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 Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread

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the nick bryson
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PostSubject: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Mon Sep 05, 2011 11:04 am






The crowd at the Philips Arena rises to their feet as the camera pans around them. They all shout in unison as they raise their signs, featuring such masterpieces as "Bryson = Traitor", "SoA are A-OK", "Trey Spruance is my HERO!", "PACK Mentality", and "Starchild Running Wild!"

The crowd grows steadily more quiet until they pop once more for Take Back The Fear by Hail The Villain. They cheer in unison for the patriotic Outlaw John Andrews, who appears with an American flag tied to a baseball bat. He holds it high as he walks to the ring and asks for a microphone.


Andrews: HELLO ATLANTA!

The crowd cheers.

Andrews: Now, as Im sure you all saw on last Ammunition, there was a certain match with a certain stipulation that was not upheld. You see, I had to face a proud CANADIAN who seems to think he is better than any of us in the good ol' U-S of A!

The crowd boos at the mention of Killswitch before they begin a U-S-A chant.

Andrews: Now, I don't know about you, but when I try to claim that I'm better than something, I try to actually PROVE it. However, that wasn't the case as this man in the ring right now was the one who had his arm raised in victory, but there always has to be a catch! This coward was supposed to sing the United States national anthem, yet he took the low road and refused! He proved what he was that night, but we're going to make amends for what happened! Everyone, please rise for the American National Anthem!

John Andrews lifts the flag high as the crowd stands. Dethrone Tyranny by Gamma Ray explodes through the PA, however, and the Canadian native Killswitch enters the scene. He stands atop the ramp, microphone in hand.

Killswitch: How 'patriotic' of you, John! You come out here spilling lies and deceit to try and sully my good name! You know as well as I that you CHEATED to get the win last week! Why should I honor a stipulation when you cant even follow the rules!

The crowd continues to make it difficult for Killswitch to speak over them as their boos grow louder

Killswitch: Thats why I followed you here, to Corruption, where there are few rules and even less regard for human well being! Sort of like your sorry excuse for a country you champion! So how about you and me have a rematch and we'll see who the better man is tonight!

Andrews: You're ON Canuck! Lets do it! You and me, one on one, in a NATIONAL PASTTIME MATCH! I'll bring my baseball bat here, and my trusty ol' glory. You can bring a hockey stick, since thats just about the only thing that can keep your country relevant. Oh, good luck finding one though, they just moved that god awful team out of here and BACK to where they belonged!

Killswitch drops the mic in anger and exits through the curtain as Outlaw John Andrews stands in the ring, raising the American Flag high.


Corruption 14.2
from the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia



Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag

The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda


Promo ONLY until Tuesday September 13th at 11:59pm EST. Voting and Promo until Thursday September 15th at 11:59pm EST

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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 08, 2011 11:03 pm

His own eye was the first thing he saw. Shaking and shuddering under the loose grip of the leather gloves.

The damaged vessels had turned the white of his left eye to a deep red, surrounding the violent green iris. He had abandoned the traditional face paint, not wanting this newest incarnation of himself to be burdened with hiding his true nature. The lack of facial deceit showed the deep purple, yellow and brown bruise forming around the corner of his eye socket.


The knife flipped around in his hand, momentarily reflecting the lights from the ceiling above. Holding the blade in the leather glove he tapped the kneeling man in front of him with the handle.

Life is all about second chances. Hell, I’ve had two or three of them myself.

The eyes of the two men met. The kneeling man fought to focus on The Harlequin hovering above, his right eye forced shut by a shattered orbital bone. His left eye, undamaged glared into the blood red socket of his target. Reaching with his right hand he grabbed a hold of the knife’s handle, and struggled to rise to his feet, his eye never breaking contact.

I gave you a chance to kill me earlier. A chance I rarely give people, but hell I’ve been feeling kind of nice lately, and you wasted it. Your knuckles did make contact with my flesh, you were oh so very close, but in the end, far too far away.

With trembling hands the quivering man summoned the remainder of his strength and lurched his body forward. The knife, now an extension of his hand and arm, pulled him forward toward the belly of his apparent attacker.

Deftly, The Harlequin moved out of harm’s way. A single movement of his hand sent the kneeling man tumbling past and down to his knees. With the knife still in his hands he looked up in time to catch the man before him open his mouth wide, his eyes filling with joy and hatred.



You won’t be able to appreciate the humour in this, but don’t you know the saying?

- - - - - - - - - - -

The wind tossed the green leaves at The Harlequin’s feet across the sidewalk. The simple sight of death before its time brought a sadistic smirk to his face. The summer’s sun beat down upon The Harlequin, a man dressed far too formally for the occasion. But then again, how formal is an execution?

Despite the heat he wore gray slacks and a gray vest. Underneath a white shirt checkered with light green octagons throughout. His sleeves were rolled up, very carefully, to his elbows, revealing the tanned and scarred skin of his forearms. His left arm bore three indents, fixtures embedded into his skin from the lengthy times he had worn his forearm holster for Dirty Harry, the weapon conspicuously missing from his personage.

Hi-ho.

The Harlequin glanced at the broken watch adorning his right wrist, giving a quick silent nod of approval at the incorrect time.

Hi-ho.

His eyes glanced up. A very conspicuous building, given the people it contained. Typical red brick, as befit many of the buildings in the City’s Historic District. No numbers were on the building, no physical addresses, just a simple stone placed aside the building’s entrance.

Together, as one, prosperity for all.


The Harlequin’s eyes glanced across as the inscription in the stone.

I do enjoy people that hide in direct sight of their opponents. Allows me to afford them at least a modicum of respect. Though, never seems to stop me from destroying them. Respect is a fickle thing isn’t it?

The Harlequin pondered to himself as he pushed the heavy oak doors of the building open, a blast of glorious air conditioning crashing across him as he made his way through the threshold of the door frame.

“Hello sir, can I help y—“

The question came from his right, the tiny voice of a tiny women behind a large reception desk, cut short by the strategic placement of a knife in her trachea. The blood gurgled from the wound and her lips as she attempted, in futility, to pull the metal blade form the soft flesh of her neck. With a tightening index finger and thumb on her left hand reaching for a panic button, while the other grasped at the knife, the life fled from her body.

Silly lady, you’ve helped plenty already. Not hitting that button was the nicest thing you could have done.

The Harlequin bent over and leant a helping hand by pulling the knife free from her neck. A tiny spray of blood speckled the collar of his white shirt while he wiped the blade across his gray vest.

If you don’t mind, I’ll be needing this for later, so I’ll just put it back here, and VOILA! No knife!

The Harlequin chuckled to himself as he crossed the marble tiled floor, reflecting images of the carnage he had just wrought.

The elevator button dinged as he pressed it, the steel doors opening and providing him access to the inner workings of the Order of Assisi.

Elevator Goin’ Up!

- - - - - - - - -

“Detective Brixton...sir...you’re back?”

Brixton’s top lip curled up in a snarl, the H carved into his skin, pulsing a deep shade of red.

“That bastard is still on the loose and I don’t give a fuck if this shit happens to me, but when it starts happening to innocent people, we’ve got a problem on our hands.”

“To be fair Detective, I think we have a problem regardless of whether it happens to you or civilians.”

Brixton’s forearm slammed into the young recruit’s throat, pushing him against the corridor’s wall, the air slowly draining from his throat.

“Your life, my life, and the lives of everyone in this station are worthless unless we catch that clown fuck. I don’t care how many of us have to die, so long as we stop him from killing more innocent people. The sooner you get that into your tiny little skull, the smoother things will fly around here.”

”BRIXTON!”

The shout came from down the hall, instantly loosening the grip on the recruit’s throat.

“There’s been an attack at an office building downtown. We don’t know details of the business, but we think The Harlequin is involved. There’s been a report of a woman with a knife wound through her neck and shots fired. Get your team and go!”

In an instant Brixton had pivoted his body, striding towards the armoury in the basement of the Police Station, the very station The Harlequin had laid waste to years prior.

The ride in the van seemed to drag by. Each second hanging like an hour. The engine never going fast enough, the traffic always too thick and kilometres stretching further than they should. It had been years since they had been lucky enough to catch The Harlequin in the act. The reports had always been wrong or they had always been late, but for Brixton, this was the time.

It was now or never. Go beyond and kill The Harlequin or face the shame of failure yet again.


“Let’s bring this motherfucker down boys. No mercy. Go! Go! Go!”

Brixton was the first out of the van, the soles of his boot clambering up the stone steps towards the heavy oaken doors. With his men in position he burst through the doors, the sights of his gun immediately focusing on the gruesome sight in front of him.

Strewn across the floor was the dead woman’s body, a knife planted through her stomach with a bloodstained note attached.

Dearest Detective Brixton,

My, my, aren’t we getting close? Did you count how many floors there were in the building?
You didn’t?
There were 6, I was really hoping you’d learn to play along better by this point.
I’m still in the building, preparing for my miraculous escape.
Unless you can find me of course.
Personally I don’t think you have it in you.

Tootley-Doo,

- H

The scar on Brixton’s cheek pulsed again as the fury spread through his body. The Harlequin had gotten to him, had gotten, quite literally, under his skin. Brixton was unravelling, he could feel it. It was clawing at his insides, second by second, day by day, haunting laugh by haunting laugh.

“Spread out! And Find. The. CLOWN!”

- - - - - - - - -


The Harlequin lay in wait. His hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall as casually as one could when waiting to ambush the police. He had cut the lights on the 4th floor and hid himself in an office, waiting patiently for the first SWAT officer to burst through the door in inspection.

Hearing the footsteps approaching The Harlequin began to relax his breathing, slowing his breaths in and out, and calming the natural tremor of his hands. As if perfectly on cue the door nudged open letting the first Officer into the room. Deftly, The Harlequin stepped forward after a 1 second pause, slamming yet another knife into another throat.

Wasting no time, The Harlequin began to undress the SWAT officer, the blood and life still flowing from his body.

Zipping up the uniform, The Harlequin touched his gloved fingers to the blood soaking through the neckline of the vest and shirts. A smile crawled across his face, now obscured by the tactical gear he had stolen.


- - - - - - - - -

Brixton charged through the stairwell door into the sixth floor. Pistol drawn, he swept his light across the open floor. Broad daylight, all the blinds were closed and lights were off. Save for one. One light on the complete opposite side of the office suite, behind a closed door. One light indicating a clear trap, but the only opportunity Brixton had.

“Shit, shit, shit. How did that clown faced fuck get the drop on us like this.”

The stairwell door behind Brixton clicked shut. Another SWAT office emerged, hunched over, his MP5 hanging to his side.

“Pull it together. There’s only one room left that the sonuvabitch could be in.”

The hunched over officer offered up a weak thumbs up before straightening his posture.

“Cover my back, when I open the door, get ready to shoot.”

The office door swung open, dropping Britxon’s jaw in disbelief. Empty.

“Empty. Fucking Empty.”

Not entirely.

The muzzle of the MP5 pressed into the exposed flesh on the back of Brixton’s neck. In an instant the visions flashed through Brixton’s mind. The officer was hunched over, his face obscured. The bloodstain on the neck of his uniform.

Surprised? I’d be a little bit thrown off. Really I think this was quite a master stroke myself. I lured you in here perfectly, carried on about my business. Did some rifling through desks, killed a person or two and managed to trick you. All in all, a fantastic day.

The Harlequin pulled the muzzle of the weapon back slightly from Brixton’s neck, before raising his foot and placing it into Brixton’s back before shoving him forward. Tumbling forward, Brixton caught his balance as fast as he could before turning to face his now nemesis.

Though I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I walk you into a building, a building that I cleared for you, and you aren’t even a little suspicious. I thought when I carved that H into your cheek you’d start to catch on a little bit. Maybe I underestimated you Brixton.

“What the fuck are you on about clown?”

I am on about what this building is, who the people are that work here and that if you think I’m evil, which I am, these guys and gals are a whole lot worse than I am. Here’s what I’ll do. I’m going to let you live through this, though barely, and when you make it back to active duty, take a look into the Order of Assisi.

“You’re expecting me to listen to you, you fucking psychopath?”

No, I’m expecting you to wonder what it is that keeps me keeping you alive. You’re a tenacious man Brixton, which is why I chose you, and why I know you won’t let this die. Now, I’ve got a point to prove, and your mind to change, so let’s get this started shall we?

Brixton lunged forward, his fist connecting with Harlequin’s left cheek.

- - - - - - - - - -


You won’t be able to appreciate the humour in this, but don’t you know the saying?

You do not FUCK with The Harlequin.

The Harlequin stepped forward toward the prone Detective Brixton, his boot crushing down and cracking Brixton’s left wrist, the knife tumbling to the ground. Bending down, The Harlequin picked up the knife and grabbed Brixton by the little hair he had, yanking his body up and head backward.

I promised to give you a second chance and I did. And you failed. So, now I’m going to punish you, and not kill you. I’m going to leave you alive and let you suffer, and stew in your hatred.

The blade of the knife pushed down into the eye of Brixton forced shut by the broken orbital bone. The blood slowly began to trickle from the flesh as the blade drove deeper and deeper into the socket. Brixton’s screams filled the empty warehouse as he fought to keep his head still to avoid more damage from the knife.

Careful now Brixton, the slightest movement and OOPS YOU’RE DEAD!

The knife completed its incision, popping Brixton’s eyeball from his socket and dropping bloodily into Harlequin’s hand.

CHUCKLES! Take the dear Detective and drop him somewhere that someone will find him and give him medical attention!

And as for you Brixton...

Harlequin dropped the eyeball onto the concrete floor before raising his boot into the air, slamming the heel down and crushing the man’s eye, splattering it against the cold concrete.

This is your final chance. The Order of Assisi. Find them, or die.

And remember, you do NOT FUCK with The Harlequin!




Last edited by Harlequin on Fri Sep 09, 2011 10:58 pm; edited 1 time in total
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Fri Sep 09, 2011 8:55 pm

Part One: Ignorance is Bliss..

OJA: Killswitch you fool. You hold yourself and your country on a shelf that is so high that your own ignorance has turned to bliss. You constantly run around whining about how Canada is better then America. Always has been and always will. Keep whining hoss it isn't going to get you anywhere but in the losers circle. Ya see throughout my entire life i've always fought villains such as yourself. The bully whom thinks he can run off with his mouth, use intimidation and scare tactics to his advantage and he'll get whatever he wants from whomever he wants. Well i've always risen as the Anti-Hero. The average workin man fightin the oppression of the good. Our last match I proved just how greatness can stand above evil and I am prepared to do that at Corruption 14.2 just you wait and see!
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Mon Sep 12, 2011 4:14 pm

You know, a few years ago,


When I pictured myself in the main event,


It wasn’t like this.


It was a bit more like this:

*******

The dressing room of the MGM Grand was deadly silence. It was a complete opposite to what lay outside. After a mass of corridors, eventually leading to a curtain, taking whoever walked past it to the wild crowd of boxing fans, waiting to see a clash of titans.


Seth Rotunda sat in the corner of the dressing room, head down and his robe covering the object he was locked in an embrace with, his eyes locked onto the object with a look of pure joy. His entourage stood around him, watching him, staring at his every move, waiting for his head to lift. But, Rotunda hadn’t noticed the eyes; every sense of his was locked onto this object and the tales and stories he had to tell by capturing it and keeping it, flooded through his mind. All those years of easy pickings, he’d finally elevated himself to the top. He was now the top athlete in his profession, “The Dream Killer” was a household name, TV screens lit up with highlights of him and his name on the sliding banners on the sporting news channels. He modelled for the classiest of clothing ranges and was sponsored by the biggest sporting brands. Rotunda was a king.


The dressing room soon opens and in steps Rotunda’s agent, Thomas Ap Gruff, with a smile created from a surgeon’s, a Gucci hat docked to one side of his head and a luxurious Armani suit tailor made for him. Rotunda finally snaps his gaze from the object and looks up, straight at Gruff. The two men stared at each other, with the tension building even more, before Rotunda and Gruff both break out into a chuckle.



Gruff: You ready for this?


Rotunda: Of course I am.


Despite being associates for years, from Rotunda’s days as beating rookies to battling it out in major venues, Gruff still felt uncomfortable being around Rotunda. Despite how often he would aid Rotunda, the knowledge that Rotunda ended Gruff’s boxing career still burnt with fury in the back of his head. Rotunda had it all, and so did Gruff, but he never received any credit.


None whatsoever.

Rotunda began to take deep breaths, prepping himself, his eyes turned into one of a beast intent on causing as much pain as possible to a threat. This was certainly different to the usual calm and relaxed Rotunda that the media saw. But after the cameras had switched off, Rotunda had a whole new side to him. This lust for winning and destroying anything for a chance of recognition, would one day wreck Rotunda, and many of his entourage knew that.



Gruff: Pleasantries aside, this is it, Seth. It’s make or break for you, for me, for everybody in this locker room. All those months of training have simply been a build-up to what is next.


A crease appeared on Rotunda’s forehead. Failure could lead to him being a lad with five seconds of fame, sure, history would recognize how successful he was, but it he failed, everybody’s memory would remember him specifically for being a choke artist. He could not fail, he shouldn’t.


Gruff: I know you’re worried.


Rotunda didn’t like to be told he had a weakness.


Rotunda: I’m not, I have nothing to be worried of. It’s just another person who’s dream will be killed, while mine continues.


Gruff: I like the enthusiasm, it’s just what you need.


Gruff knew that addressing a weakness of Rotunda’s would have been pointless, but Gruff was hoping it would change, just for once. Rotunda had to let up or risk destroying himself.


Entourage member: Seth, I think you have a problem.


Rotunda: Remind telling me who the fuck you think you are?


Entourage member: I’m…I’m Barry Jones. Seth, I’ve been your sparring partner for five years.


Rotunda: Yet I look at you and the way you address me and I think, “I could have this guy shipped out for a world class sparring partner in seconds”.


Gruff: Seth…


Rotunda: No, no, hold on. Barry, don’t you realise that I am in control? You see the posters for this fight, for this event? It has my name on it. The advertisements on TV? I’m the centre of attention and everybody recognises me. You see the star on the locker room? My name is on there, not yours, not Leonard the cut man, not Thomas’, not Ricky the popcorn guy in the fifteenth row. No, it’s all about me, Seth Rotunda, “The Dream Killer”. Does everybody understand me now?


Gruff: I don’t know what to say.


Rotunda: I want to hear everybody say that they understand.


Gruff: You’re being unreasonable Seth.


Rotunda: I’m not. I want to hear everybody say it.


Gruff: You’re ruining all the hard work we’ve put it, you’re meant to be getting ready for this.


Rotunda: One final time, I want to hear it all your all fired, I walk out and there’ll be no fight.


Gruff: For god sake, Seth.


Entourage: We understand you, Mister Rotunda.


Rotunda: Good.


Rotunda snorts with satisfaction. Imagine what had happened had he failed at boxing, he wouldn’t be the man in control that everybody would see.


Rotunda: Now, if you don’t mind, I have a title to defend.


Rotunda threw off his robe to reveal the object he had craved and examined every single detail of, his world championship, His crowning achievement, his biggest piece of glory.


Rotunda heard the announcer of the MGM Grand build up the fight to the thousands of adoring fans, eager to see The Dream Killer.


Announcer: THE WBO HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF WORRRRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!


Rotunda/Announcer: SETH RO-TUNDA!

***

Rotunda snapped out of his thought, to find himself sat in The Pack locker room with a trickle of sweat finding its way down his brow. Normally the dream of gaining glory and being the centre of attention would make him cheerful, but lately, it left him instead with shivers. He had to win; the quest for glory would always be his ultimate goal. But if he gained such glory, would he become an even bigger egomaniac than he thought he was, but if no such victories came his way, his mind would crack.


Rotunda forced his thoughts to a darkened place of his mind and sought about scanning the room around him. Eastwood and Prideman, he thought, must have only left a few minutes ago, due to the slowly extinguishing cigarette, normally carried around by Eastwood. Rotunda often wondered how somebody like Eastwood still walked the planet alive, due to the excess of booze, cigars and Ultraviolent Matches he competed in.


Then there was Prideman. Prideman was dangerous; Rotunda knew that, many people knew that. Prideman suffered from anger problems, and, like a bezerker, Prideman would often work himself into a frenzy before destroying his opponent.


The man with the broken body, the lad with anger issues and the boxer with an unhealthy desire for glory, they were The Pack.


***

Rotunda sat in the corner of the restaurant with Thomas ap Gruff. The two were dressed in cheap cut-price suits, while a battered bowler hat rested on Gruff’s head. It was a complete opposite to the dream Rotunda had. Rotunda fidgeted, uncomfortable being in the company of the “average” men at the restaurant, Gruff tended to notice this and gave a annoyed murmur.


Rotunda: I told you, we should stop meeting in restaurants.


Gruff: I’m sorry, it’s the best I can do at the minute, besides, this is more fancy than usual.


Rotunda: It’s not The Ritz, I can tell you that.


Gruff: Should we get down to the meeting, champ?


Rotunda: Doesn’t help I’ve been waiting nearly an hour for food…


Gruff: Seth!


Rotunda: Fine, who’s next to be battered by the Dream Killer?


Gruff: Let me just start by saying, this is big.


Rotunda: And there comes the bullshit.


Gruff: On Corruption 14.2, the main event is: The Pack vs. The Sons of Attrition.


Rotunda’s eyes widened with eagerness. A chance to destroy some of the biggest names in FMW and get one step closer to glory.


Gruff: You seem quite taken aback.


Rotunda: It’s the complete opposite.


Gruff: This is your chance to make it big. You know, after losing against Stormaster and SosB.


Rotunda: That wasn’t my fault.


Gruff: It’s still a loss, Seth.


Rotunda: Remember when you used to be positive?


Gruff: Fine, I’ll lighten up.


Rotunda: So?


Gruff: The Pack will be victorious. The way I see it? There’s no reason for the Sons, there wasn’t a major threat, until The Pack of course, and now with YNG starting up. Plus, it’s got so many big egos in there, it’s bound to fall apart. You can’t have that many higher-ups in one group before it eventually explodes.


Rotunda: That actually sounds pretty good.


Gruff: But until then, you better prepare for the match. There’s nothing like a chance to impress the world and Eastwood, Seth.


”Impress the World”


***

Let’s see whose dreams are about to be killed:


First up, we have David GS.

The fellow rookie who has quite a rise to where he has been today.

The man obsessed with Chris Austin.

The man who ran through a streak of mediocre opponents.

That’s right, David, you’re nothing special. Everyone you have gone through is merely a commoner when
compared to The Pack. Until you met Ashburn, everyone thought that you were the one to watch, then Ashy took the title off you, people realised you could be beaten. Then you gave a great effort against Chris Austin, but failed.

You seem to in the quite the rut, the lad who’s too big to for the TV Title, but the lad that can’t quite make the step up to the C-4 Championship. Surely the Sons of Attrition will help you? They could mentor you all they like, they can show you how to be the greatest of wrestlers, but there’s a good chance that you’ll, well, quite simple choke.

When you step in the ring with me GS, your dreams of beating Austin, stepping up, will need a funeral.
Then we have Leon Caprice. You’re a hypocrite, what you teach others not to do in case of sin, you yourself are guilty of.

Would God approve of your actions? Living the lavish life, hurting others for a living, when it comes to judgement day, would God look at you and let you through those pearly gates or would he send you straight to the depths of hell in which many so-called Christians probably are right now.

Leon, not even God’s Will can save you from The Pack.

Because God knows I won’t.

Then there’s The Celt, but I actually respect somebody of his calibre.

But my main point is let’s take a look at the definition of Attrition:

A wearing down or weakening of resistance, especially as a result of continuous pressure or harassment.

a wearing down or away by friction.

This will eventually happen to SoA. You cannot have those egos in one place, it’s like nature, somebody has to be the alpha male.

But I’m sure most of you don’t like to be controlled by others. Soon, my friends, squabbling will break out, which will soon lead to fights, which will lead into a war between you five. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll certainly be bloody.

And I for one, will enjoy it.
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Mon Sep 12, 2011 6:06 pm

A wolf pack is an interesting group to look at. Usually they only consist of “nuclear families”, a mating pair and their offspring. They are not well known for adopting other wolves into their packs with a seeming sense of “kill or be killed”. However, it is known for a wolf pack to adopt another wolf in strange cases. The new member is normally young, between 1-3 years, whereas the killed wolves are always fully grown. Adoption is a long, drawn out process. It can consist of exploratory, non-fatal attacks to see whether the newcomer is trustworthy, or not.

Eastwood tells me I watch too many nature programs and yet his “Cull” idea sounds a lot like a wolf adopting another. Plenty of attacks to prove worth to the Alpha wolf. Up to this point I'd fought three guys who were meant to be brothers of mine. Part of The Pack. I never question Jack, I just do my thing. I am his “adoption”.

“ANOTHER FUCKING LOSS!” This shit was really winding me up. This was another loss. Each time I had everything under control. Beating on guys and then getting pinned. I'd had enough this time. Storming up the ramp and through the curtain, I didn't even stay to see Jack or Seth, I just grabbed my bag and left the building. I walked for about a mile before I'd even calmed down enough to pull on some tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. I was feeling angry, full of hate and vengeful. Somebody was going to get it. Luckily I still had a list.

Croydon, London
I stepped out of the taxi. It had been a long time since I'd been in London. I didn't know where to start so I decided to begin where I left off last, in a pub, hopefully not beating someone half to death this time. Outside a homeless guy was begging for change. You could tell he needed it. This guy was desperate. Each chorus of, “Spare some change”, was said with such desperation you could tell it was heroin not hamburgers this guy wanted. Addiction. Something everyone struggles with at some point, whether minor or major. I'd convinced myself that completing my list of childhood tormentors was merely to free a part of my soul that had remained tormented up to this point. But on this day it didn't feel that way. I was furious and I needed a buzz to relax me. I needed my hit and James Collins was going to get hit.

My list was literally that. Scribbled on paper, a list of names of all of those who would kick and punch me as a kid. There were some I didn't always remember but I added all the time when I did. There was no particular order to the list, but I figured the further up you were, the quicker I had remembered you, the more you deserved a beating. I walked into the pub and up to the bar. “Double JD”, I muttered at the barman. I looked into his eyes, I could see he recognised me and I knew he was well connected. With the right intimidation I'd find Collins in no time. He poured the drink, two 25ml measures into a small, glass, tumbler. I didn't remove my eyes from him. Taking it from him I downed it. I felt the familiar burn in my throat and yet my face remained unmoved. I figured I'd take my chance. “Hey!” I said this a little loudly, just so I could make this seem more confrontational to both the barman and his customers.
“Look, I don’t want any problems,” he stuttered in reply.
“Then I think we are on the same page,” I retorted. “I know full well that you know the locals round here. Where can I find James Collins?” He paused, racking his brain.
“Yeah, where is he?” I could see he knew, the pausing must have meant he wanted me to make it worth his while. “If you want money,” I began, “YOU CAN FUCKING FORGET ABOUT IT” I shouted grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.
“The off... offices down the road,” he stumbled in reply.
“ Thank you. And have a good evening,” I said, dropping him and letting his feet, gratefully reclaim their place on the floor.

Heading down towards the office I considered how I'd go about gaining revenge on Collins. I'd never had a fight in an office and considered how fun it would be to staple delicate parts of his anatomy to the same desk he had to stare at, day in and day out. Remember I mentioned addiction? Well brace yourself, more wolf talk. See these documentaries had me thinking. Wolves seemed so majestic to me, and I wanted to be able to embrace the wolf when I needed it. When a wolf is hunting it will often stalk its prey, laying low and out of sight before attacking. Often there was a chase, I intended this to be where we'd differ. I looked at my watch 16:47. I stood across the street waiting, quietly hoping he worked a nine to five job. It took 24 minutes but at 17:11 I saw a recognisable figure step out of the revolving doors and head down an alley to the car park to the rear of the building. It was too easy, but I never passed up these opportunities. I began to narrow my eyes and follow my prey. I didn't fancy a foot race with Collins, he was always tall and by now he looked 6 foot 11 and about 4 of that was legs. Walking swiftly I began to jog keeping my footsteps as light as possible. I was catching him. Grasping out with my arm I grabbed his shoulder, “Collins!” I exclaimed.
“Do I know you?” He snorted back at me. I looked into his eyes. I could remember them. The laughing eyes. I felt my face twist with rage. I swung a right into his gut, he bent double and his tall frame was more than brought to size. “Daniel Prideman,” I snarled. And then I lost it...

The lapses in my memory had become more frequent. Getting myself back together I knew things had worked out. I was covered in someone else's blood and I could hear sirens around me. It was time to get out. My work was done and My mind was on Corruption 14.2 and The Sons of Attrition.

I don't care much for the politics of FMW, I leave that to Eastwood but I know this match is a big one. My first main event and I know it is time for me to put myself on the map and for The Pack to take its rightful place at the top of the food chain. At 14.2 whether it is The Celt, David GS, Leon Caprice or all three at the same fucking time I will run through them all, leave them trailing in my wake and taste the beauty of victory. Now is the time to stand up and be counted and I am not gong to be left out this time. With the rest of The Pack by my side we will leave a bloody mess laying behind us. No one gets in our way. No one is safe when we go on the hunt.

Near Halifax, Canada (1 week to 14.2)
The familiar cold chill embraced me as I walked up to the building I'd recently come to know as home. I was feeling a lot better then when I'd left and headed back to the UK. Opening the heavy doors it felt different. There was a definite buzz in the air. “Jack about?” I asked. I knew the answer.
“Away,” was the mumbled reply I received. It felt less like home with Jack away. Heading into the lounge room I sat in my favoured chair, first on the edge before relaxing myself into the cushions. I stared at myself in the mirror. I could see I was calmer. Like an addict I felt better to have had my fix. But my eyes were unsteady, I could tell I wanted more violence. To cause pain, destruction. I needed my next hit.
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Leon Caprice



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FMW Superstar: Leon Caprice
Championship: FMW Undisputed Tag Team Champions

PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Tue Sep 13, 2011 11:20 pm

Obsidian

That was the word. Obsidian. He had read it somewhere. Not Ebony, not onyx.

Definitely obsidian. A sharp blackness.

Somehow in his terror Phil thought of that word.

He sat in his leather armchair, the room almost pitch-black save the dull light of the moon. The lamp, on a timer, had switched off. His reading glasses had slipped from his face and jabbed him in a dozing fit, startling him awake.

Adjusting to the darkness, his eyes widened like a ripple in a pond. Just as he was summoning the energy to rise and go to bed he saw the shape in the window. He looked away, then back. There was no denying it. Outlined in his living room window by a halo of moonlight was a silhouette of that looked to be a middle sized man, with a muscular figure. It moved slowly, deliberately to the left, then the right. When it moved right it caught the moonlight. Two massive orbs twinkled, like eyes.

Obsidian eyes.

The shadow of the man’s head turned back to the window and stared into Phil’s living room, hell, into him. He felt all the hairs on his arms stand up. Though shrouded in darkness, he still felt the shiny black holes focused on him. He started, as if a spider had crawled across his open palm. Surely it saw him.

Don’t move you damn fool.

There was a chance that whatever the hell the thing was it did not see him. Its bizarre mineraloid orbs may not observe his slumped form in the beat-up leather chair, a Rivers novel clamped between his knees where it had fallen in his sleep.

He clenched his teeth as a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. The shape did not move. Phil sat perfectly still.

Night terrors. Yes, night terrors, he though. Pavor noctumus. He would regain control of his body when he awoke fully and the shape at his window would be gone.

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to three.


Phil: One. It’s not really there.

Phil: Two. It’s been a rough couple of weeks. This is just the manifestation of the stress.

Phil: Three. It might just be the guilt of what I’ve done.

His eyes opened, and the shape was gone.

Phil raised his hand to test his lucidity. It rose above the arm of the chair a few centimeters. He blinked, his eyes accustomed to the darkness of the cabin’s living room. He saw nothing, just a faint moonbeam unblocked by a shape in the window. He removed the novel from between his knees, placing it gently on the chair’s wide arm.

He felt a breeze from the fireplace, the faint ashy smell of last night’s blaze in his nostrils. He needed to close that flue, as snow was predicted for tonight and the cabin was already drafty enough, especially when there was no fire.

Phil stood, his joints clicking. He stretched and rolled his head, producing more clicking sounds. Exhaling, he reached for the light switch. He turned it, but it failed to come to life.

The timer. Damned timer needs to be unplugged first.

Phil reached for the large box of long fireplace matches on the mantle, took one out and lit it.

His eyes contracted painfully as the match flared. As he wheeled to find the lamp timer he heard a loud crash outside the cabin, apparently from the wrap-around porch.

He dropped the match, It extinguished on the thin navy blue rug below.

Darkness enveloped him again and his eyes adjusted and looked back to the window. There in the moonlight was the unmistakable obsidian gaze of the shape.


This time, however, it had a companion.


*** Fi U Li Ui.***



It had been a couple of days since Leon learnt of the kidnapping of his daughter, a point of fact that unlocked a spontaneous attitude within himself, which only called him to act swiftly and immediately to apprehend those that took his daughter Joy. Still residing within The Mansion occupied by the four men of The Sons of Attrition , Leon would reside within the walls of his study as he sprawled out dozens of folders, which seemingly contained direct information to his current situation. Picking up his phone every five minutes to speak to one man or another, he was madly organizing things to take place airfare, tracking, cleaning, tech, etc. He wasn’t just planning something small, he was planning every frame of his upcoming hunt.

Seeing Leon camped up within his study for a couple of days on end left the other SoA men at a loss as they struggled to understand what was going on. Still to tell his stable partners what was actually going on, Leon would only allow them to enter his study to simply provide a meal or rare alcoholic beverage to take the stress from Leon’s eyes. Yet as they continued to simply comply, they would begin to visit his study more regularly, thus giving Leon the ultimate push to temporarily vacate The Mansion, in search of his daughter.



***Ri Di R D***



Phil made a split second decision to menace the bizarre voyeurs at his window away with a show of brute force.

The fireplace poker was cold and heavy in his hand. He raised it level with his face, as to show the shapes that he meant business. The shapes did not move. He stood there, transfixed, the cold metal poker getting heavier in his grasp.

A yell strangled in his throat, as if he meant to scare away an alley cat and lost all enthusiasm. He couldn’t force the sound out.

Instead he smashed the poker against the fireplace screen. It saved in, crashing with a somewhat satisfying substitute for a scream.

The shapes held their ground.

The moon climbed higher overhead, and the two pair of obsidian orbs were trained on him, even in the darkness. Oh yes, they could see him just fine in the dark; built-in night vision for these chaps. He felt another bead of sweat track down his temple. What did they want? What the hell were they?

Swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple danced in his throat. Phil took a moment to inventory his situation. He is alone in his cabin in the secluded woods, nine miles from the nearest town, about twelve miles from the nearest police station. He is at least an hour away from his loft in the city.

The cabin had two locked doors, one in the back, just off the kitchen, and the one near the window occupied by the shapes. There were seven large windows. About seven hundred square feet, the cabin was all logs, mortar, stone floors and a fireplace. Just one bedroom, one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen and a small basement.

He thought of making a break for the basement, but what good would that do? He would be trapped. All that was in there were a few boxes of dry cereal, cans of soup and surely a bunch of malignant spiders. This cabin was a simple escape from his daily life in the city, not a fortress. There was no safe room. The cabin was solitude, a refuge from interaction with people.

People.

Phil didn’t like people all that much. It probably started when he was a kid. His Dad had died in a car accident the night of Christmas Eve, a drunk driver plowed into him. He never knew what hit him. Then his mother married a guy who believed kids were to be seen, not heard. Or really to rarely even be seen. In his aversion of setting off his stepfather, Phil developed a nearly arresting aversion to people in general. He preferred his people in the pages of books.

To most, Phil seemed an affable sort. A top earner at the local P.R. firm, he skillfully created the impression of a man who thrived on contact with others.

Actually, inside him revulsion roiled. It was as if he had limited to the amount of bearable contact with other people. Once he reached that limit, it was almost physically and certainly psychically painful to be in the presence of others. He could tolerate just so much chitchat and small take; and after a while it all seemed like small talk. The cabin allowed no small talk.

A certain Mr. Caprice was recently bringing this revulsion regularly. Leon Caprice was the father of his recent acquisition, a baby girl called Joy. A fairly large cloud of confusion laid over the situation in which Phil now was in possession of a 6 month old baby, and the continuous exasperation and look of guilt and confusion was consumingly evidence of the escalation of all of that. And it was people’s recent inquisitions into his personal life and whereabouts which currently held Phil in an odd and unbearable state.

Leon wore a fair thrown-back mane of hair and suits, no matter what color with matching shoes. An aqua-colored suit meant aqua-colored shoes, burgundy suit: burgundy shoes. Phil had time to focus on these details as Leon furiously kept in step with every move that Phil made, keeping up with Phil’s actions, as if he sought not Phil’s understanding about why he did what he did, but a tacit recognition of Leon’s ability to torment Phil from this point on.

And here it was, Phil’s refuge was now his prison, he remained where he stood, a sweating statue by the cold fireplace.

He had no phone, only a cellular that gets no reception. He had no weapons beyond his kitchen knives. Neither a fan of guns, he was more of a hiker than a hunter.

The shapes stayed put, as did Phil.

The bizarre, silent standoff continued for what seemed hours, though it was only about three minutes before Phil acted, as if by instinct. He dove from his position beside the stone fireplace into the beat-up leather couch a few feet from the chair in which he had previously slept.

Peering from behind the arm of the couch, he saw that the shapes had vanished from their perch in front of the window.


Phil: Shit.

He blinked a couple of times, breathing shallowly. He heard curious scraping sounds from the wooden planks of the porch, as if something was walking and dragging its feet. Phil wanted to call to them, to threaten, to warn that he was armed and dangerous.

Fear was winning however. As he did when he was a child frightened by scary movies or his surly step dad, he flattened his body into the couch, willing himself to merge with the cushions.

A moment into this infantile reaction, his rational mind took over. He had to act. The luminous dial of this wristwatch showed 1am. There were at least five more hours until daylight. Something or some things were on his porch, peering in his window and refusing to leave.

He cursed silently.

Why does it always have to be this way? Isn’t anything ever easy? All I wanted was some peace and quiet and time to myself.

As he would continue to whine internally he heard terracotta shatter and scatter, the dark shapes had knocked over the flowerpot he hand painted last summer, there was two pots, one either side of the front doorway. A shape moved quickly past the window.


Phil: By God that’s enough.

Gripping the fireplace poker, he rose to his knees on the couch and coaxed a deep voice from his throat.

Phil: I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’ve called the police and I have a…big…gun.

His throat moved, rasping in his following words.

Phil: If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the hell out of here.

He lay back down on the couch, peering over the arm to the window. The sounds stopped. All was silent but the crickets outside.

Phil’s heart raged against his ribcage, the nausea of fear overtook the adrenaline that raced through his body. Over the sound of his cardiac muscle came a slight creak of a porch floorboard.


In the moonlight he made out the doorknob of the cabin door. It turned.


***U R Ui Ri Ui Fi U F***



With Leon leaving The Mansion hours before, Hannibal Frost would carefully press against the door to Leon’s study, peeking through the gap of the unlatched doorway to see that Leon had indeed been busy in his final hours before departure. As he eventually pressed against the door firmly and opened the doorway to it full ability he gradually and cautiously entered the transformed study. There on the far wall of Leon’s study, taped to the glass windows that looked out over the golf course was a huge collection of documents, centered by a map of the united states, which was adorn with pins from the location of The Mansion to the far edges of Panama. Surrounding the map was at least a dozen news reports on kidnapped children, ranging in dates from 8 months ago to just this month, however amongst them all there was one that took Hannibal’s gaze completely.

There directly beside the map was an article produced just days ago with the heading “Wrestler’s daughter taken in uptown suburbs”. Sure enough with little to be read, Frost gathered the required information, Joy had been kidnapped, and with only a few seconds to take it in, he knew where Leon was heading.

With enough seen on the walls, he would turn his attention to the doorway in which he entered through, yet between the window and the doorway was Leon’s desk and chairs, and placed central on Leon’s desk was that of a black leather coated chest, which conveniently had already been opened and it’s contents removed.



***Ui Li U L U F Ui Fi***



All he ever wanted from the cabin was some time alone. All he wanted was to be in his bubble, isolated from people, from their faces. Phil wanted to see only the world of his choosing; he only wanted a world of himself, his books and his thought. The real world had problems and pettiness and people who yelled and the tears of children.

That world now intruded on his bubble. The cabin’s doorknob turned and a shaft of moonlight streamed from the window and made a spotlight just in front of the doorway.


Phil: Stay out, I’ve got a gun in here!

Phil would struggle to shout the words past his seeming swollen Adam’s apple, as he raised himself off the couch, wielding the fireplace poker like a sword.

The door unlatched and opened with a creak, slowly revealing two shapes. One shape was about six feet tall, the other a few inches or so taller. Their round heads and obsidian eyes stared straight at him. Phil now understood the meaning of blind terror.

But the shapes did nothing, Phil stood there, breathing shallowly, his heart rattling, his throat dry and his eyes straining to see.


Phil: What do you… What do you want?!

Rasping his words Phil would hope from a swift response, yet the silhouettes would continue to play off their shadows for a moment more.

Phil raised the poker defensively as the taller shape took a step forward into the light of the moonbeam. On a closer inspection he could see that its obsidian eyes were dark brown.


Leon: Hello Phil.

Phil would suddenly shake in dread as the first shape would transfigure into the presence of Leon Caprice, adorn in a silk black suit, and of course wearing a pair of polished black shoes. Yet the most alarming of all that Leon was adorn with, from the water soaked into his flicked-back hair, to the golden watch on his left wrist was the grasp of a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda in his right hand, pointing the barrel at the heart of Phil.

Phil: Le-Leon…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it! I was forced!!

Phil’s words were spoken with a current of nervousness throughout them, yet in response to them, Leon would remain composed, keeping a stone gaze on his prey as he swiftly responded.

Leon: Don’t be the coward Phil. Be a man and account for your actions. Let your death resolve all of this, but first, where is Joy?

Leon’s gaze and expression would remain to be set in stone as he calculatedly awaited Phil’s concluding response.

Phil: I-I don’t have her...I didn’t mean to take her, it’s all a misunderstanding.

Phil would fall to his knees and outstretch his hands in a petty effort to beg for his life, yet ultimately both he and his intruders would know the resolution of this event. With a dissatisfied exhale Leon would move his attention to the .44 in his hand, spinning the barrel and cocking the bullet into place.


The heart-wrenching laughter would come from the unknown man behind Leon as he slowly stepped forward, allowing the etches of moonlight to fall upon his face, giving evidence to the white face-paint splashed across his face.

Leon: You deserve this, you truly do.

With his words barely reaching the ears of his victim, Leon would give no hesitation to pull back the light weight trigger of the magnum and allow his words to literally pierce his victim’s mind. With the echoing sound emitted from the gunshot both intruders would remain still for a moment as they watched in the falling silence as Phil’s limp body would fall to the titles below.


As the laughter continued in the back of the room once more, Leon would begin to grin as his words took on a physical dimension as they could now be seen through the tip of the mans head as the cavity created by the inexorable bullet spoke more that the words he attached to it.

That was suppose to be it though. Here was Leon using his resources and co-operating with a recognized mad-man to retrieve his missing daughter and bring to justice the man who held her hostage. Yet with a few minutes to hurriedly check the small cabin, he realised that Phil’s final words were true.

Yet although he had brought the original kidnapper to justice he knew this was only the beginning. That this would only begin a web of darkness and something that if followed all the way through would leave Leon in a similar place to the men he hunted.

Giving a moment to return himself to face his offsider, Leon would casually reach within his suit jacket pocket and quickly remove his mobile phone. With only a couple of buttons pressed he would gradually lift the phone to his ear and begin the long distant conversation.


Leon: It’s done here, one body and a cabin to dust over for evidence. Make it quick, and make it disappear.

Whether it was the stone emotion that had formed from the severity of his daughter being taken, or the fact that he now sought to take business into his own hands, Leon would accompany it with the point of being very wealthy and as just spoken would now call upon orders from the men around him.

Wealth had truly transitioned into power as the former image of Leon Caprice had seemingly dissipated as a new and more calculated Leon Caprice would surface as the man everyone would now see and know. Whether people would change their perception of him or not, meant little, as all that mattered to Leon was retrieving his lost daughter and bringing justice to those that would do harm.

Before the scene would fade to black, Leon would gradually turn to his accomplice and share some final thoughts.


Leon: Have you ever tried to solve a Rubix Cube? … heh, funny things they are. You can spend hours chasing around those colors and hope that they’ll eventually line up perfectly with a smidgen of luck. But if you look deeper, if you think logically, you can read the patterns, and ultimately understand the algorithms to solve it in a matter of minutes. He he. Now I know you are a man of havoc and you’re just looking for the right moment to start spinning those blocks and putting those final pieces into place, but be patient. Justice first then we take our final payments. And this…this is only the first piece that we’ve moved…

Leon: The next piece I have a feeling will be a lot more explosive for you.

_________________
I fight for justice, I fight for goodness and to all those that oppose me...

Know that I am no longer alone.
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Killswitch



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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Wed Sep 14, 2011 1:36 am

Killswitch is driving down the highway at breakneck speed, dodging various cars that are attempting to run him off the road. One such car pulls up beside him, the passenger waving a shotgun around as he takes a swig of whiskey from the bottle. Killswitch stomps on the brake right as the guy fires, sending the shot in front of his car and out into the empty field. Killswitch stomps on the gas and takes off, leaving the cars behind. He leans out of the window and screams obscenities at the shooter.

Killswitch: GO FUCK YOUR SISTER YOU INBRED AMERICAN HICK!

He falls back into the car and sighs as he slows down a little, his heart rate returning to normal. He turns on the radio, and smiles approvingly as Nickleback begins playing.

Killswitch: Aww yeah, some real Canadian music for once. Fucking Americans, always idolizing that clown Lady Gaga. Blech.

Suddenly, his phone rings. He turns on the hands free device and answers

Killswitch: Killswitch.

Prime Minister: You lost.

Killswitch turns a dark shade of red.

Killswitch: I did, sir.

PM: Are you going to offer a reason?

Killswitch: No, I have no excuse.

The PM sighs, causing a tingle to go up Killswitch's spine

PM: You know what this means.

It wasn't a question. Agents who had failed any part of their mission received a caning as punishment. Killswitch winces.

Killswitch: Yes, sir. I do. I accept my punishment

PM: Due to your impeccable service record prior, I'm going to give you a pass on this. Don't make me regret this.

Killswitch perks up.

Killswitch: No sir, thank you sir! I won't let you down!

PM: I hope you don't. I saved you and made you, Ryan, I can just as easily break you.

Killswitch winces at the mention of his birth name. A reminder of how pathetic he once was, and a reminder of how much power is held over him now.

Killswitch: I won't let you down sir. Outlaw John Adams got lucky. Lightning will not strike twice.

PM: It had better not. For glory.

The PM hangs up, leaving Killswitch alone, driving through the dark, the mantra that had been beaten into his head since birth ringing in his head.

Killswitch: For glory.

**

Killswitch is sitting in the locker room, taping his hands for his upcoming match, a REEBOK hockey stick sitting by his side. As he finishes up, he pounds each fist into the opposite palm. He stands up and shadow boxes for a few moments before Outlaw John Andrews walks in, his baseball bat in hand. Killswitch quickly grabs his hockey stick and comes face to face with Andrews.

OJA: You're making a mistake, boy. You keep running your mouth, I'll have to knock some teeth out and make you look like one of them hockey players you idolize.

Killswitch: The only mistake being made is you pushing me too far. I'm going to tie our little series up, and show everyone how lucky you got last time.

OJA: Lucky, huh? We'll see about that, canuck.

Killswitch: We will indeed. Now, get out. I have preparation to do, and your Americaness is disturbing me.

A look of disgust crosses Andrews face before he leaves. Killswitch puts his stick down, and shadow boxes for a few more minutes before a stagehand pokes his head in, informing him that he's up. He kneels down, says a prayer, grabs his stick and walks out of the dressing room, ready for vengeance.
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Mark Johansson



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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Wed Sep 14, 2011 11:45 am

Worthless.

You’re weak.
You’re a coward.
You’re pathetic.
You have devalued the TV title.


These are just some of the messages that random fans have messaged me throughout the past fortnight since being crowned as your new Television Champion. Such an event has caused people to hop onto youtube to look at the footage. They couldn’t believe what happened.
Truth is… I can. A question that no one seems to want to ask is “Why?”, the question is highly open ended but I feel it necessary to answer it for my fans.

Bryson: As I said Mark, I didn’t target you for being weak. It was the opposite, I saw potential that no one else did.

It was true, even to this day people think that I am nothing more than a lowly jobber. I served no other purpose than to be beaten and broken in order to advance the careers of others. Two classic examples of this is Leon Caprice and The Celt.

Bryson: You deserved something other than this. Not just from a wrestling stand point but in life. You gave your life to service our country. You deserve something in return.

It was true, I may have chosen to become an undercover cop but that decision has cost me a lot more than I orignioally thought. They warned me that I would miss out on a lot of live but after nearly five years after completing my mission my life still suffers due to it. I couldn’t start a family, I couldn’t start a career, I couldn’t get an education. Now it is too late.

Bryson: To put in bluntly, start putting yourself ahead of others.

So I did, at a tender age of 34 I don’t have time to waste on others, Bryson’s words had convinced me that I was harming my lifestyle and career subconsciously through my actions. A simple fact is that if I hadn’t cared about Jaro’s safety and had just wailed on him with a two by four, things would have been different.

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

It wasn’t the last piece of the puzzle though, Ashburn was needed to complete the plan. Bryson had talked to both of us separately and through these talks we realised that if we have a legitimate contest we could risk injury. Something as simple as an awkward landing to ruin “Your New Gods” before we had even got off the ground.

It is in this simple idea where we will survive when every other factions fails, we don’t believe in personal pride. There is no need to have a contest just out of pride. It is true that pride comes before the fall. The Innovative Initiative are a prime example of this with their leader being one of the most egotistical characters around the federations, someone who claims to be the teacher of FMW clearly has himself on a pedestal.

What happened to the II? They fell.

HavOc were the same, they believed in a baptism of fire for their new members. What better way to welcome Jack Eastwood into their group by giving him the flogging of his life. A few months later they fell. The succumbed to the weariness of in fighting.
I even learnt from my time being in the Broken Saints, one of the biggest jokes to go through FMW. It all started with the leader, Drew Michaels. The biggest name that the federation had wanted to help train rookies and lift veterans to their peak? Why… no one does that, no one who is looking to become the FMW Champion wants to waste their precious preperation time in order to help those that are below them. The structure of Your New Gods does not suffer from this, Nick Bryson isn’t looking to help us become stars he knows that we have it already in us. He has given us the means to reach our full potential.

At Supremacy The Broken Saints faced each other in a first blood fatal four way. We actually chose to beat each other til we drew blood. For what? Honour? Stupidity more like it. That match weakened us all and the group suffered and disbanded quickly after. If I had fought Ashburn we would suffer the same fate as each of these three groups.

There is no need to put yourself in harms way. It isn’t a cowards way out, its self preservation.


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

Leon Caprice was once a target of Nick Bryson and since then he has been running rampant. Multi-time champion and now a main event regular. But he came from the same humble beginnings as me, we tagged together. We were successful at first but pretty soon our failures piled up. That was the end of our partnership but not of our friendship. Things changed though, he became self involved and from there become a champion. I watched this and wondered why I didn’t get what he got. I realised now it is because he put himself first, he disowned his own teacher. He beat up someone he considered a brother, Skyler Stryker, in order to become a singles champion.

The Celt was also a victim of Nick Bryson and eventually he became a champion. We were on the rise at the same time and I still believe that he stole my opportunity at Death Row. After earning a title shot he was simply slotted into the match. Why? Because he had previously had a close encounter with then champion Jaro? So did I!!! What’s worse is that he also betrayed his own brother in order to rise to the top. It isn’t a coincidence that from the moment that he turned his back on Pure Extremist he became a champion. He put himself before his own family, he finally started putting himself first.

I have been branded a coward because of my actions on Corruption but these two champions and all round “good guys” have both done acts of cowardliness that far out weigh mine. They took the easy way out, instead of fixing those who have gone wayward they decided to destroy them.


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

I stand by my comment that the TV Title is worthless. Ask past champions, do they really see it as the highlight of their career? Anyone who does has done nothing since winning. It is constantly passed around from rookie to rookie like the town whore. It’s illustrious history is non-existent which comes from the fact it must be defended every show.

The truth is… My career has been worthless. I wanted more. I have been given more and I promise the world of FMW that I will bring prestige to the TV Tile.

Gold is a commodity, the rarer it is the more expensive it is. This title just got a whole lot rarer.

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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Wed Sep 14, 2011 4:37 pm

Corruption 14.2
from the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia



Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild
Love me some Caesar

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken
Ashburn deserves this unless VVR or DH show and impress

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)
Killswitch had the better promo, no doubt

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes
I'm usually in favor of at least one successful defense

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin
I think this is Harlequin's ascension to a main event push

Main Event
Six-Man Tag

The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
Massive props to The Pack this time, but storyline wise it makes no sense for SoA to job when they're collectively feuding with the FMW champion

Promo ONLY until Tuesday September 13th at 11:59pm EST. Voting and Promo until Thursday September 15th at 11:59pm EST
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Wed Sep 14, 2011 6:29 pm

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag
The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
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The Celt

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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Wed Sep 14, 2011 7:37 pm

The scene opens up to the Celt directly in front of the camera, sitting in a fold out chair in a quieter section of a large gym. Lain across his lap is the 12 ounces of precious metal he fought so hard to earn, the Ultraviolent title.

The Celt stares straight ahead, and begins to address the audience
.

Today’s date is Wednesday, the 14th of September 2011. It has been 188 days since I achieved the one goal I ever truly set out to achieve: Winning the Ultraviolent title.

It was December 2006; roughly four years and ten months ago, when I entered into FMW’s consciousness as a fresh-faced, native, green as the country that raised me rookie. When I was taking my first steps down this path of mine, I could never have imagined the journey it’d take me on. It’s been a long, rugged road filled with potholes, wrong turns and dead-ends. There’s been times when I felt completely lost, and didn’t know how to find the way back.

The Celt grabs the title with one hand and holds it up beside his face.


Winning this Championship meant everything to me; it was self-validation, it was relief, it was the breath of air I needed after being underwater for so long.

As the Celt continues the title returns to his lap


For me, the Ultraviolent championship has always been a guiding light, a target I’ve always wanted to hit. Even from the day I joined FMW, it processed a unique appeal to me: Despite the brutality and viciousness instilled into from its very origin, its “no-excuses”, gritty, passionate nature always attracted me. Its attitude always seemed so beautifully straight forward: “Get in a fight, then fight as hard as you can to win”. A title that meant you couldn’t blame the rules or the officials for your own failings? I was hooked.

But there was something else to it as well; as Full Metal Wrestling rapidly progressed in its first year, the brand split which would help define the company came to pass. With that brand split formed the red and blue brands; Anarchy and Alchemy, the direct ancestors of Corruption and Ammunition today.

As the Celt reminiscences about the early years of FMW, his eyes seem to drift away from the camera, as if those very memories were playing out before him.

From the very onset of that brand split, the Ultraviolent Championship was the heart of the red brand. The men who processed the championship were the personification of the traits the brand believed in: gritty, stubborn, aggressive, charismatic, respected wrestlers who put it all on the line.

Video clips of Drew Michaels, X, Doc Derrick, War Machine and the early days of the Ultraviolent championship are played to illustrate the point as the Celt continues to narrate.


That’s what I wanted to be; among the calibre of men who fought for Ultraviolent title, and so that’s what I worked towards for years. The funny thing is, as much effort and hard work that I put towards that, I never actually pictured myself achieving that. It was always “One day I’ll be like that”, never “tomorrow, or even today, I can be like that”. Even as I fought through blinding pain, psychological trauma or binding stress, I never thought of myself as being in the same league as the idols I aspired towards.

Winning the Ultraviolent title changed so many things for me.

Throughout the entirety of time in FMW, I’d always imagined the UV title as my final destination; the last stop on my journey with the company. I actually never looked beyond that point because before it seemed so far away.

But now, with the Ultraviolent title in hand, I respectfully feel that I’ve reached that level.

Before I didn’t have the same confidence in my abilities; in fact I was just happy to be just a simple gear in the machine that is Corruption. Now I know I can be more that, I know now I can be a leader in my own right, perhaps even an inspiration to someone starting their own journey in FMW.
Before winning this title I used to lay awake at night, warped with stress over what Corruption’s enemies might do it. I know see that so much of that stress came from feelings of being unable to stop them, despite all my efforts.

I don’t do that anymore, because now I know I can stop them, I know now that the red brand can never be destroyed by external forces so long as I stand by it.

Winning this title was the turning point for me; It took away the fear, the stress and the insomnia, and replaced them with two things: The confidence to be a cornerstone of the red brand, and secondly, an addiction.

The longer I hold this title, the stronger my addiction grows. It’s something that burrowed under my skin and itches at me all the time. It’s something that’s dug into my brain, and leaves me wondering about all the time.

This new addiction...is competition.

It’s no longer just good enough for me to stay in the background of Corruption; I’m no longer satisfied by simply being part of the roster. Winning this title injected my soul with a thirst for competition.

I was never one to back down from a fight, but now the instinct to chase down the very best around is starting to become second nature. To do this Championship justice, I NEED to face down the best there is out there, I NEED to test myself against them.

My match against Christian G. Smitten was so special to me. Beyond the obvious animosity between us over our rather differing opinions on the rule of law, the match had a very powerful magnetism to me; Smitten is a former FMW World Champion.

Video clips of Smitten’s World title play as the Celt continues to narrate; they highlight his winning of Gold Card which lead to his title shot, and the match between himself and John Derrick itself.


He is amongst the very top flight of competitors that the promotion has to offer. His skill, size, experience and cunning make him a gruelling opponent, who’ll absolutely test your worth. Being able to “hang” in the ring with Smitten was my aim for that match, but the result was beyond what I could have ever expected.

I beat a former World Champion.

Between winning the UV Championship, and being able to beat that calibre of talent (who, by the way, is now the proud C-4 Champion) makes me crave even more...so much more.

That’s what I’ve tried to draw from Jack Eastwood. Since winning the title, Eastwood has been the man to contest my title, the man attempting to wrestle it away from grasp. And in every defence I’ve had against him, I’ve DARED him to give me his best shot.

Taunting someone, riling someone up, throwing fuel on an already fierce fire...these are tactics I never considered before winning the title; but I use them to extract the best match possible from any given situation.

Just like with any addiction I’ve got to get my fix...and nothing but its purest form will do. And just like I want nothing but the best from my opponents, that means I’ve got to give nothing but the best each and every single time I step out there.

There are no B-games in my world.

The Celt takes the UV title in both hands and holds it up to the camera

So I want to put it out there; If you want to step up and face me, if you want a shot at the gold, if you think you can knock me off the top spot...I dare you to you it. Give me all your angst, you determination, your raw emotion, your cold discipline...whatever it takes for you to operate on your highest gear, throw it ALL right at me.

I am the Ultraviolent Champion, a fighting Champion, I’m pleading with you to come and try and change that fact, because that’s what I’m all about now.

I guess, to sum it all up really...

A smirk grows across the face of the Celt

Come at me bro.


Fade to Black
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Wed Sep 14, 2011 9:50 pm

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag
The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 3:08 am

OOC: In short, computer lost my original promo, and my rewrite got corrupted.

THIS SPOT IS SAVED FOR MY SECOND REWRITE

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[B][ COLOR=#d4af37]Parkes:[ /COLOR][ /B]
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 10:35 am

Corruption 14.2
from the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia


Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag
The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 11:48 am

Corruption 14.2
Same Rules as Ammunition, call it Leon's way of voting if you want. I will not vote against a no-shower, whether this highlights the fact that there is a large amount of promos missing or the fact that it could potentially push that person to think "why bother if I'll lose anyway."


Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)
Out of everything happening in FMW I am loving this feud going. It's got character and it will help you both in the long run. Killswitch gets the vote, but OJA hit me up on AIM if you need to, but lets lengthen your promos and get more into the Outlaw's personality.

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag

The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
I'll take a 2-2 instead of a 3-3 if it means everyone shows up. I'm sure or at least hopefully tht DGS and Eastwood will show, but it was about time the Pack got a tag match and a SoA vs. The Pack seems like a good thing to run again later down the track. Daniel & Seth, if you want feedback, hit me up on AIM and I'll kindly pass on some tips.

_________________
I fight for justice, I fight for goodness and to all those that oppose me...

Know that I am no longer alone.
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 3:56 pm

Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer… maybe self-destruction is the answer.
- Chuck Palahniuk (1962 - )


Wednesday, 15th September 2011
2018 AST

Blue flashing lights. Sirens. A broken man with a broken body lies on the concrete.

Judging from his position the man must have fallen off the roof of the twelve-storey car park, plummeting down toward the Halifax streets head first. The scent of iron, sweet on the air, rises up from the corpse, his cranium dashed open like so many broken promises. Scars on the man’s wrists and forearms suggest suicide as the cause of death, coupled with the man’s physique – someone at least six foot six with a toned, muscular frame would not be easy to push off a high structure.

The blue lights flicker on and on but for Jack Eastwood, the lights in his tired eyes finally burn out.



Thursday, 1st September 2011
2302 EDT

A drink in hand, Eastwood is already into the fourth hour of what will be the longest and most serious bender of his lives. He quaffs down yet another double whisky, straight, before gesturing in the direction of the dusty bottle of absinthe behind the bar in a shithole Columbus dive. At the rate he is going he will drink the state of Ohio dry, inebriation swimming in his blood. The absinthe is passed over to him in shot form and he takes the bottle instead, swigging from it gluttonous and throwing a lot of crumpled dollars onto the top of the bar, stumbling from his stool to exit.

He lights up a cigarette outside, the tip dampening from the dribbles on his stubble. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he flicks through his text messages to see if Seth has managed to find Daniel yet. Nothing. Truth be told, Eastwood should be out looking for Prideman too. All three of them had lost and it had hit him particularly hard. The way he had stormed out after their match, Seth had said, was enough to give even him the chills. But instead of looking for the rampant Londoner, Jack was getting hammered, trying to drown his own demons with copious liquids in bottles and cans and glasses.

With a sigh, he takes to the night air, the cigarette between his lips smouldering away as his feet carry him home.



Monday, 5th September 2011
0624 EDT

How much time has passed? Jack’s not really sure. All he knows is that the world is bright as he staggers through Hamilton, making as arse of himself on the ferry from America a distant memory. Too pissed to remember he has cigarettes in his pockets, he blearily kicks a man in the face going for an early morning walk with his dog. The man falls and the dog, a German shepherd, barks its fiercest at Eastwood, who responds in kind, his growling, snarling face too much for the hound to bear. It bolts and Jack rifles through the unconscious man’s clothes, securing a packet of smokes, which he trades for a hundred dollar bill in the man’s mouth.

Laughing as he walks, although not really sure why – maybe it was the reference he just made or maybe it’s the fact that he gave a Canadian a Benjamin – he lights up, the nicotine seeping into his system, a heady cocktail of drugs forcing his heart-rate to race and his lifespan to shorten.



Wednesday, 7th September 2011
2311 EDT

A prostitute offers her services to Jack in Oshawa. He turns her down and she walks away scathing, getting into an argument with her pimp. Jack decides to be the bigger man and thump the shit out of him. Amusing.


Sunday, 11st September 2011
1032 EDT

He swears at people in Montreal, calling them all fucking pretend Frenchies who are like the fucking pakis who go to his country and then complain that they don’t like it and who are they to not like Canada anyway even though it’s a bit cold and a bit shit and just America’s bitch and then he breaks down crying and hugs them and says that that is what being British is like because his country is cold and shit and America’s bitch too and that makes them like brothers and he’s so very sorry.


Wednesday, 15th September 2011
1957 AST

The Asylum looms in the distance, a sobering shadow to remind Eastwood of the mess he is making… though he is long since past caring what brickwork thinks of him. And even if he had the mental capacities to comprehend that he really should be back at the Asylum taking care of his Pack, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t feel as though he has got the right after being such a failure. His self-destruction is almost complete and now he merely needs to find a way to end it all. A tall building catches his eye in the evening’s fading light and he scales it, grinning foolishly. He leaps off…


















Thursday, 16th September 2011
1134 AST

White sterile lights. Beeps. A broken man with a broken body lies in a hospital bed.

Jack’s eyes slowly flicker open, the hangover of his lives overcoming him. Instantly he retches, the bile streaming from his mouth and nose past the oxygen being pumped into his lungs through the nasal passage. Ripping out the tubes that were supposedly keeping him alive, his fingers clasp around the familiar smoothness of the button that summons a nurse. However, a doctor enters, Jack’s chaotic dismantling of his life-support systems sending out warnings in the form of loud whines, which infuriate the beast within, their high-pitched tones pulsing through his head.


Doctor: What are you doing, man? You need to rest.

Eastwood: Oh shut it, doc. I’ve got a headache.

Doctor: I’m not surprised. You took quite a bump to the head. Now lie down.

Eastwood: In the words of Rage Against the Machine, fuck you I won’t do what you tell me. I can discharge myself, and for Cestas’ sake, don’t tell me my injuries are too severe for me to not because I know the procedure. You should know I’m a regular in these establishments.

Doctor: I can’t legally stop you. But if you walk out of here right now then you’re a damned fool!

Eastwood: Then call me a fool, you jew-nosed son of a bitch.

He lights up a cigarette as he walks through the hospital, smiling. His body shudders and shakes from the abuse it has received but he grins through the pain, too foolish and too numb to let it stop him. A hapless security guard tells Jack to put the cigarette out and the response is a knockout punch to the face. Eastwood smiles, shaking the blood off his knuckles. He is alive. Taking his phone out of his pocket he calls up the Asylum.

Prideman: Hello?

Eastwood: Aite prick?

Prideman: Where the fuck have you been?

Eastwood: Looking for you? Look, it doesn’t matter. Get down to Halifax. Take the SUV. It’s important.

Prideman: Of course it matters! I was fucking worried about you!

Eastwood: Well, come to Halifax. I’ll explain there. Bring Seth too. And whatever you can pick up and swing.


Thursday, 16th September 2011
1415 AST

Eastwood was waiting around the corner of Full Metal Wrestling offices, still smoking a cigarette. The secretary who informed him that he couldn’t smoke that in here was quickly dispatched with a threatening glare and, despite her attempts to contact security, Prideman and Rotunda had been very successful in keeping any trouble at bay. The rest of security had backed off, deigning instead to call the police. Now the Pack had a window of opportunity to strike while the fuzz were on their way.

Turning to Seth, Jack nodded. Seth touched Daniel on the shoulder and, as one, they burst into the boardroom where P. Thurston Deveraux and his associates chatted. Prideman ran around, hollering like a banshee, clubbing anybody who didn’t get out of the way fast enough, while Seth guarded the door, preventing anybody from escaping. Eastwood eyed his target and leapt over the desk, pinning the Chairman down with a chain across his neck.


Eastwood: Good afternoon, my esteemed Chairman. I have some issues with creative I’d like to raise with you…

Deveraux: This is an outrage. What-

Eastwood: First question. Why is it always an outrage whenever this sort of thing happens? Never an inconvenience? Maybe it’s a problem or a situation? But no, it always has to be an outrage, right?

Deveraux: Just who do you think you are?

Eastwood: Who am I? Who the hell are you to deny me the Abandoned title? I was fucking screwed, P. Thurston. In fact, I don’t even know what the P. stands for so from now on I’ll be calling you Pisswater. So Pisswater, what happened?

Deveraux: My name is-

Eastwood presses the chain against his throat, making it difficult for Deveraux to breathe.

Eastwood: I’d save your breath. Answer the question. Why am I not Abandoned champion right now?

Deveraux: It – it was a mistake…

Eastwood: Bullshit.

Deveraux: I mean it… you should have won…

Eastwood: Then give me a fucking rematch! I want somebody at Death Row eye vee. And I refuse to say four. It sounds common. Aiden or Heath, it doesn’t matter. Hell, I’ll take on Nick or Mark if they want to run around nicking my ideas. And you know that they did so don’t deny it. I’ll even fight that piece of shit Christian if he makes it out of next Ammunition alive. I owe him one for fucking me over.

Deveraux: …you’ll get your match…

Eastwood: Good boy, Pisswater.

He slaps him with the chain-wrapped fist, stunning the Chairman.

Eastwood: We’ll get out of your obviously fake hair now. Come on gang, we’ve got another mystery to solve, or some shit like that!

He gets up and takes the lads with him, descending the stairs a leap at a time, running up and jumping down them. Rotunda and Prideman follow at a more sedate pace, wondering just what has gotten into the head of their alpha.

Rotunda: What’s wrong with him? Did he sound alright when you spoke to him on the phone?

Prideman: Alright? I think he’s lost what little sanity he had left, to tell you the truth.

Rotunda: And we’re really going to follow an insane man?

Prideman: At least he has an idea about what he’s doing.

Rotunda: Yeah, but we should too – do you really think he’s going to be around forever the way he’s been living?

Prideman: Jack’s had his head in the future a lot lately, do you want to ask him how that’s going?

Rotunda: That’s just-

He is cut short as the sound of gunfire rings through the stairwell. They look at one another and in an instant know who would have been shot. They sprint down the stairs, desperate. Coming to the hospital lobby they find the worst. Jack lies in a sprawled heap on the ground, blood seeping from a bullet wound in his chest. A cocky smirk sits on his face, as though he knew what he was doing. His eyes are open, but lifeless.

Rotunda: Oh shit!

They run over but stop, the police pointing their handguns at the pair.

Officer: Freeze! You are under arrest!

Eastwood: I don’t fucking think so.

The recently deceased Eastwood sits up, smiling. He clutches a hand to his chest almost immediately, swearing.

Eastwood: Fucking hell, what’s your fucking problem? Don’t do that shit man, it fucking hurts!

Officer: I… I… I just shot you!

Eastwood: Maybe you missed. Try again.

Prideman: Jack, don’t!

With a flick of his head, Jack acknowledges his team-mates.

Eastwood: Hey guys. Yeah, you’re right Daniel. Wouldn’t want a stray bullet to hit anybody not invincible, would I?

Prideman: You were right, Seth. He is insane.

Rotunda: And damn proud of it.

Eastwood: Come on, kids. Let’s go home.
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 4:04 pm

I agree with Leon, BTW. Except about making it 2 vs 2. Because that would just be silly on my part. No offense.

Corruption 14.2
from the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia



Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag

The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
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David GS
FMW Anarchy Ultraviolent Champion
FMW Anarchy Ultraviolent Champion


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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 5:31 pm

Law enforcement officers are still searching for clues as to the recent disappearance of Anna Ortega, a local exotic dancer. Ortega was last seen the night of August 5th, entering her apartment building on 14th and Maple. Although it has been over a month since Ortega's disappearance, her friends and family remain hopeful that she is still alive - she was not reported to have been involved in any personal conflict that might have led to kidnapping, and police searches of her apartment have turned up no signs of abduction or struggle of any kind.

Omaha Chief of Police Alex Hayes announced that the OPD had broadened the search area Sunday afternoon; it now encompasses all of Nebraska, as well as portions of Iowa, South Dakota, Colorado, and Wyoming. Initial reports state that...




The guy's name was Reid, and David was getting irritated with him.

They had arrived at the gym at about the same time. He'd recognized David as a professional wrestler as they were checking in at the front desk, and begun chatting him up as they made their way back into the locker room area: "I have a son who's really into it - you're one of his favorite guys, you and the other guys on your team," he'd said. "Seriously, all he's been talking about is that match you're in this week - what is it, you and two of your buds against three other guys?"

"Yeah," David had responded, somewhat nonchalantly. "I'm in this group with a few other guys, and we're wrestling another group of guys. Sorta like gang warfare, I guess."

Reid had given him a weird look. "Gang warfare in a wrestling company. I swear, sometimes I wonder what possesses him to watch that stuff..."

David wasn't bothered by that. Publicity and skepticism, they were part of the gig; he had no problem engaging in conversation or signing autographs or taking pictures, regardless of where he was or what he was doing at the time.

Then they went up to the second floor, where the weights and machines were at.

Reid was pretty built, even by the somewhat-lofty standards David's profession had accustomed him to. In fact, given his relative height, he had even more muscle on him than David did, in spite of the fact that his job (senior accountant, he'd said) didn't require the constant physical conditioning that wrestling did. But that, like the interest in David's career as a professional wrestler, wasn't the issue.

The issue was that when they started their workouts, Reid stopped being chatty and started being competitive.

David started his workout as he always did, with a quick mile on the treadmill to get the blood pumping.

"Just a mile?" Reid said, trying and failing to make it sound casual. "Really? That's all you do?"

David had then watched as he stepped up on the treadmill next to him, dialed both the speed and the incline up higher than he had them, and ran a mile-and-a-half in approximately the same amount of time. When they stepped down off the machines, Reid's body was glistening a little bit; David, on the other hand, was still bone-dry.

It wasn't until they began the actual lifting that David began to get annoyed. Reid followed him around like a damn puppy dog - he'd stand there while David worked through his three sets, or five sets, or whatever, watching with a bemused look on his face and occasionally offering bits of advice that either didn't apply to the workout David was doing or were just plain wrong. Then, after David finished, he'd say something along the lines of Here, let me show you how it's done, sit down, and make a big show of powering through the same number of sets and reps as David at a higher weight, complete with masculine grunts and growls that were meant to convey power or something.

For the life of him, David wasn't able to figure out the guy's reasoning. At least, not until he'd elected to take a water break and headed over to the drinking fountain on the far wall. Reid had offered up a weak objection - What, you're tired already? - but those words were followed by a gasp for air and he'd soon followed after.

After drinking deeply for five or six gulps, David stood there with his back against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest while Reid took his drink. "You good?" he asked as his irritating workout partner stood up and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Me?" Reid said, pointing at himself. "Yeah, I'm fine. Truth be told, I'm more worried about you."

David turned his head and rolled his eyes. Spare me.

"I always thought you wrestlers were supposed to be in tip-top shape," the accountant continued. It was weird - David thought he heard a sort of half-hidden contempt in the man's voice. "At least, that's the picture my son always painted."

It snapped into place right then.

My son.

His son.

David could almost see it - a boy of maybe eight or nine, who refused to play catch or go fishing because Ammunition or Corruption was on. A father, forced to watch helplessly as the stars of Full Metal Wrestling - Hannibal Frost, the Celt, Leon Caprice, David GS - grew ever-greater in the eyes of his child. A growing sense of resentment, of jealousy, maybe even of hatred, nurtured over a period of months and years as the ball and bat, the rod and tackle, sat in the corner and collected dust.

"...could do it."

David blinked and looked up, his train of thought derailed. "What?"

"That whole wrestling thing you do," Reid said. "Doesn't seem so tough - I mean, you're in great shape and all, don't get me wrong, but you're not like an Adonis or anything." He shrugged, as if to reassure himself. "I bet I could hack it."

David nodded slowly, inwardly scoffing at the notion. It took more than muscle mass to be a professional wrestler...but Reid didn't know that.

Neither would a 9-year-old.

"Yeah."

Now it was Reid's turn to look up and blink. "What'd you say?"

"Yeah," David reiterated. "You probably could make it as a wrestler."

Reid looked at him blankly for a few seconds, perhaps thrown off by the vote of confidence. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I could, but I already have a steady job at the bank, and there'd be all the training that I'd have to go through, and..."

"And your kid," David finished. When Reid stopped and looked at him curiously, he elaborated: "With all the traveling, you'd almost never see him."

That did the trick. Realization dawned on Reid's face, the kind that comes with the humbling of an aspiration, of an obsession. "I, um...thank you," he mumbled.

"Anytime." David began looking around, a thought having occured to him. He felt Reid's eyes on him as he went over to a nearby table, upon which sat sign-up sheets for some marathon event the gym was sponsoring. He grabbed a pen and a flyer, one of many, and went back over to Reid with one in each hand. "Want an autograph?" he asked. "For your kid, I mean."

"Yeah! Yeah, that'd be great," Reid said enthusiastically.

David nodded, turned the flyer over, and scrawled his signature across the blank back of the thing:


David GS
To...

He stopped, the pen hovering over the paper, and looked up at Reid. "Who am I making this out to, again?"

"Oh. His name's Jackson."

David nodded, and finished off the autograph before handing it to him.


David GS
To Jackson

"This is great," Reid said, holding the flyer up in front of him and beaming as though it were a notice of executive pardon from the president. "He'll love this."

"It's not a problem," David said, smiling a little at how enthusiastic he'd become now that he had a gift for his son. He extended his hand, and Reid shook his heartily. The man had a tight grip - tighter than anyone David had ever shaken hands with, anyway.

"Thanks, man," he said, clapping David on the shoulder. "Tell you what, I'm goin' home right now to give this to him." He turned and walked off, throwing back a quick parting sentiment over his shoulder as he went: "It was great to meet you!"

"You too," David called after him. He went and walked back over to the Lat Pulldown machine they'd been using, smiling to himself and shaking his head. Part of him felt bad - after all, he and those in his line of work were essentially coming between a father and his son. At the same time, he felt like he'd done some good by Reid; the guy was clearly jealous of those in the wrestling industry and the sometimes-iconic status they went on to achieve, and having that illusion broken was probably better for him than anything.

David positioned himself on the weight machine's seat. He reached up and wrapped his hands around the bar above his head; minor distraction aside, he still had a workout he needed to -

"Um...excuse me?"

David bowed his head, releasing the bar and crossing his forearms on the rest bar in front of him. You have GOT to be kidding.

"Yes?" he asked a bit sharper than he had intended, lifting one leg up and spinning around to face the woman who had walked up behind him. His hard, irritated facial expression softened almost the instant he saw her; her posture indicated a certain level of discomfort with approaching him, and she had taken a step back when he, for lack of a better term, snapped at her.

"Sorry," he said. "What can I do for ya?"

"Oh...I'm, um, I'm sorry to bother, but..." She pointed over towards the staircase that led down to the first floor. "I passed a man on the stairs, he was talking about getting an autograph from David GS. I was just wondering..."

She looked at her running shoes and shrugged, rubbing her upper arm. "Are you him? The wrestler, David GS?"

David nodded, smiling as warmly as he could. There was something endearing about how nervous she was talking to him. "Yep," he said. "That's me. What can I do for you? A picture, an autograph, what?"

She seemed to straighten up a little bit, and the nervousness she initially displayed was gone so fast David found himself wondering if it had ever been there at all. "My name's Lucy," she said - even her voice sounded stronger, more forceful. "I'm a friend of Anna Ortega's."

David's blood ran cold.

Anna. Still missing. Anna. Holy shit.

"If you wouldn't mind finishing up here," Lucy said, gesturing to the towers of steel and cord that surrounded them, "you and I have some serious talking to do."

David's mouth worked, but no sound came out. He had to work to find his voice, and when he did it was strangely choked-up. What was this he felt, this foreign, shapeless fear in the pit of his stomach? "...yeah," he said finally. "Yeah. Just...just give me a minute to change."



Anna Ortega: (2:32:44) Lucy

Lucy Venteicher: (2:33:01) Hey ann. whats up?

Anna Ortega: (2:33:56) I'm being kidnapped

Lucy Venteicher: (2:34:17) not funny ann

Anna Ortega: (2:34:47) I'm serious. Theyre breaking in now

Lucy Venteicher: (2:35:03) Oh my god call 911

Anna Ortega: (2:35:31) I can't. The police won't be able to help

Lucy Venteicher: (2:35:49) Why not? ann you arent making any sense

Anna Ortega: (2:36:09) Find David GS. he's a wrestler, he can help

Lucy Venteicher: (2:36:22) A wrestler can't fucking help anna, CALL 911

Lucy Venteicher: (2:37:13) Anna

Lucy Venteicher: (2:38:00) ANNA



David thumbed the 'End' button, returning Lucy's phone to it's main menu. "That's all?" he asked, handing it back to her. "She didn't text you again?"

Lucy shook her head. "Nope."

"Huh." David crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the space in front of them. They were on a park bench underneath a tree, sitting an acceptable and proper distance apart from one another. Lucy had told him all about it - the strange, panic-inducing conversation she'd had with Anna, her subsequent calling of the police in spite of Anna's objections, and the police's infuriating inability to make any headway in finding her.

"And she said that I would be able to help," David said after a time, still staring at nothing.

Lucy nodded. "Yep."

"See, that's weird," David said, shaking his head. "She and I hadn't talked for weeks before she disappeared, not since - "

"The Playhouse," Lucy finished. David turned to look at her, eyebrows arched, and she shrugged. "Anna told me all about it. She was really embarrassed to have you see her like that, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she said. "Really."

David faced forward again, trying his damndest to subdue the twanging of his heartstrings. This whole situation between him and Anna had begun to border on the ridiculous. Every time he thought he'd gotten over his stupid little infatuation with her, something happened to reignite it - seeing her at the Playhouse, finding out she'd disappeared, and now this revelation that he was the only one she believed could save her from God-knows-what.

"So?"

David turned to see her looking at him expectantly. "So...what?"

"What are we...what are you gonna do?" she asked.

He just looked at her. "You're buying into it," he said finally. "I can't believe it - you really think I know how to get her back."

"Don't give me that," she retorted, her features hardening. "Anna's made some not-so-great decisions lately, but she's not an idiot - more than that, she's a damned good judge of character. If she thinks trusting you is the right thing to do, then I'll do it. We've only known each other for about an hour, but that's long enough for me to know that you seem like the saving type."

David looked down at his feet. "You got me there," he mumbled.

Lucy leaned in closer. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head, images of his wife, his brother, and big green bugs playing behind his eyes. "Don't ask."

"Okay," she said, and backed up.

David got to his feet, adjusting his jacket as she got up with him. "I guess we should go over to her place," he said, burying his hands in his pockets. "See if there's something there that would give us a clue as to where she is or who took her."

"The police already searched her apartment," Lucy replied, "and they didn't find anything. What makes you think you will?"

He looked at her, and smiled a smile that felt like it didn't fit on his face right. "Anna put her faith in me," he said sardonically. "Not the police."



David opened his car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking up at the front face of the apartment building as Rachel got out on the other side. His mistake had been being up-front with her about where he was going at two in the morning on a Thursday; he'd then proceeded to badger him - She's my friend too, you know! - until he agreed to bring her along.

Lucy was sitting on the front steps to the building. She got up as they crossed the street, casting an uneasy glance at Rachel before turning to David and asking the inevitable: "Who's she?"

"Rachel, meet Lucy," David said flatly. "Lucy, this is Rachel - my wife."

She looked at him like he was an idiot. "Really? You brought your wife?"

"Yeah," Rachel shot back, getting in her face. "What's wrong with that?"

"HOOOkay now," David said loudly, forcing himself in between the two ladies. "Rayche, calm down; Lucy, what's the problem?"

"It's...okay," Lucy said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Anna's neighbors have been a little...skittish since they found out someone got into their building and kidnapped a tenant without any difficulty whatsoever. We need to be quiet going up there, otherwise they'll call the cops without a second thought. That, or worse."

David's eyebrows shot up. "Worse like how?"

"The guy across the hall from her owns a registered handgun."

David nodded slowly. Yep, that's worse. He refused to vocalize that thought or even let it show, and instead responded with: "You have a key, right?"

Lucy nodded. "Yep."

As she turned and went up the steps to unlock the front doors, David turned to Rachel. "Are you sure you wanna go through with this?" he asked. "We might have to book it out of here pretty quickly."

She nodded, not so much as a hint of doubt in her eyes, and went past him up the stairs. David followed after, and they followed Lucy inside.

The lobby was only partially lit; most of the flyspecked flourescents overhead were shut down for the night, but a pair of lights that hung over the bank of elevators at the back of the long, narrow room still threw out a bit of light. The three of them went straight there, and Lucy thumbed the 'Up' button. David glanced at both women while they waited for the elevator - they were both looking at the digital floor display over top of the doors, their gazes unwavering.

The doors opened, and David waited for both ladies to enter the car before doing so himself. "What floor?" he asked Lucy.

"Eleventh."

He pressed the button, and the car began its ascent.

The doors opened to a dimly-lit, exceedingly long hallway. David stepped out into the small foyer that housed the three elevators, looking around as Rachel and Lucy joined him and the elevator doors slid shut. Lucy took the lead, silently leading them out of the foyer and down the hallway, to the second door on the right.

"This is it," she whispered, producing a key from the inside of her coat and inserting it into the lock.

David cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, watching the door across the hall as Lucy turned the key and pushed the door open. He then quickly followed her and Rachel inside, pulling the door shut behind them as slowly and as carefully as he was able. He turned around just as Lucy snapped on the lights, and found himself furrowing his brow in discomfort.

The apartment looked lived in, but at the same time not, like a model home that had been furnished to merely provide the illusion of habitation.

In terms of layout, it was really very similar to David and Rachel's apartment, albeit smaller and less extravagant. The door to the lone bedroom lay in a little alcove directly to the left of the front entrance; to move straight in from said entrance, one would find oneself in the living room, which was furnished with a loveseat, a couple of armchairs, and a television of respectable size. The living room shared the same space with a small kitchenette, which consisted of a refridgerator, stovetop oven, microwave, sink, dishwasher, cabinets, et cetera.

David took a slow walk around, taking everything in, getting a feel for it all. It really was a lot like his and Rachel's place; he didn't like it, but couldn't put a finger on why.

"Okay," Lucy started softly. "What are we looking for?"

David turned to find both him and Rachel looking at him, and shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno," he said. "Something. Anything." Lucy rubbed her eyes in exasperation, and he took a step towards her. "Come on," he reasoned. "I haven't been here before - you have. Think. Where would we be most likely to actually find something?"

Lucy thought about it, putting a finger to her chin and pursing her lips. "Well..."

David nodded encouragingly. "Yes?"

"Well, when we were texting, Anna said they're breaking in right now. I took that to mean she was either in the bedroom - or the bathroom, or whatever - and heard them coming in the front door, or she was at the window and watching them enter the building."

He nodded again. "Okay. Is that the only window?" He pointed to the one in the living room, a big window beside the TV.

"No," Lucy said, "there's one in the bedroom too."

"All right, then. I say we start there - she might've left something for us to find. After that, look anywhere she might've gone to hide."

The two ladies nodded in unison. David turned on his heel and headed back towards the bedroom, Rachel following wordlessly after him. He had a hunch that if they were to find something, it would be there. They walked inside and flipped on the light. Bed, dresser, nightstand with a lamp on it...the police report was right, there were no signs of a struggle whatsoever.

That didn't necessarily mean there hadn't been one, though.

He and Rachel went over to the window on the far wall. Rachel got down on her hands and knees and began looking around on the floor, while David pulled back the drapes and checked the seams around the window frame for anything that might've gotten caught within.

Part of him felt stupid. What do you think you're gonna find, huh detective? Bullet casings? Blood stains? A body? Maybe you oughta go home before you make an ass of yourself. Maybe -

Maybe you should look under the bed.


David's head snapped around, looking down at the darkened crevasse beneath Anna's bed, partially veiled by the comforter hanging over the edge of the floor. It seemed to grow bigger as he looked at it, to grow darker, more like a place he didn't want to go lest he didn't like what he found within.

Rachel looked at him, and there must've been something strange about the way he was looking at it, because she said: "Dave? Baby? Everything okay?"

He glanced at her. "Yeah, just...I'm gonna look down there."

She watched, still looking worried, as he got down on his hands and knees and crawled past the hanging comforter. The exposed skin on his arms grew hot as it rubbed against the room's carpeting, but he ignored it and looked around, his eyes readjusting to the semi-dark.

Nothing. There was nothing under the bed. Just a lot of dust. David launched into a fit of coughing and rolled over onto his back, more than ready to call off the whole damn thi-

Oh, Jesus.

It was there, right there, tucked up between the mattress and the fold-under rim of the mattress pad, where no one would find it unless they tore the bed apart or lay on their back beneath it, as David had. He felt a scream rising in his throat and forced it back down; he couldn't, not here, not in front of Lucy and Rachel and the neighbor with the handgun. With a shaking hand, he reached up and grabbed it, plucking it from its hiding place with clear disgust. He scooted out from under the bed and sat up, leaning his back against it and staring at the hideous thing in his hands.

"David?" Rachel asked, looking at him. "What is it? What'd you - "

He showed it to her. After a second her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth, shaking her head rapidly.

"No," she said through her hand. "No, no, no, no, no..."

David heard Lucy enter the room behind them.

"Hey," she said, a little louder. "Did you find anything?"

David didn't answer right away. He couldn't take his eyes off the thing in his hands. "...yeah," he said eventually, his voice weak.

"Really?" She came around the bed, kneeling down when she saw both of them on the floor. "What is it?"

"It's bad," Rachel said softly. "So...so bad..."

"Well, what is it?" Lucy asked again, irritation and a little bit of fear creeping into her voice. "Did you find out where she is, who took her? What?"

David handed it to her, a small swatch of green fabric. Lucy took it and turned it over and over in her hands, examining it.

"It's a..." she started. "What is it?"

"A patch," David answered, no longer looking at thing in Lucy's hands but rather up and out the window, where the full moon hung in the sky. "Likely ripped from a shirt, or a jacket, or something like that."

"And it's a...a grasshopper?" Lucy asked.

David shook his head, his eyes clouded by the memory of months of torment. "No," he said. "It's a Locust."

The Locusts.

They've got her.




"They call themselves the Locusts," Steven said.

David glanced at him, from the passenger's seat to the driver's. "Locusts? Like the bugs?"

"Yep. Name's fitting, too - they're like a swarm. They operate in Nebraska, Wyoming, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, and South Dakota."

"Wait," David said, stopping him. "What do you mean by 'operate'?"

"Arms dealing, drug smuggling, counterfeiting, human trafficking..."

"All right, all right," David cut him off again. "I get the picture. But why are they after you?"

"I stole some stuff from them." David thought about pressing him for more info, but the look on his brother's face told him that would be unwise. He let the matter go.

"What about Rachel and I?" he asked.

Steven's mouth pressed itself into a grim line. "You're on their hitlist because of your relationship to me. Killing one of their thugs probably didn't help matters, either."

David kept looking at him. "And Rachel?"

There was a silence before he spoke. "Your wife's beautiful, Dave. She'd make them a pretty penny."

She'd make them a pretty penny.

Anna.


Last edited by David GS on Thu Sep 15, 2011 11:04 pm; edited 1 time in total
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 5:42 pm

Corruption 14.2
from the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia



Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag

The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda


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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 6:13 pm

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag
The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda

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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 7:20 pm

It’s just a few hours after Corruption 14.1 and Your New Gods are having something of a celebration. The unveiling of our project was perfect. Everything happened just as we planned it. Marky Mark got a shiny new title to parade around with and Bryson retained his own.

As for me... well the moment I got backstage, our Full Metal Champion handed me a cheque for a million U.S. dollars. It’s currently in my jacket pocket. One million dollars. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet but I’m sure it will. When I’m sipping Cristal in my new BMW, it will. When I’m fucking supermodels in my Connecticut mansion, it will. When I’m... you get the point.

The setting is a grandiose restaurant in the heart of New York City. I forget the name but the food is pretentious, the wine is ridiculously expensive and everybody’s wearing tuxedos or evening gowns. The decor is lavish; huge chandeliers, cream marble floors, intricately styled cutlery. I observe it all, examine everything.

When I arrived at Madison Square Garden earlier this evening, there was an Armani suit waiting for me in a private dressing room marked “Ashburn”. Four matches into my career and already, I no longer have to interact with the filth on this roster. Just another perk, and yet the likes of Chris Austin and RAMPAGE! fail to see why I joined YNG in the first place. It should be obvious – even to them.

“Lets make a toast... to Your New Gods!” declares Mark as he raises his glass. He’s drinking champagne, in fact, we all are. Too sweet for my taste but I'm not the one paying.

“To Your New Gods,” me and Bryson echo before downing the rest of our drinks.

As I relax back into my chair, I consider the future of this little exclusive gathering. There are cynics. Those that would love to see us come crashing down to earth because Nick Bryson is “out for himself”, or because we “devalued” the Television Championship with our shenanigans... but... whatever. The lineage and prestige of the TV Title is just a footnote in the shadow of what YNG will achieve. I’m not petulant and hard-headed; I understand sacrifices have to be made.

“Tonight is the start of a new era in Full Metal Wrestling,” exclaims Bryson, a grin of satisfaction on his face. Marky Mark nods a few times in agreement and I simply smile as Nick continues, “we’re already in possession of two championships but I assure you both that with my guidance, there will be plenty more to come.”

While Nick and Mark chatter on, I pull out a packet of Marlboro reds and deftly light up a cigarette. The couple at the next table look like a pair of miserable old bastards so I blow my smoke towards them for the hell of it. They barely notice. Ah well.

A waiter soon approaches and calmly informs me there is a no smoking policy. He’s middle aged, tall, thin, balding snooty... a stupid prick and the thought of hacking through his throat feels me with glee. I close my eyes momentarily to picture the thick blood oozing from his open wounds.

Then I shrug my shoulders and reply, “well... what are we gonna do about that?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to put out your cigarette,” he says, this time more firmly.

I nudge Bryson and mutter to him, “this prick wants me to put my cigarette out, can you believe this shit?”

The Full Metal Champion furrows his brow for a few seconds before breaking into laughter. With contempt in his eyes, he turns his attention to the waiter and shakes his head from side to side.

“Look, rules are rules, Mr. Bryson and-” the waiter starts before Nick cuts him off quickly...

“SIR Bryson, actually.”

“Right, my mistake,” the waiter retorts irritably before adding, “but like I said, rules are rules.”

Nick laughs again before revealing a thick wad of cash from his jacket pocket. He holds the money out towards the waiter with a smirk of conceit and says, “take this and go get us another bottle of champagne – keep the change.”

The waiter pauses for a moment, eyes fixed on the cash, trying to guess how much is there. After some deliberation, he nods quickly, takes the wad and slips away. I mumble thanks to Bryson but he’s already in discussion with Mark about something trivial.

So I glance round the crowded restaurant and try to spot anything even remotely interesting. But I can’t. The people eating and drinking here – the supposed upper-class and elite – are just as faceless and vapid as the wrestlers of FMW... each as predictable and tiresome as the next.

OOC: Apologies for this poor showing but I've been very busy lately.


Last edited by Ashburn on Thu Sep 15, 2011 7:35 pm; edited 1 time in total
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 7:35 pm

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag
The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 11:26 pm


MASS Caesar

Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson)

Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn)

Harlequin

The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 11:42 pm

Entry from Mercury's diary. September of 2011



Caesar is a man with no real direction, no focus, no goal!

All he cares to do is maim, slaughter, and revel in those disgusting traits afterward.

This was not how it was supposed to be!

When Caesar “joined” with Manny Gallego all those years ago, he was supposed to allow him to find himself and both where supposed to fulfill the goals they each had set.

But the darkness that had been inside Caesar but always kept at bay by Marcus Aurelius during Rome's final glory, has manifested itself in the world today. No one has been safe from this rampaging lunatic.

Not slaves, not wrestlers, not comedians! Though that Leno guy deserved what he got!

Caesar ruined the innocence of young King Guiomar, the jealousy of sharing the title “King”engulfing the Roman tyrant until he forced him to go berserk.

I fear for Caesar's young opponent, Starchild. Young, full of potential. Caesar will want to mow him down and try and impale him with a spike, not caring about the consequences. Young Manny valued the well being of his opponents. He had honor. True honor. Not this warped sense of honor that this twisted Roman tyrant, a man who was never King in his own time, claims to hold!

Something needs to be done. I can't believe I am thinking of doing this. I hate my brother! Absolutely despise him! But he is the only one that can do something about this.

Sadly, I believe I am too late to attempt to save this Starchild from whatever twisted games Caesar wishes to play. Caesar will see this fight to come as just a warm up. Nothing more. He will toy with his enemy, bleed him slow, than go for the kill like a butcher!

I can hardly deal with this anymore.

Young Judas can't deal with this, nor the lie that Caesar will allow him his revenge against the one that left him out for dry, the man known as Craig Ryans.

Brother Mars, God of War. I am actually calling upon you to help me in my time of need!

I do this not out of love or respect to you. I do this because this has been enough. All the death of the innocents, the destruction of virtuous and good people. The jokes about me! You know as well as I do, Brother Mars, that this was not part of the agreement between Caesar and Manny Gallego, nor was my job to baby sit this ruthless maniac!

Answer me!

This must be done!

Caesar either has to be forced to honor the original agreement he had with Manny Gallego, who still haunts Caesar's consciousness every now and them! He must honor his word! If not...you must help me end MASS Caesar! For good if need be!

I just hope it doesn't kill Manny Gallego.

Forgive me Starchild, for I will not be able to save you, just as I couldn't save Guiomar!

But I will be able to save others. I hope...


Mercury hears Caesar stirring from his nap and hides his diary, knowing that is usually the sign that Caesar is either waking up or he will throw something and go back to sleep. Mercury looks in anger at his master, than looks up to the skies, look for a glimmer of hope.


Mercury: I hope.

end
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Thu Sep 15, 2011 11:58 pm

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs Starchild

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson and Mark Johansson) vs Vincent Van Rose vs Dark Hariken

National Pasttime Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews (w/ Baseball Bat) vs Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c) (w/ Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn) vs Christian Parkes

Singles Match
Hannibal Frost vs Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag
The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice vs Daniel Prideman, Jack Eastwood, and Seth Rotunda
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   Fri Sep 16, 2011 12:03 am

[center]Corruption 14.2[/color]
from the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia



Singles Match
MASS Caesar

Triple Threat Match
Matt Ashburn

National Pasttime Match
Killswitch (w/ Hockey Stick)

Television Title Match
Mark Johansson (c)

Singles Match
Harlequin

Main Event
Six-Man Tag

The Celt, David GS, and Leon Caprice
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PostSubject: Re: Corruption 14.2 Voting and Promo Thread   

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