort as a taller man stood half slumped, favouring his leg which had a brace over the knee. Faith rolled her eyes, opening the door a little more before walking away, allowing for the man to enter as he clutched at his leg and hobbled in, clad in jeans and a brown jacket. He seemed worse for wear given his unkempt look, though Faith felt he looked better then he had been since he awoke from his brief coma in hospital.

VanGuard: Damn lift was out. Had to climb the stairs on this bloody knee of mine.

Faith: … Then you shouldn’t have come up.

VanGuard: How you holdin’ up kid?

VanGuard then asked, wasting no time as he settled himself down upon the leather couch, sinking into the material as he let out a loud sigh, grasping his tender leg as he left it stretched out. When the worse of the discomfort passed, he managed to sit up, watching as Faith approached the open kitchen area, the note she had been reading still tucked away in one hand as she went into the fridge to fetch a drink for her guest.

Faith: … There’s nothing to hold up anymore. My head, my mind is empty. I just don’t care anymore…

VanGuard: I know you must be feelin’ rough. They say lightning can’t strike the same place twice, but now we both know that’s bullshit after what TyranT just did to you again. I thought I’d come by and see how you were doing.

Faith: … Just fine…

Faith returned to VanGuard, placing a bottle down of whiskey before him with an empty glass. By now VanGuard had flicked the plasma television on, letting some hospital drama play. No doubt the man wasn’t completely accustomed to silence as Faith was. Faith noticed a smile form upon his lips as she sat down on the other side of the couch, tucking her legs to her side as she frowned in a bitter manner at the smile.

VanGuard: I think I’m beginning to figure you out a little. Whatever you had in mind just now, I bet it was something cynical.

VanGuard spoke, brushing away the glass to take the whisky bottle for himself. He unscrewed the top casually, taking his eyes from Faith.

VanGuard: Your expressions talk a lot for you, took me a little while to pick up on it, but its easy to see what you want and how you react to certain questions and things. Although I can’t say I saw much of a reaction from you when TyranT robbed the card from you… that got me a little concerned.

Faith looked away from her former partner, the note still resting between her fingers.

VanGuard: You’re starting to doubt yourself. I only know this because I had the same look on my face when I was tossed off the scaffold. It hurts when you get outplayed, I know personally, but you can’t let what is happening get to you. You just have to move on with it, keep building those bridges and move past the problems.

Faith: … Sounds easy, but I don’t even have the bricks to start.

VanGuard: I know everything seems bad, but I promise things will pick up. You fight the number one contender in a few days at Supremacy. Despite what TyranT is doing, you are still managing to win. That has to count for something. We need to get your head back into shape for Romeo…

Faith turned to VanGuard, wondering how such words were even suppose to help. She could see that he meant well, but she just couldn’t accept it. Whilst a silence fell between the two, only the drama on the television could be heard as Faith glanced upon the note again, tracking where she left off.



I see people call themselves your allies, but they don’t ever do anything. They are just like my teachers. All words and no real action, just things to make them look good when truly they never cared nor truly see you for what you really are. When I look at you Faith, I see what I could have been. Though we live in different worlds, it seems you and I are both the same. The only difference is, I didn’t take action, I didn’t stand up for myself when I should have. I didn’t become you. I think you’re special. I hear other girls saying that you fight for “girl power”, I hear boys say you fight because your some sadist who gains pleasure from hurting other men. I know they have it all wrong, I know you’re not fighting for trivial things, you fight for yourself, you fight for what you want and you don’t let anyone get in the way.

You opened my eyes Faith, it is thanks to you that I know I don’t have to sit in the dark any more and let my father do what he wants with me. I don’t have to take the insults, the abuse and the beatings from the other girls and boys. I can be just like you Faith, I will stand up to them, your story and your courage has given me the confidence to be who I should have been from the beginning. I don’t want to be a nobody anymore, I want to be Abigail Winters, the person I should have been from the start. By the time I finish this letter, I will silence my father, and end his abuse. When I am done with him, I’ll move onto the school next.



VanGuard: What are you reading?

VanGuard questioned, leaning forward as he could see the puzzled look upon Faith as she continued to read through the unusual letter. Something in it was getting to her, following this letter of a girl that was not unlike her. She shared the same troubles, a father who wronged her, enemies that took advantage of her, so called friends who stood by and watched events unfold. Reading the letter gave Faith Goosebumps as she read on. Abigail Winters was almost her.

VanGuard: Hey Faith. Are you alright? What is that?

Faith had no response, by now she was engrossed in the letter, looking closely over each word as VanGuard’s question never even reached her ears.



I know you probably might not read this letter, but I wanted to write this, just in case you do read it. I marked this letter with a kiss of blood, hoping it would help guide this letter to your eyes I want you to know how you changed my life, how you inspired me to become something more then what I am. The answer was there in you and I am so glad I was gifted enough to see you. Please, continue to fight, show others like me, other children lost in the dark. Show them how to stand up and fight. Tomorrow I’ll be a new person, if I succeed and achieve what you managed, you’ll see me and you‘ll know. We share the same kind of life, I like to think that makes us both special.

I love you Faith, though we’ve never met, you changed everything for me, tomorrow you‘ll make me into a new person. I love you…

Abigail Winters



Faith’s eyes widened, a message in the words more then clear given how much of a similar mind she possessed to this girl. Her hand reached for the remote, snatching it from VanGuard’s hand who yelled in brief protest. Faith glared at the television, flicking through channels, looking for something, anything… hoping to find nothing. She hoped that what came to her mind was mere paranoia, that Abigail didn’t grow the courage she thought she had discovered. The remote soon clattered against the table the moment the news found its way onto the TV. Faith watched, it was all she could do as the news had long been established since this morning.

Reporter: Twelve other students and four teachers have been reported to have been killed after the attack this morning, bringing the casualty list to Seventeen. Two more students are still in critical condition as five others are injured. The police have since managed to identify the young female student who took the gun to school as Abigail Winters. Reports indicate that Abigail shouted out her name when the police tried to apprehend her before she took her own life. It is unknown where the weapon came from as yet, though early thoughts believe the weapon belonged to her father. He is currently missing, and police are searching for Jeff Winters…

VanGuard: Jesus. This has been on the news all day. The twisted things these kids get up to.

VanGuard spoke, though it didn’t take him long to realize something was wrong given the manner Faith stared at the tv screen. It was then he took the note Faith had since dropped, frowning as he scanned through it.

Faith: … Abigail Winters….

--------------

How did it come to this?

A question Faith was becoming familiar with as time passed. It was strange to see no people lingering in the dim sunlight as Abigail Winters was being put to rest. VanGuard stood as tall as he could manage as Faith stared on from afar, watching as a priest chanted his witchcraft called Christianity to send her to a place Faith did not believe in. No one else was present for the girl. She had no one past her own father, and from what Faith read in the letter, it was likely she buried him somewhere. Faith had felt a need to see this place, to see the end moment of Abigail. VanGuard was kind enough to give her a lift here as he glanced down at the mute.

VanGuard: You alright?

VanGuard asked, a fair question as Faith folded her arms, sliding the coat tighter over her figure to protect her from the brisk winds that passed her by, brushing her coal black hair over half her face. The public would remember Abigail Winters as a monster for taking the lives of so many students and teachers. She would be remembered for all her wrong despite how short lived it was compared to the suffering she endured prior. A monster to the public… a coward to the eyes of Faith.

Faith: … You thought we we’re alike, perhaps to some degree we were. We both only had a father who turned against us, everyone else has just been against us in one way or another. We’ve both been alone for so long, we have both walked a lonely path. Past that, we share nothing in common. You failed to realize the truth, you had always been fighting. You fought all your life. It was only when you stood up to show your true self… that you were actually giving up.

Resisting these desires, pretending to be something your not, that was the true battle. You let yourself take control, and in doing so you took the cowards way out. You gave up and let all those years of struggling amount to nothing by letting them get the better of you. People have died because of your weakness, and its through your weakness that you now lie dead.

I am special Abigail, that you are right about. It's you who opened my eyes. I know what I have to do now thanks to you. I won’t let all this torment or all these battles get to me. I’m going to endure, prove I’m better then you, that I won’t just give up and let my whole world and others collapse around me. I won't end up like you.

VanGuard: Faith?

Faith looked to VanGuard, managing a weak smile to reassure him that she was alright. If truth be told, Faith felt much better, feeling her resolve return to her. She had Abigail to thank for that as the mute signalled that she wanted to leave. VanGuard nodded solemnly, sparing a last look as the lonely coffin was lowered into the grave, a morbid empty sight as Faith watched as well. Supremacy was just around the corner. Romeo was just the first real step to a long journey Faith could see ahead.

Faith: I’ll endure this… I’ll keep on fighting… And I’ll win…

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The pale moonlight shined in on Annalisa's cold face. Her near death experience had left he weakened, she had not awakened in a while. Seth was gone on a road trip yet again, which was one of the few times he had left her side. She slipped in and out of a deep sleep, and almost flirted with slipping in a coma. Her feeding tube was the only way she had to get food in her body. Her car wreck had caused swelling of the throat area, leaving her unable to swallow. As a matter of fact without her feeding tube she very well could of slipped into a coma.

The hospital was pretty much empty, except there was a night shift nurse who was on the floor to check on patients, and to also make sure nobody visited after hours. Sometimes a janitor would come up to clean the place up, but that was normally only 3 times a week. The nurse wasn’t expecting anyone tonight, apparently she was on the phone with her boyfriend.

Nurse: I’m wearing my sexy nurse outfit just for you big boy.

You could hear a pleasurable groan coming through the other end of the phone as the nurse played with her long brown hair. She was a young nurse, couldn’t have been more than 22-23. She was fairly short with decent length in legs. She had soft brown eyes and a devilish look about her. She kept going upon her teasing of the young man on the other end of the phone.

Nurse: I’m going to get you in my bed, then I’m going to wrap you in a velvet oasis…

Ding.

The nurse jumped at the sound of the elevator going off. She didn’t expect anyone to be there until tomorrow. Even the janitor wasn’t suppose to be there until tomorrow night. The nurse quickly hung up the phone and spun in her chair to face the hallway and waited for whoever may have come out of the elevator.

The elevator doors opened and out rolled a shady man with a janitorial cart. He waved to the nurse and she exhaled a sigh of relief as the janitor went into the first room. His face was covered by his long hair, and a trucker hat covered the hair on his head. Most of his face couldn’t be seen as he rolled into the room. He shut the room door and began to sweep, turning to check often to see if the nurse was coming through the door. After about 5 minutes he set the broomstick in the corner and walked over towards Annalisa.

???: Greetings love, have you missed me?

Annalisa was unresponsive mostly because she was out cold, the man posed as a janitor grabbed a hold of the IV bag that was feeding Annalisa. He took out a small plastic container and poured a clear liquid into her feeding bag. The man smiled as all the liquid was poured into her feeding sack.
Annalisa’s eyes jerked open and the janitor stroked her hair softly. She tried to move, tried to scream, tried to do anything…but she couldn’t.

???: Oh dear Annalisa, you have no idea what I just pumped you full of do you?

Annalisa stared a hole through the man standing above her. His smile grew, as he continued petting her hair. He could smell her fear, he could see the fear in her eyes, he was fully aware of what he did.


???: I just pumped you full of Pancuronium. You know, the muscle relaxant that they use to paralyze Death Row prisoners? At this rate I’d say you’ll be paralyzed for at least a good 12 hours. After that you better hope someone finds you quickly, because if not you my dear will slip into a deep coma, and eventually you will die.

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. The phony janitor leaned over and kisses Annalisa on the forehead before he unplugged her heart monitor from the wall. He picked up his broom and put it back in his janitorial cart before opening the door again. He peeked out of the doorway and saw nobody in sight, so he quickly ran back into the waiting elevator and left the floor.



We see Seth Omega sleeping on the couch in his office. He is still in his street clothing as he just returned from a long road trip. On his TV plays a copy of his match with Apostasy, apparently one that was stuck on repeat. Seth normally analyzed his opponents over and over before facing them. Lucky for him he was facing some of his closest training partners, which he felt benefited him. Now the only thing he felt was flies going down his throat while sleeping.

All the sudden the TV blares out a loud chair shot, one that stirs Omega from his slumber. He sits up and rubs his eyes before realizing where he is, he throws his Florida State blanket off of him and stands up to stretch out. As he is stretching he notices a couple of messages flashing on his answering machine. He reaches into his mini fridge and grabs a bottle of water before pressing play on the answering machine.

Beep.

Mark: Hey Seth, it’s me Mark. I just wanted to touch base with you to make sure we’re still training together. Hit me back when you can.

Beep.

Drew: Hey Seth, it’s Drew. I was calling to let you know that I won’t be able to ride with you to the show this weekend. I’ve got some business to take care of, but I’ll catch a ride with Apostasy. You and Mark go ahead without me, I’ll catch you later bro.

Beep.

Clerk: Yes I’m calling for a Seth Corleone, I’m with Southside Video Store and you have some overdue movies. Currently you have The Godfather Parts One and Two, you have The Simpson’s Movie, and also you have Horny Spanish Flies all of which are due back by next Tuesday or else we will charge your credit card.

Beep.

Omega: Well that was fucking pointless, I don’t even remember watching Horny Spanish Flies.

Seth exits the office and begins to head towards the bathroom when he hears a loud knock at the door. He rubs his eyes yet again and goes towards the door before pushing it open slightly. The bright Tallahassee sun nearly blinded Omega as he walked outside. Before him was a member of the Tallahassee Police Department.

Omega: Well shit the bed, it is only 9:30 and they already got them hogs out.

Cop: Cut the crap Corleone, I believe you’re about as redneck as I am a drug addict.

Omega: Well Tallahassee isn’t exactly known for being the best when it comes to hiring the Po Po Patrol.

Cop: Yet we always found new ways to put you in cuffs and beat your Italian ass into the pavement.

Omega: You’re the one cop I found that can take a good joke, what can I help you with today Officer?

Cop: Well we already know it wasn’t you, but something has happened to Annalisa Moretti.

Omega dropped his water as the cop stepped back off the sidewalk. Seth got a crazed look in his eye and made an audible gulp as the cop kept explaining what actually happened.

Cop: Apparently someone slipped her Pancuronium, which is the paralyzing drug the use on Death Row. They also unplugged her heart monitor and she slipped into a coma and now everyone not medical personal has been banned from the hospital.

Omega began to shake intensely as he looked at the cop with a darker look in his eyes. He began taking deep breaths before he finally snapped out of it. He looked at the cop again, this time more calm although still shaken.

Cop: Seth, we know it wasn’t you. Judging by the time of the incident we know it wasn’t you. According to doctors this happened around midnight, and we have a clear shot of you coming through Gainesville at that time last night. No way in hell will you be charged with anything, we will find who did this.

Omega: For whoever did it, let’s hope that you find out who did it and not me. I’m not as forgiving as the court system in Florida.


The scene opens up inside the gym, where we see Seth and Mark lifting weights on the weight bench, while they do so they begin to talk about different things.

Omega: Don’t take this the wrong way Mark, I know you’re a former cop and all, but I really would be lying if I said I trusted them to find Annalisa themselves.


Seth lays down on the weight bench and grabs the 235 pounds on the benching bar, as he does this Mark prepares to spot Omega.

Mark:I can’t blame you Seth, you hadn’t exactly gotten a warm reception from the cops. But you need to watch it, you’re walking on thin wire as we speak anyways. Let us not forget it wasn’t that long ago you were arrested for having marijuana on you, and you’re lucky that your temper towards Annalisa hasn’t gotten the best of you.


Seth drops the weight to his chest only to push it back up. He exhales deeply as he does so and keeps going after his first rep.

Omega:Mark, this is Annalisa we are talking about I’m almost like…

Mark: I know I know, you’re almost like her savior. I know the feeling all too well. This may sound weird but part of me is curious as who could of done it.

Omega: I’ve got a pretty good idea Marky, I’ve got a pretty good idea.

Seth goes faster and faster and faster with his reps, his face turns blood red, his eyes grow wider, and his breathing grows more intense.

Mark: Seth calm down, you’re losing it bro.

Seth keeps lifting, the weight with less and less ease, now well into the 20s with his reps. Finally Mark grabs a hold of the weight and racks it, after racking it he grabs the nearby bottle of water and throws it in Seth’s face. Feeling the cold on his burning hot skin Omega jumps up off the bench and looks at Mark as he struggles to find his breath, he shakes his head hard trying to shake loose the cobwebs.

Mark: Seth are you okay?

Omega: I swear if this has anything to do with who I think it does…

Mark: Seth, lately we’ve been the targets of a lot of attacks. You could look at both of the recent attacks for the answers to your question.

Omega: You think the same thing I do?

Mark: Please Seth, whoever did this is clearly trying to fuck with you.

Omega: Who could it be?

Mark: I’m not going to name anyone, but you could make a strong case for two individuals.

Omega: You don’t even have to say who it is, I’ve got a good idea of what you are thinking.

Mark: Seth, I know you’re going through some hard times right now, but you have got to control yourself. It is getting to the point where your intensity level makes you uncontrollable at times.

Omega: Sad thing is…the only person who could cause me to control it is in a coma right now, and I’m not allowed anywhere near her.

Mark: I think you should get some rest Seth, you’re pushing yourself to a different level and it is getting dangerous.

Omega: I think you may be right Mark, you cool with staying here for the night?

Mark: Slept on worse.

Seth handed over the keys to the gym before beginning to walk away, before he left the gym he heard Mark yell one last thing.

Mark: Be careful Seth, because you know finding new tag partners isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do.

Omega: Sure, sure…not like you actually care about my well being.

Mark: If I did I damn sure wouldn’t admit that I cared, and one other thing Seth.

Omega: What’s that Mark?

Mark:: Don’t let it consume you.

Omega looked at Mark funny, he was confused as to why Mark had said this.

Mark: Annalisa is going to be fine, now go get some rest.

Omega walked out the gym door and got into his Black Dodge Charger SRT, he fired up the engine and drove on home. When he got home he jerked a note off the front of the door, unlocked his door, and walked inside. He walked into the kitchen and sat the note down, he reached up into the cabinet and grabbed his bottle of Southern Comfort as well as a shot glass. He poured himself a shot of the liquer and opened up the letter.

Dear Mr. Corleone,

This is a note from your landlords reminding you that your rent was late this month and you’ll be charged an extra 20 bucks for being late. This isn’t going to cost you more than that, but if this continues you might be up for an evaluation and might possibly be evicted.

Signed,
Management.

Omega: Fucking great, now I’m late on my rent and could be evaluated, what the hell else is next?

Seth tips back the shot he poured for himself, then he pours another, then another, and then another. Eventually he was wobbling towards his couch where he sat down. Whenever he got really pissed off he’d occasionally drink too much. He turned on the evening news and was listening to the newscaster talk about the local weather and FSU football. He took off his shoes and stood up to go grab his phone in case it rang. He grabbed his phone and turned around, after turning around he quickly dropped the phone and backed into the wall.

Omega: It can’t be…

Annalisa stood before him, although something was different about her. She seemed cold, and was glowing a mystery shade of white, but other than that her beautiful brown hair seemed in the right place, her soft brown eyes looked directly at him as they always did, and now more than ever she seemed just as beautiful as ever.

Annalisa: Hello Seth.

Omega: Annalisa?

She giggled at him and nodded, she walked closer to him until she was eye level with him. She frowned upon getting closer to him, and quit looking into his eyes and down at the ground.

Omega: What’s wrong Annalisa?

Annalisa: You’ve been drinking, you know I hate when you do that.

Omega: I’m sorry, I’ve just been worried about you lately. Really worried, you’re at the hospital in a coma…yet you’re right here before me.

Annalisa: Wrong. I am not right here before you, my spirit is before you.

Omega: So you’re dead?

Annalisa: Far from it, but I figured since you could come see me I’d come see you.

Omega: What happened Annalisa? You know I won’t let this slide…I’m going to take care of it baby girl I promise.

Annalisa: Seth…you can’t save the world, you can’t go looking for revenge anymore.

Omega: Dammit Annalisa, I’m not letting this go…who did this to you.

Annalisa: I can’t tell you Seth, I didn’t see him.

Omega: I promise you Annalisa, as soon as I can I’m going to come and see you. A new Seth Omega is going to be unleashed, I’m going to show everyone in FMW why I’m the best at what I do, I’m going to unleash sheer intensity on them all, I won’t stop until I get my peace of mind…

Annalisa: Seth you’re going to be in there with your friends, you’re going to be in there with your family, save your anger for another time…for me Seth.

Omega: But Annalisa, I’ve been slipping lately…I’ve been losing, and if I keep losing my career is over.

Annalisa: But what about Heath? What about Mark? What about Drew? For God’s sakes Seth, what about Drew?

Omega: There isn’t a God Annalisa.

Annalisa: And before tonight you didn’t think there was such a thing as spirits either.

Omega: Annalisa…

Annalisa: Seth I can’t stay here anymore, I must return…I’ve been here too long.

Omega: No…Annalisa don’t leave me!

Annalisa: I love you Seth.

Omega: Just give me one more piece of advice Annalisa, I need a direction, please!

Annalisa: Don’t let it consume you Seth…

And just like that she was gone. Seth had been shaken, he had no idea what to say. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or if what he saw was real. Either way he went, he had to get some shut eye. It was going to be a long trip tomorrow.


Omega pulled up to the gym and honked his horn. Mark came stumbling out of the gym where he turned and locked up the gym. Seth popped the trunk and Mark threw his bag in the back. Shortly thereafter Mark sat in the car and buckled up, without looking at Seth he muttered in his usual monotone voice.

Mark: It’s fucking 9am.

Seth pulled out of the gym and began driving on the highway towards the interstate.

Omega: For fucks sake, what time did you wake up?

Mark: I woke up late, but I was still up by 6am.

Omega shook his head and got on the ramp going onto the interstate that lead to the heart of Georgia.

Omega: Are you awake now?

Mark: Why do you ask?

Omega: Hold on sweetheart.

Mark: What the…

Without saying another word Omega stepped down on the gas pedal as the car sped up to around 94 miles per hour. Mark actually showed an expression besides serious business, he looked over at Seth with actual concern on his face.

Mark: Are you fucking crazy?

Omega: I never go faster than my guardian angel can fly.

Without another word the black Dodge Charger SRT speeds off towards Atlanta.


The scene opens outside the Georgia Dome the day of Supremacy. It is quiet, which is rare right before any FMW show. Not many superstars are hanging around outside as most of the ones who are there are already inside. Through the silence a loud roar can be heard coming up the street. In the distance you can see a black dodge charger coming up the road at around 65 miles per hour. It is a tad bit dirty, and looks like it has seen some road time. The car is fast approaching and makes a sharp turn into the Georgia Dome parking lot. Without wasting another moment the car slams on the gas and zooms forward at a quickened pace, it takes another sharp turn and parks perfectly in a parking spot near the arena.

The car door opens and you can make out the sounds of some loud rock music. Mark Johannson stands up out of the car and looks down at Seth Omega with a funny look on his face. Mark is wearing a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, which was traditional for both him and Seth. Judging by the look on his face Mark didn’t like the ride up from Florida.

Mark: Where in the fuck did you learn how to drive?

The door opens and out steps Seth Omega, who like Mark is wearing his street clothes. His jeans are black and he has a Punisher T-Shirt on. He stands up out of the car and takes off the sunglasses he was wearing before smiling at Mark.

Omega: C’mon Marky, we got here in one piece and look we are even early.

Mark: Besides the point Corleone.

Omega: Oh quit your bitching and give me a hand in changing this oil.

Omega reaches inside the car and grabs a Wal-Mart bag with 5 quarts of oil and an oil filer in it, he sets the bag on top of the car and turns up the radio as Godsmack comes on the radio. As he peaks in the car he grabs a lever under the steering wheel and pops the hood. As he lifts up the hood he sees a white BMW pulling in out of the corner of his eye.

Omega: Who do we know that drives a white BMW?

Mark: I believe that would be the one they call Diet Leon.

Omega gets down on the ground and yells up through the car at Mark.

Omega: Hey Mark, grab that big metal pan out of the back of the car.

Mark walks around and opens the backseat of the car door. He looks around before finally spotting what appears to be an old paint tray, he grabs the paint tray and shuts the door. As he is walking around the front of the car he slides the old paint tray under the car.

Omega: Thank you good sir.

Mark: Not a problem, so about tonight…

Omega: What about it?

Mark: You aren’t worried?

Seth begins draining the oil out of the car as Mark is talking. As the oil drains Omega begins to think about Mark’s question.

Omega: Worried? Please I’m more worried about my meeting with Smitten than that damn match.

Mark: So you don’t think this is going to effect us negatively at all?

Omega: Well fuck no, why would it? All they did is just put four men in the ring. Four men who respect each other, four men who always give all they have when they are in the ring. Basically they just gave the fans of Supremacy a chance to see what the Saints are looking for in FMW and that is prideful wrestling.

Mark stops for a minute and begins thinking about the words Seth had said. As the oil finally drains out, Mark grabs the oil filter and hands it to Omega under the car. Seth begins changing out the filter on the car and then begins asking Mark some questions.

Omega: Hey Mark let me ask you something.

Mark: Shoot Omega, we’ve got nothing but time.

Omega: Why do you think it is that I’m one of the lowest paid wrestlers on the roster?

Mark: Well…I’m not sure, you’d think with your experience that you’d be one of the highest paid.

Omega: Not to get that personal, but how much do you get paid per match?

Mark: Well on average I get paid around 2500, but that is really not that much either. How much do you make per match?

Omega: 500 even.

Mark: That’s insanity…I don’t get it, you’ve been chasing the Television Title, you’re part of the Saints, and you’re one of the fastest growing stars in FMW.

Omega: I don’t get it either Mark, but maybe that’s why Smitten wants me to come into his office, maybe he is going to give me a raise.

Mark: Smitten? Don’t hold your breath buddy boy.

Seth slides out from under the car, carefully setting the oil pan down on the warm concrete of the parking lot. He unscrews the cap on the engine so he can add more oil into the car. As he begins emptying the individual bottles of oil into the car he begins talking to Mark again.

Omega: How much do you think Skyler makes per match?

Mark looks over at the white BMW that Skyler was driving, he shakes his head as the reigning Abandoned Champion begins grabbing his bags out of his car, the Abandoned Championship still firmly placed around his waist, his tag title slung over his shoulder, he grabs his bag and begins walking into the arena.

Mark: Well he is a double champion, a multiple time champion, and probably a personal favorite of management.

Omega: Never understood why, he seems to live such the perfect life. Almost like a slap in the face to the ones who don’t make that much doing this, and are lucky to have what little they do have.

Mark: That really steams you doesn’t it?

Omega: Well I’m not about to hit my breaking point, but if I was ever in the ring with Skyler I’d assume I’d lower his paycheck by fucking up his face.

Mark: Well, I can’t blame you. You’ve been doing this so long, wrestled in so many places, so many feds, held so many belts…and then there is Skyler, who gets more money just because he has a really smoking wife.

Omega finishes pouring the oil into the car, he screws the cap back on and shuts the hood. He picks up the garbage, and walks around the side of the car making sure it is locked. Seth pulls his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the trunk before grabbing his duffle bag out of the back. Mark walks around to the trunk as well and grabs his gear. Omega shuts the trunk as the two begin walking in the arena.

Omega: Well that killed a good 30 minutes.

Mark: Yet I still don’t feel any more comfortable riding with you on the way back.

Omega: That bad eh?

Mark: Which is a shame because I really liked these pants.

Both men share a laugh as they reach the side door to the dome. Omega throws the trash away at a nearby trashcan as the teams walks through the double doors to the arena. They check the board next to the door to look for their locker rooms.

Omega: How ironic, apparently we’re sharing a locker room for the night, then again so is Apostasy and Drew.

Mark: That is weird, oh well maybe it will be a bigger locker room than the one in Miami.

Omega and Mark begin walking back towards locker room 301. Along the way they pass by the open door of the Honorable Judge Smitten. Without looking up at them his voice rang a tone that struck goosebumps down the spine of Omega.

Smitten: Omega, I need to see you right now.

Seth looks at Mark, partly out of shock, partly out of fear. He hands his duffle bag to Mark and begins to walk slowly into the office of Smitten. He looks back at Mark, still looking nervous about his meeting.

Omega: Mark do you mind taking my bag to the locker room for me?

Mark: Not at all, I’ll catch you later.

Mark walks off and Omega shuts the door. He walks ever approaching to the desk of Smitten and takes a seat right before him. CGS looks up and smiles his evil grin at Seth. He begins to speak, and his voice is cold and very calculated.

Smitten: You’re pretty close with the Saints aren’t you?

Omega: What makes you say that?

Smitten: You’re about the only person I know that would hang out with an opponent literally hours before the match.

Omega: We’re a team, I know that’s a hard concept for you considering you trust nobody outside of yourself.

Smitten: Maybe so, but a very easy concept for me to believe is this isn’t your first time in front of a Judge Mr. Corleone.

Omega: So personal, cut the crap Smitten, you brought me here for a reason and I want to know what it is.

Smitten bangs his fist against his desk and looks sternly at Omega, who is looking more confident than when he walked in.

Smitten: Don’t tell me to cut the crap, keep in mind I’m the one who keeps you here you slimy sack of shit.

Omega: So sorry for crossing you then.

Smitten: Don’t take that sarcastic tone with me, I don’t care who the hell you’re related too. I will fire your ass on the spot.

Omega: Well since I’m here I might as well ask you, what exactly am I doing here?

Smitten smiles and stands up, his clothing as usual was very nice, and his presence was very intimidating. He walks over to his bookcase and grabs an envelope that was shut but not sealed. He handed it to Seth Omega and sat back down in his chair. Omega opened the envelope and looked down at the check inside the envelope. It was a check that he normally go on payday, but he noticed something different about this check.

Omega: Smitten this check is only for four-hundred dollars.

Smitten: I know, I was shocked it was that high as well.

Omega stands up and looks down at Smitten with a look of fury on his face. As Seth stands all Smitten can do is look up at him and smile confidently as he leans back in his chair.

Omega: What the hell Smitten? Why am I getting lowballed on my checks?

Smitten: Simple, you’re under an open contract so you can take independent bookings. That means we cut you out of certain promotions that FMW runs because you’re busy at whatever other fed you’re at. In other words, you’re basically working when we book you. You’re on a losing streak, your merchandise sales are down, and to be brutally honest a lot of the board feels like we took a risk resigning you after you went through rehab.

Omega: So you’re basically punishing me for shit that happened that long ago?

Smitten: Keep in mind you were in a jail cell until Trey came and got you out.

Omega: And since then I’ve passed every last drug test thrown my way.

Smitten: Not my issue.

Omega: How in the fuck can I get my paycheck numbers up?

Smitten smiles and stands back up yet again, he looks Omega directly in the eyes and speaks in a soft, yet very serious tone.

Smitten: I want to see the aggression you had the week of Death Row. I want to see you go apeshit in the wrestling ring, and I want to see you pick dismantle your opponents the way you were when you came back. If you can do that for a full cycle, and if you can go back to making people limp out of this arena…then maybe, just maybe I’ll consider raising your pay to 1000 per match. Do we have a deal?

Omega looks down at the extended hand of Christian G. Smitten. He reaches out and grabs his hand shaking it firmly. As he shakes Smitten’s hand he speaks in a soft serious tone as well.

Omega: Just so you know, every minute I’m in the ring with someone not named Bryson or Virus, I’m pretending that it is you.

Smitten: That’s what I like to hear, now get the fuck out of my office before I fire you on the spot.

Omega turns around and opens the door to Smitten’s office. He walks out and begins to shut the door, before he can shut it he hears Smitten yell out from behind him.

Smitten: Leave it open…I’m expecting a meeting with the one they call Virus.

Omega sneers and walks off with his check in hand. He walks away angry while looking for locker room 301. As he is walking off Seth begins to think of the things Annalisa said last night. He decides against telling anyone out of sheer fear he will think that he is fucking nuts, or an alcoholic one. As he is wandering around he runs into a familiar face, one that is none other than the Celt.

Omega: Glad to see you back Celt.

Celt: I sure hope you aren’t being sarcastic with that remark Omega.

Omega: We may not always see eye to eye Celt, but we believe the same thing.

Celt: I find that hard to believe.

Omega: We both want what is best for this company, and even though we have different ways of making the best thing happen, it is something we both want.

Celt: What are you getting at Omega?

Omega: I wanted to let you know that if you’re ever outnumbered…we have your back.

Celt: And what do I owe you for this one? Do I have to pay you like Romeo did?

Omega: You owe me nothing, it is about doing the right thing Celt.

Celt: I can see in your eyes that you mean that Omega…I appreciate it, best of luck tonight.

Omega: And best of luck to you as well Irishman.

Celt and Omega shake hands before Omega walks off again, before Omega can get too far down the hall Celt yells out to him.

Celt: And Omega, one last thing…

Omega turns and looks at the Irishman.

Celt: Don’t let it consume you.

Omega: What?

Celt: The deal with Annalisa, don’t let it consume you.

Omega: Oh, right. Thanks.

Seth turned back around when he finally found his locker room. He decided that he need to focus on his game plan for the night, but he had something interesting on his mind…something everyone had kept saying to him...

Mark: Don’t let it consume you.

Annalisa: Don’t let it consume you.

Celt: Don’t let it consume you.

Omega thought for a minute with his hand on the doorknob, eventually he shook the cobwebs loose and walked into his locker room. He sat down in a metal chair and looked around, he noticed Mark had gone out for a bit, so he grabbed his MP3 player and popped it in while he began warming up for his match. It was at that point that Seth had decided this was his career match. Not because of his opponents being some of his best friends, but because of all the hell he had been through to get to this point. This match wasn’t just a match anymore, it was a test of strength. Either he would succeed and overcome his struggles, or he would fall to his own personal demons.

This is what he lived for.