Corruption and Anarchy 16.1 Voting and Promo Thread

The Asylum 23rd March 4:15 AM

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Prideman's eyes flickered.

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He was still dazed. His version blurred in front of him.

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Stood over him was a large figure. Looking gaunt, ghostly and pale. Looking through hazy vision he could make out Eastwood.

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He blinked.

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The figure was gone.

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Shaking the cobwebs from his head Prideman took in his surroundings. He was inside the infirmary of the asylum. Dazed and confused, all he could focus on was the searing pain coming from his right hand and arm. The burning was like no other he had ever felt before and yet felt familiar. It must have been from whatever had happened to put him in this state. Prideman's mind was spinning. What had happened? He had no idea and no recollection whatsoever. And then he drifted back to sleep.

1PM

Eastwood: You lazy bastard. I thought you'd never wake up!

Prideman: What the Hell happened?

Eastwood: You've been out for over a week. You must have hit your head hard.

Prideman: Hit my head? How? What happened?

Eastwood: They said you might have had amnesia. You were in the kitchen, whacked your head and burnt yourself. You don't remember? Shit you must have been pissed!

Prideman: I was drinking?

Eastwood: Of course! When aren't we?

Prideman: Jesus! I'm sorry man. I remember fuck all!

Eastwood: No problem. Jack's got your back. Did I just say that? That was fucking corny. Pretend I never said that.

Prideman: Things we say can never be taken back. Loser.

Eastwood: Yeah, tell me about it.... Look I've got to get going, but you stay and rest up, yeah. Need you ready for the next show.

Eastwood stood up and strode from the infirmary. Prideman was all alone. In the ten minutes he'd been awake he'd not heard or seen a single person.

25th March 10:07 AM

As Prideman opened his eyes he felt good to have spent the night in his own bed. The hospital beds were nice but they just weren't the same, and Prideman could be very particular. He sat up and stretched. Looking at his right arm he began to unwrap the bandages that had bound it. Underneath was his charred flesh, healed in places, whilst some remained covered in blisters, peeling and weeping.

Prideman: That's fucking gross.

He had more of his wits about him now. Definitely more than when he had first woken up. He got up and looked at himself in the mirror. There was no more damage to him other than his burned arm.

Prideman: Feet, fine. Legs, fine. Crotch, you know it. Torso, fine....

Something was wrong. The ring that hung around his neck, his Father's ring, was missing. Prideman begun to panic. Rifleing through his room he tuned the whole place up side down looking for his most worldly possession.

Prideman: FUCK!

Pulling on some clothes he made his way down towards his favourite room in the Asylum. As he walked he passed Pack members, friends even, but they kept there eyes down and scurried out of his way.

Prideman: Cheetah! Wait up man. How's it going? I've not seen anyone for ages, been laid up in the infirmary and not even a hi?

Cheetah: Oh yeah man, hope your better. Got to get going though, see ya!

Cheetah was not acting his normal self.

Prideman: Cheetah, what's going on? Talk to me man.

He put his hand on Cheetah's shoulder. He felt him stop still. Trembling.

Prideman: Are you scared of me? What, what did I do?

Cheetah forced a laugh. It reeked of intimidation, that same one you'd do at a bully's jokes hoping it would spare you a beating.

Cheetah: Nothing. Just, err, I've got things to do.

And with that he sprinted off leaving Prideman even more perplexed than before. Something wasn't quite adding up here. He walked down the stairs, took the first right and rested in his chair. It was cleaner than before. It no longer had the stench of stale puke. It was cleaner than it had ever been. The fire was stoked and Eastwood felt a calmness in his soul that it seemed he had been lacking a ling while.

27th March 4:52PM

After three days of watching people avoid him and be scared of him, Prideman decided it was best to just stay in his room and avoid the hassle. The sun was setting over the snow outside his window. As days went at the Asylum the weather had been fantastic. It was peaceful, but Prideman just wanted to stay hidden away. No one wanted to see him so he'd become somewhat of a recluse. Even the nature he coveted wouldn't stir him. There was a knock at the door.

Prideman: Come in.

It was Eastwood. Seemingly the only person who wasn't avoiding him. That being said he still hadn't seen him since their short talk a few days previously.

Eastwood: So why are you hiding away? I haven't seen you for days.

Prideman: You've come here to lecture me on not being seen. Jack, you aren't even here half the time. You don't tell me where you go. Come to think of it you tell me nothing. Am I that insignificant in your plans. You cost us the tag-team titles. Then I end up in the infirmary and I'm not even sure why I'm there. I want answers.

Eastwood: And you'll get them.

Prideman: Right, so answer me this. Why-

Eastwood: But not right now.

Prideman: Fuck you Jack!

Prideman got up and threw a chair across the room. It clattered into the wall. Eastwood got to his feet.

Eastwood: Daniel! Stop! Just stop. Calm down. I will give you the answers. But right now there is shit I have to deal with. I have your father's ring.

Prideman stopped dead in his tracks.

Prideman: You have it? Why?

Eastwood: I needed to take a look at it. You can have it back soon but right now I need it. Is that okay?

There was a calming element in Jack’s voice. Something that hadn't effected Prideman before.

Eastwood: I need you to rest up Daniel. We've got ourselves a match. Against Sharpedo King and STORMMASTER. Time to get on the winning side.

Prideman: I will Jack. I will. But if we don't win, if you cost me this match, then I'm going to have to leave the Asylum. I can't stay here and be some plaything. And piss me off, you'll be first on the hit list. Now please leave.

Eastwood made no counter argument. His faced remained still. And he turned and left. Prideman's mind was a mess. He had no idea what had happened but yet felt better. More at peace with himself. And why did Jack have his Father's ring. It was all confusing. Staring out at the snow he finally felt it was time to leave his room. He strode, head held high down the steps to the asylum and out of its foreboding doors.

Taking a deep breath in, the cold air hit his lungs. It was fresh, it felt new. Today was the first day of the rest of his life.

Prideman: Sharpedo King and STORMMASTER? I wouldn't want to be those two. It's time for me to turn this all around, become the best I know I can be. This is where I grab FMW by the throat and throttle it to attention. 16.1 I will walk in, and regardless of Jack Eastwood, I will walk out on the winning side.

Striding through the snow towards the forest he stared at his burnt arm.

Prideman: Someone did this to me. And someone is going to pay.

He stared back at the Asylum drifting out of eyesight behind him. Focusing on what lay ahead he walked ahead. Focused. Before muttering under his breath...

Consider yourself on notice.

Fade in.

Brooks is sitting in a hotel room in Lexington, Kentucky. In front of him, a computer filled with videos of matches he is going through trying to figure out what he can add to his repertoire.

Brooks: Hmm that could work.

He pulls out a notepad and begins to take notes on what he has just seen. He goes to the next video and is about to click it when the phone rings.

Brooks: Hello?

??: Hello, this is Daniel Middleton from WrestlingNewsWeekly.com.

Brooks: Hey Daniel, how can I help you?

Middleton: I was wondering if you’d want to do a two part interview with us chronicling your path to where you are now. Interested?

Brooks: Sure. When?

Middleton: I know you got a match this weekend so probably sometime before the next Anarchy show.

Brooks: Perfect. I’ll give you a call after this weekend so we can figure things out even better.

Middleton: Thanks.

Brooks: No problem.

Brooks hangs up the phone and notices the cameraman there.

Brooks: Guess you here to go to the arena with me?

Cameraman: Yes.

Brooks walks over to his laptop, closes it and finishes off his beer before leaving and closing the door behind him.

Fade out.

Fade in.

The scene resumes with Brooks sitting in the middle of the ring holding a mic.

Brooks: LPW. The supposed home of the best wrestlers in the world. Lies. You sign the contract and get told that you’ll get to the top if you work hard. Lies. We were told that the winner of the match would be determined the morning of the event pending on how good our promo was. Lies. It was a damn popularity contest. You know what you see when you go backstage of an LPW show? Ass kissing. If you’re not kissing ass, you weren’t succeeding. Only reason most guys were over with the bookers was cause well lets just say they ALWAYS wore their kneepads. Oh Master Chief Phillips.

Brooks makes kissing sounds into the mic.

Brooks: Damion Kross.

Brooks repeats the previous motion.

Brooks: Same went for Eric Scorpio and cﾘnical. I sure as hell wasn’t going to kiss ass but I didn’t care. Why? Cause I don’t give a damn what management thinks or expects from me. The only people I give a damn about are the fans and my former stablemates Ozzy and Trey. Although I do miss travelling with those mofos, I needed to get out. I needed to leave.

Brooks gets up, walks over to the ropes and motions for a beer.

Brooks: I came to FMW to get away from all the bullshit. There was a time I was wrestling for both organizations but I had had enough. I guess what I'm trying to say is:

Brooks points at the big screen.


Brooks: That right there is my way of thinking. Anyway, what do I see when I get here? Nearly the same…well at least after the brand split. When Corruption got split into Corruption and Anarchy, all hell broke loose. The new brand featured myself, Blake Vendetta, Callum Pullin & Bobino along with YNG. Originally I thought this is going to be good then the abuse of power began.

Brooks sits back down, opens the beer and starts drinking.

Brooks: I’m talking bout the man known as Nick Bryson. He somehow manages to make himself Anarchy General Manager, how he did that? Who knows? Then he makes a four-man tournament for the Anarchy Ultraviolent championship. I will give him props for that. Bobino wins the tournament (or so we all thought) and out comes Bryson saying that Bobino doesn’t win the tournament because he still has to face someone that Bryson gave a two round bye to. Who is that person? David GS. Talk about using your power to help your buddies.

Brooks drinks some more of the beer.

Brooks: This show is no different. I face Mark Johansson and Bobino & Vendetta are in a match against David GS & Matt Ashburn. Who is ringside for both those matches? Nick Bryson. By the looks of things its like he just drafted people who won’t stand up against him. That is where he’s wrong. He wants to be ringside, that’s cool. I won’t be coming to the ring alone.

Brooks climbs out of the ring and starts looking under the apron where he finds what he was looking for.

Brooks: Like I said, I won’t be coming alone.

Brooks gets up revealing a lead pipe in hand.

Brooks: You wanna make sure your team has an advantage Nick? Well consider the odds evened.

Brooks rolls back into the ring.

Brooks: Tonight after we beat you and your stablemates, the only thing the crowd is going to be saying is:


Brooks: Ok Bryson, I find myself in this situation. You want me to 'make the best out of it?' Fine. I will, but newsflash dude. You're not going to like the results. YNG, time to play the game.

Fade out.

The scene opens in what appears to be a motel room, the camera peering through the whispy haze of cigar smoke and finding the cackling and shirtless form of Kraven Whiskeyjack who is reclining on the bed – beer in hand. The sheets are unmade, the shade of the bed-side lamp is tilted and by the look of the clothes scattered about the room there's a good chance that someone else is here, or at least was until recently.

It's unclear where exactly he is but he looks perfectly comfortable here, semi-naked with his dreadlocks bound up into a tight not above his head. On closer inspection it looks as though Kraven has found the obligatory copy of the St. James Bible and - in what he must have thought was a hilarious bit of irony – has used it's pages to roll joints. Scattered about the place one could also notice other implements for various forms of drug taking which all look to have been used recently. Kraven Whiskeyjack is only a couple of weeks past his Full Metal Wrestling debut and he already appears perfectly comfortable displaying his many vices on camera.

* * * *

Kraven scratches his tattooed stomach absent-mindedly as the camera zooms in and pans around until it is focused purely on an over-the-shoulder view of the action on the grainy, old-fashioned T.V.

Quote :

Smith: Slegna continues to bounce off the ropes as Adam Smith rises to his feet! Big boot attempt by Smith- NO! SLEGNA WITH A BASEBALL SLIDE GOES RIGHT UNDER SMITHS LEG!

Sound: Thats something Smith will never be able to live down.

Smith: Slegna reaches up, ROLL UP! SLEGNA WITH THAT PIN CENTER RING! ONE, TWO, THREE-

Sound: It looked like Smith kicked out just before his hand went down!

Smith: NO! The ref is calling for the bell! He kicked out just after because this match is over! Slegna is celebrating outside of the ring with the fans and Ekstreme as Adam Smith is left stunned in the ring!

Kraven: “Jesus Christ, seriously? This guy?”

The camera pans back around to take in Kraven's expression, getting the full bed and the television in shot.

Whiskeyjack lifts the remote control and hits the rewind button. The characters on screen begin dancing backwards as fuzzy lines play across the television. Without the noise from the T.V. we can make out the faint sound of a shower running somewhere out of shot.

Kraven grunts softly as he shifts his weight, apparently feeling the effects of the Battle Royale a little more than he'd like to let on. He licks his lips and then drains the rest of his beer, tossing the bottle into a corner somewhere.

Kraven: “DAR... er.. FRAN... fuck, what was her name?”

He mutters to himself.

Kraven: “HEY GORGEOUS, HOW ABOUT A FRESH BEER?”

He settles back into a comfortable position with a grin on his face, clearly pleased with what he sees as an ingenious solution to his memory problem.

Woman: “GET IT YOUR GODDAMN SELF! I'M IN THE SHOWER”

Comes the echoing shout back from the shower. Whiskeyjack's neck snaps round and he stares off screen with a look on his face somewhere between petulant and threatening. Slowly and with an overly-dramatic groan he gets to his feet and makes his way across the small room. We hear a fridge door open and close, the soft clink and fizz of a bottle being opened and then the rush of water as a tap is turned on.

Kraven appears back on screen just in time for us to catch his triumphant expression as the yelps begin to ring out from the bathroom.

Woman: “AH! ARRRRGH! WHAT HAPPENED TO THE HOT WATER!?”

Kraven sips at his beer with a malicious grin on his face.

Kraven: “I just don't know darlin'. Let me get my tools out and have a look.”

He presses play on the video again and lies back down. As the action of Adam Smith's match at Lethal Injection gets underway on the screen his reaches off to his side and grabs a pack of cigarettes. The match is drawing to a conclusion again by the time he's tapped one out and lit it.

Quote :

Smith: NO! The ref is calling for the bell! He kicked out just after because this match is over! Slegna is celebrating outside of the ring with the fans and Ekstreme as Adam Smith is left stunned in the ring!

Kraven: “Fuckin' seriously, how short is that match? Did one of these guys have a plane to catch or something?”

His expressions wrinkles to keep smoke out of his eyes as he sits up and searches for the remote control, cigarette still firmly in mouth.

Kraven: “God dammit, where is that fuckin' thing?”

He mumbles through his cigarette as he pats down the bed around him. As he does so the sound of a door creaking open comes from across the room and he briefly casts a glance in the direction of the sound before wordlessly carrying on his search.

Woman: “What happened to the hot water?”

Asks the source of the voice.

Kraven: “...kind of a dumb-ass question...”

He mutters distractedly before suddenly snapping.

Kraven: “WHERE IS THAT GOD DAMN CONTROL!?”

An audible silence passes as the woman off screen possibly recovers from the shock of this sudden outburst.

Woman: “How the hell should I know!?”

Kraven: “Urgh just shut the hell up, I've found it now.”

He settles back down to some extent and there follows another pause.

Woman: “Is this how you treat people you've just met?”

Whiskeyjack snorts as he turns to look derisively off-screen at his companion. He takes a swig of beer and a puff on his cigarette before responding, allowing the awkward silence to linger as if savouring it.

Kraven: “First off sweet-cheeks, we aint met – we've had sex but you don't know the first thing about me and I don't care to know the first thing about you...”

Woman: “Oh so this is just how you treat people who sleep with you?”

Kraven stares, a flicker of malice dancing in his gaze. Slowly, purposefully he begins speaking again,

Kraven: “It'd be a bad idea to interrupt me again.”

He takes another long drag on his cigarette.

Kraven: “This hasn't got anything to do with sex or first impressions so don't flatter yourself. This is how I speak to people I don't even have the faintest amount of respect for, people like you.

Woman: “You son of a bitch! You think you can just talk like that...”

Kraven: “I THINK...”

He shouts over her, interrupting and stopping her dead before lowering his tone without losing any of the menace.

Kraven: “I think that you ought to show yourself out.”

Woman: “But I...”

Kraven: “Seriously I'd take the hint.”

A long, painful silence passes.

Woman: “I'm just in a towel”

Kraven: “Not my problem.”

He swings his feet back onto the bed and drains his beer, then drops the stub of his cigarette into the bottle.

Woman: “I seriously can't believe...”

Kraven: “GET THE FUCK OUT”

In a flash he's up and he hurls the empty bottle against the wall above the T.V. where it smashes leaving a dirty brown stain mottled with flecks of ash. The female companion whimpers off-screen for a moment before darting across the camera. We only get the briefest of glimpses but it is clear that she is as beautiful as she is terrified.

We can hear her trembling fingers struggling with the lock before finally getting the door open. The sound of naked feet slapping against cold concrete rings out and then fades as the din of a busy city flows into the room through the open door which bangs once against the wall before hanging open.

With another exaggerated groan Whiskeyjack slumps out of bed and marches over to the open door.

Kraven: “AND SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR AFTER YOU, YA TRAMP!”

He hollers into the warm night air as a vicious parting shot.

The door slams shut and he belligerently resumes his position on the bed before pressing play on the old T.V. once more.

Beer runs down the wall as the end of Smith's match against Slegna plays.

Kraven: “Who the hell put me in a match with this guy? I might feel sorry for him if I had any idea who he was.”

The burly man looks around the room, scratching his chest absently.

Kraven: “God dammit, I need another beer”

The camera stays where it is, focussed on the exasperated imaged of Kraven's face as he wrestles with the obstacle of getting himself another beer. He arches his back and lays his head back, his eyes staring upwards into space.

Kraven: “Fuck it...”

He says as the camera fades to black.

Kraven: “After tonight I could do with a fight.”

* * * *

The scene opens to a street, illuminated from the neon signs that hang from the various nightclubs and bars, which cover nearly every space of the street, stretching far and wide. The nightlife is bustling as scantily-clad women stumble out of nightclubs, cackling at fellow members of the party that stumble and clatter into the nearest walls, while a man who could be described as the scum of society tries to tussle with a large, muscular, buzz-cut bouncer that quickly throws the scum of a man to the floor with great force. The sounds of the street is pierced by a police siren in the background, which soon fills the street as a police vehicle pulls into the street to jeers and swears from the long lines of people attempting to get inside. The police men that leave the car, seem fixated on their target as they march into a nearby bar and hastily exit with a man in cuffs. The criminal’s friends barrack the policemen with insults and one attempts to throw a punch. Soon, the situation escalates and a brawl ensues with members of the public trying to intervene.

A group of party-goers decide that it is best to attack the police cars as one fool jumps onto the bonnet and starts to stomp, while another picks up a stone of the ground and begins to smash the windows as the police are still pre-occupied. Not content with their antics, the group of miscreants gather and try to overturn the car and after a few lifts and shoves, it falls onto its back with a smash of glass and the siren silencing. The camera draws back as the scene goes further back, and further and further, until the street cannot be seen and a town is merely seen in the distance, over watched from a hill.

The camera then pans to Seth Rotunda, smartly dressed in a suit, sporting his new haircut and watching the town whilst stood on a glass floored balcony. His newest agent, Aldridge Clarke, dressed in clothing that would embarrass Prince, soon joined him and offered Rotunda an exotically coloured cocktail.

“Great party, huh?” Clarke said enthusiastically.

“Pretty awesome,” Rotunda replied.

“Then why are you out here?”

“Needed some air,” Rotunda muttered.

“When I come out here, I decide to look out on the town and think that this area would look better if a nuclear bomb was dropped on the town. After all, nobody would be affected by radiation; they’re all mutants down there after screwing their sisters and cousins anyway. People like Antonio Grimelli. A little bomb would get rid of the riffraff and make the surroundings a lot prettier, making my morning strolls a lot nicer. Sadly, my opinions are thought of as unethical,” Clarke rambled.

“Okay,” was the only thing Rotunda could respond with.

“And to think, you came from such an undesirable background. I’m surprised you didn’t come out deformed when I think off all drugs and drink your mum must have taken while she was still pregnant. And you’re quite well rounded for someone whose father must have beaten him. That’s what it’s like down there, isn’t it? Born to a bitch and then beaten by a bastard. Quite catchy, isn’t it?”

Unsurprisingly, Rotunda was visibly offended before the look on his face turned to one of emotion. Clarke, always content with making others miserable, shook his head and chuckled at the reaction, before taking a sip of the brightly coloured cocktail in his hand.

“My mother wasn’t a drug user and my father never beat me,” came Rotunda’s stern reply.

“Oh, that offended you? Who gives a shit?” Clarke laughed again.

The DreamKiller span around Clarke, knocked the alcoholic beverage out of his hand and gave him a firm shove, to show the seriousness of the situation.

“Oh dear, you’re turning into the brutes that you call your Pack friends,” Clarke mocked.

“You think I should just accept you insulting my family?” Rotunda shouted.

“You’re turning into the townspeople again.”

“You know, I’m starting to have second thoughts about this partnership,” Rotunda continued.

“Oh don’t leave, I’ll be so alone, there aren’t any other stars queuing up to beg for my services,” Clarke said sarcastically as he snapped his fingers, which brought the attention of a waiter, who passed him another cocktail.

“I honestly mean it.”

“You must have forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“You realise when you acquired my services, you had to sign a contract? Well, that contract made sure that in the event of an unfair dismissal, I receive either a sum of money or something valuable. I’ve already decided on what I’ve wanted: the Gold Card.”

“You son of a bitch,” Rotunda said as he swung a wild punch in Clarke’s direction, but the smooth Clarke swayed out of the way and took a few steps back.

“The more you get angry, the more you’re likely to dismiss me and your clutch on the Gold Card fades. You’re stuck with me until you achieve something, then I’ve done my job and I leave with a huge pay-check and my reputation for making people stars goes up. I can make you run back to Ap Gruff and admit that you were in the wrong, do you want that buffoon mocking you? No, because only I can do that. Now, go inside Seth and enjoy the party.”

Clarke gave a mocking bow and walked back through the glass doors and into a noisy room while Rotunda stood, unable to answer anything of substance except mumbling various swear words under his breath. Rotunda decided to neaten up his appearance and walk inside again, his head down, trying to avoid more wretched conversation.

Rotunda chose to ignore the guests who stared bright-eyed at the expensive art collection of Clarke, nodding and murmuring and sipping their wine whilst Clarke tried to justify the meaning behind three oddly coloured triangles which Clarke explained “summed up the emotions of the artist during his years in University and his hard background as a senator’s son.” While other guests lounged on the garish sofas while another guest looked for an escape root after being trapped in the corner by a rich, racist World War Two private, retelling the same story twice to each guest. Though one thing Rotunda had to admit, Clarke had a good looking lot of girls.

Rotunda quickened his pace, trying to avoid making eye contact with fellow party-goers, only as he was about to enter the quieter room adjoining , a brunette woman was thrust in front of Rotunda by Aldridge Clarke.

“Seth! This is Lisa,” he said as he put his hands on the woman’s shoulders and gave her a playful shake.

“Hey!” Lisa said perkily.

“She’s twenty-two and just came out of University. What was it again that you studied?”

“Photography and the Science of Adventure!”

“That exists,” Clarke questioned.

“Yep,” Lisa said happily.

“Lisa, do you like animals?” Clarke asked.

“Sure, I used to keep rabbits.”

“Terrific. Did you know Seth once saved a burning pet shop?”

Rotunda merely stunned by the perkiness, or should it be the lack of intelligence of this girl. With her permanent smile on her face, it seemed she was too young to have seen disappointment. And the fact he was slightly offended with Clarke trying to hook him up with this girl and even went as far to make a bullshit story about a burning pet shop.

“Oh my god, really? That is amazing!“ She exclaimed, loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

“Look, Lisa, I really need to go,” Seth trailed off.

“I’ll just give Lisa your number,” Clarke said.

Rotunda grinned awkwardly as Clarke already thrust a pre-written number to the girl. Rotunda excused himself and walked away and his agent soon followed, laughing hysterically.

“Looks like we’ll being seeing her again soon,” Clarke smiled.

“Why do you have to set me up with her?”

“I like tormenting you, first with the jibes, then the Gold Card, I could at least get you a girlfriend and film a scene where you wake up after a long night of thrusting together. After all, everyone else does it in their promos, and you need an attractive girl for your success story.”

“Fine, if it’ll further my career,” Rotunda sighed.

“Oh, she’ll definitely help, she’s handpicked by me. Go on a date with her Tuesday, it’s pre-arranged. Oh and I forgot to mention, tomorrow you have an interview about the upcoming match. “

“Just gets better doesn’t it?”

“Only under my leadership.”


The scene opens to Rotunda stood in The Pack locker room with a smartly-dressed Aldridge Clarke stood next to him smirking, although looking slightly uncomfortable being in a place as smoke-filled and alcohol smelling as The Pack locker room. The two men face a camera on a tripod, while Clarke’s own make-up assistant smothers the two with various powders and creams. Clarke shoos the woman away as Rotunda clears his throat to begin speaking.

“When they speak of men who defined FMW, who made it a phenomenon, what with breath-taking matches, championship reigns which caused fear and also daring men that tried their best to rid FMW of any poisons, they speak of people like Ethan Black, Jaro, the mastermind of the federation, or how about Drew Michaels, the “Saviour of FMW”?

Of course, one day, I see myself mentioned as the man who defied the odds, the man who came out behind that curtain at Mount Vesuvius, as a fresh faced rookie against several others, many who quit straight after because they couldn’t keep up with the talent on display. The man who rose from a Pack bitch to standing out on his own, and through sheer determination claimed what was his so he could go on to become the thing he dreamed about since he was a little boy. I claimed the Gold Card. I finally had something which was the definition of the standards that I wanted to reach week in and week out.

Of course, the card is like me, it’s unpredictable. One minute I’m on the defence, scrambling for protection and then a split second, you’ve been met with the Death of a Dream and you’re on the floor trying not to swallow your own tongue. With this card, every time a champion wrestles, as soon as their match-up is over and they think they’ve done a good job with another defence and they think they’ll go back to the hotel and order room service and watch Jersey Shore and phone the wife, they’ll be worried that my music will hit, they’ll be fretting, paranoid and in the event it doesn’t happen, they’ll breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that for another day, they’re safe. But times the paranoia by the number of champions and put that on a weekly basis. By the end of the month, the champions will need to be followed by doctors with a life support machine because they’ll collapse with all the pent-up stress and the heart attacks that I’ll be giving them.

In life, I’ve never been the one with all the girls around me, I’ve never been the one on the front of a magazine, I’ve never done commercials, hell, I don’t even have my own merchandise! But this Gold Card brings me a opportunities. Clarke here gets phone calls, left, right and centre. I’m asked to pose with supermodels; I’m living in a luxury house, I drive fine cars, I open entire malls and in the next year, I’ll be the one to make the biggest impact in FMW. And why? Because after being torn aside by the boxing world, after being put in unfair matches with a bunch of chair throwers and kendo stick users, I can say that I deserve this chance at success.

But if I need to already backup what I’ve said, then I’m going to send a message by taking out the Abandoned Champion’s closest friend, Paper Bag Man. I need a further reason to be feared other than having the most threatening right hand in the industry and being unpredictable at any time, and I’m going to make that mark by staining that little shred of headwear with the blood that pours from his head. Others may dislike the fact that I’m going to destroy such a cherished member of the FMW roster, but here, it’s survival of the fittest and a fool like him does not deserve to share a watt of my spotlight.

You’ve suffered so many injuries and just keep coming back, but maybe this time, when my right hand gives you another concussion, and you can no longer play hero when you’re sat in a care home with drool running down your face. Your team won’t even be here to stop this, how can they intervene when they have my friends tearing them apart? So to conclude, it’s you, battered from pillar to post, blood staining the entire bag like someone bringing home a butcher’s cut of meat and not a single Super Ultra Mega Team in sight to help you.

Then there’s Antonio Grimmeli, who has the nerve to claim he doesn’t know who I am. But what I find the most odd is that I’m in the ring with a former assassin and recently renewed his murdering streak by killing his own narrator. When’s Jeff Watson when you need him, huh?

All these pictures of him giving thumbs-up to children makes him come off like a Catholic Priest giving private oral, sorry, singing lessons to a choir boy. It’s disturbing. Grimmeli, I’ve always wondered if a mute can howl in pain under tremendous agony, but I imagine you making a sound is like a steam-roller making love to a cat.

I have the Gold Card.

I matter.

When I go down in the history books as the guy who broke the Gold Card Curse,

You can say it all started here,

At Corruption 16.1

And remember, I’m always watching.”

Bobino's Promo


Failure.

Choke.

The end.

Once again, I cone up short when it absolutely matters. Once again, I prove I don't truly belong here.

DGS... I'm not here to complain. I'm here to say on that night, you were the better man. On that night. Most people would take a failure like this, and they'd dwell upon it. They'd take this failure and it would define them. There was a time where I would accept this loss as another in a long list. There's a time where I would accept that I simply don't deserve to be a champion.

That was before I held that belt. That was before I heard the crowds excitement as my name.rang.over the speakers. That was before I realized that I don't have to accept my own failures.

This week, I get to show YNG that I'm not done here. I get to show that my fight matters. I get to show that I will not give up. David, you know as well as I do that I have your number. You felt it towards the end of our match, you weren't sure of victory. You didn't have the certainty that you usually do.

You're afraid that you can't keep up. You're not afraid of losing... You're afraid of losing to me.

This week you lose to Butters. This week you feel what the future holds.

I am your downfall... I dethrone the New God.

I will be champion.

...and for once, you -WILL- want to be me.

Corruption
Live from the Rupp Arena in Lexington, Kentucky


Singles Match
Adam Smith vs Kraven Whiskyjack

Hardcore Match
Antonio Grimelli vs Paper Bag Man vs Seth Rotunda

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Sharpedo King and STORMMASTER vs Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman

Anarchy

Singles Match
Mark Johansson (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Paul Brooks

Main Event
Tag Team Match
David GS and Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Blake Vendetta and Bobino

Really sorry I couldn't promo, I'm in Mallorca at the moment and I've had revision/life all week as I'm on school holiday. I have exams after the holidays so could I possibly not be booked frequently until I'm ready? I'll still send segments in and hopefully be able to RP now and then. Votes will be up later!

Corruption
Live from the Rupp Arena in Lexington, Kentucky


Singles Match
Adam Smith vs Kraven Whiskyjack

Hardcore Match
Antonio Grimelli vs Paper Bag Man vs Seth Rotunda

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Sharpedo King and STORMMASTER vs Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman

Anarchy

Singles Match
Mark Johansson (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Paul Brooks

Main Event
Tag Team Match
David GS and Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Blake Vendetta and Bobino

Votes subject to change.

Canberra, Australia
03/11/2004
"They Told Me I Would Rule The World."
 
To me, Canberra was a sleeping city - and I could see no reason to set an alarm.
 
Not a day had gone by that I hadn't seen Matilda cry over the death of our Mother and Brother, her face buried into the now permanently tear-stained and thin pillows the Orphanage provided for us. As a socially awkward fourteen year old boy, I didn't know whether to comfort her or not, even though she was my sister.
Since the day we both realised we were the only two free and living members of our family left, we had been inseperable. Those days in the Orphanage, a grisly, god forsaken place, taught me the true meaning of 'blood is thicker than water,' a motto that I live by to this day. Answer me this - who needs friends or allies when you have family that can act as both?
 
However, as any kid will know, you simply can't get through your High School years without attempting to make even a few friends - no matter how antique and cheap my school was, and despite Matilda's best efforts to steer me away from them, I found myself falling in with the wrong crowd far too quickly.
 
I like to think it was something far deeper than my desire to lead a popular and well-rounded life that drew me to them. In my head, I tell myself it was the smell - the smell that circulated throughout my childhood, that sickly, distinctive tang that nestled in the air and up your nostrils. Those lads most definitely smelled of my Father's special powder.
 
Like many winter days in Canberra, the weather was delightful. The evening sun was dimming into the horizon, and our little gang sat in a discreet warehouse, dressed in T-shirts and flat peaks, a single crate of beer tucked in between my legs. The world smelled of my teenage years... Barbeque smoke, Cigarette smoke, Body Odour 'smoke' - but I loved it. I was in a good place, bearing in mind that eight years ago my Father had been sentenced to life and both my Mother and Brother had been shot dead through the heart. 'You did good, kid, you did good.' I could just hear my Brother saying it in my head.
 
"Chuck us another, Blake."
 
Several accented tongues mumbled their agreement, and I handed out the third round of drinks, neglecting to take one myself. I had learnt from my mistakes the hard way when it came to going home drunk and after curfew at the orphanage. My ass hasn't been the same since.
 
"Not drinking, Blake?" Drew, second-in-command, laughed at me.
 
"Not tonight."
 
"Pussy."
 
Peer pressure was a dreadful thing, and as such a weak teen, I had little defence against it. I found myself rapidly reaching for another bottle as the group burst into appreciative laughter around me. I was the whipping boy.
 

OOC: Posting off my iPod, this is all I could do for this week. To be continued!
 
 

You can vote for your own match Kraven.

Matt Ashburn has been kinda quiet lately, huh?

Yeah, I've been enjoying myself. I've been living life, and life is good.

Don't get me wrong, I'm probably the most hateful man in this company. I despise damn near everyone. All of these hypocritical chest-beating pretentious little cunts should go play in traffic. They make me sick, they're genuinely disgusting. If I was god for a day, I'd give every one of them some kinda cancer, sit back and laugh. Hell, I'd probably do the same thing to their inbred families. Just for the lulz.

But this fed is too caught up in idle threats and dull-as-rocks boasts of superiority. I don't feel the need to proclaim my greatness every minute. Being desperately insecure, Chris Austin is constantly checking for any mention of his name, or any chance to shoot down one of his "class" for some petty shit. There's generic rip-offs like Jimmy Ice running round jerking off over his own accomplishments in the minor leagues. Do you really think I give a fuck about your bingo hall accolades? Nobody does. Literally nobody.

These clowns like the sound of their voice too much. I'd rather be relaxing in Hawaii with a cocktail, a fat joint and a bitch sucking my dick. That's why you don't see me around much. That's why you don't hear me running my mouth all the time like most of these self-obsessed faggots. They're so desperate for recognition that they'll never miss an opportunity to self-promote or crack some weak joke at another guy's expense. I'm too busy for that shit. I have a life to live outside of Full Metal Wrestling.

I gotta thank Nick Bryson for that. Without the money from Your New Gods, I'd still be living in some shitty one-room apartment in The Bronx. I'd still be catching the subway. I'd still be eating at fast food outlets. I'd still be fucking base-level skets. I'd still be pumping my veins for a cheap high.

Maybe I'd be in jail. Before this wealth, I was losing my mind. I was on the brink. There were times when I'd walk through The Bronx at night just hoping for a chance to gut a motherfucker and watch the blood stain the pavement. The anger and frustration inside me, the pure hate... I was capable of anything. Sooner or later, I would have slipped up and been caught by the pigs. The things I was doing were unthinkable in the narrow-minded eyes of this society.

This money has pacified me. I can do whatever I want now. I don't have to tolerate the bullshit that most of you worthless fucking drones do on a daily basis. See, I could barely keep it together with that lifestyle. It was driving me to insanity. I was a lost cause, a distorted version of the American dream; a young sociopath with an uncontrollable fury and a deep loathing for humanity.

Now I'm balling. I mean, not much has changed in terms of my actual mindset. It's just now I don't have to put up with these leeches. Now I can distract myself with the finer things in life. Now I've got a couple garages full of supercars. Now I've got a few mansions, looking into buying some more. Now I've got a private chef who cooks up lobster and steak. Now I've got access to the most beautiful women in the world. I've got a tiger in my backyard, like fucking Scarface.

I have the power to do anything.

Remember that.

ANYTHING.

Bryson told me I've got a match on Anarchy this week. Me and David GS are teaming up again. The team seemed to work well last time, eh? We got the job done. I can't even remember whose skulls we cracked. Does it even matter? They're all the same to me.

Like I said before, they all talk the same big game, and usually fail to back it up. These wrestlers are a dime a dozen. There's barely anything separating them from each other. I don't even bother asking Bryson the names of my opponents anymore, because the chances are I won't even know who they are anyway. If I actually look into who they are, I'll forgot within ten minutes and confuse them for someone else.

So whoever turns up at Anarchy, don't expect to leave with anything other than a broken jaw and a bruised ego. I'm Rookie of the Year 2011 for a reason. I'm still yet to be beaten cleanly for a reason. I'm still...

Wait, what am I doing?

I'm above this bullshit. You assholes hype yourselves up. I bet you need the confidence boost.

Trust me...

I don't.

Kraven Whiskyjack
Antonio Grimelli
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman
Mark Johansson (w/ Nick Bryson)
David GS and Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson)

Singles Match
Adam Smith vs Kraven Whiskyjack

Hardcore Match
Antonio Grimelli vs Paper Bag Man vs Seth Rotunda

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Sharpedo King and STORMMASTER vs Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman

Anarchy

Singles Match
Mark Johansson (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Paul Brooks

Main Event
Tag Team Match
David GS and Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Blake Vendetta and Bobino

David sat still in bed, staring through the darkness at the far wall of the hotel room. The covers were drawn up to just past his waist, and his hands were folded in his lap. He couldn't sleep - not because it was a physical impossibility, mind you, but because he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. Lately, he'd become predisposed to nightmares.

Movement to his left caught his eye. David turned to look down at Rachel as she rolled over in bed, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into the rhythmic breathing of sleep. She looked peaceful, happy, content, just as she had all that day.

They were in Seattle, Rachel's childhood home. With David's own family splintered beyond repair, it had become tradition for them to join Rachel's family for most major holidays. David and Rachel made the flight out for Christmas and New Year's, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, and Easter, and they were without question David's favorite times of year. Rachel's family was, in a word, massive - he had yet to see her parents' home with less than thirty people occupying it - and in the years since she'd first brought him home to meet her relatives, David had come to think of them as his own blood.

This day, Easter, had been no different.

He and Rachel had flown in Friday afternoon to spend some time with her parents, Jon and Lisa, before the rest of the family had arrived on Saturday. Before long, the house and yard had become a madhouse, as they did every year; David's nieces and nephews ran all over the place, while the adults all congregated in the house, drinking and talking and laughing.

Sunday had been church, and then dinner, and then, because the weather had been kind, a massive game of football that had degenerated into a crazed, disorganized scramble for the pigskin. David had ended up on the bottom of a dogpile, buried beneath the children of the Reese clan and the few grown men and women who were still spry enough to keep up with said youngsters. He'd taken a knee to the midsection, and someone's misguided elbow had clipped his ear pretty good, too.

It was great. He'd laughed, he'd caught up with step-relatives whose company he enjoyed, he'd gotten to goof around with kids who were still as childlike on the outside as he sometimes was on the inside, and he'd eaten some of the greatest food placed in front of him all year.

It was perfect, same as always ... except it wasn't.

Not really.

Because when the overwhelming sense of family, love, and fun died, when it was time for he, his wife, and every other relative from out-of-town to head back to their places of lodging, David began to think about them. He couldn't help it. It was easier to force them to the back of his mind when he was being swept up in the flurry of activity that accompanied a holiday with the Reese family, but such was not the case here.

Here, in the dark, with naught but his thoughts for company, David couldn't help but think about them.

Anna Esperanza Ortega. Once his friend, now something both greater and more horrible than he could've ever thought possible. David had hoped he would be rid of her by now, that he would've been able to make it clear to her that their transgression could never and would never lead to anything more. He understood that while he had saved her life, and that had led to a brief flare of passion between them, that he was still in love with his wife, and that the two of them could never be together in the way she wanted.

He had hoped that by now, it would be over.

But that was not the case. He had been wrong on all accounts. He and Anna were now bound together, their fates and lives intertwined by something so great that it rivaled what existed between David and Rachel, between husband and wife. It could not be broken, the bond that now held them together - David himself had forged it.

And so he sat in the dark, next to his sleeping wife, thinking of Anna Esperanza Ortega and the unborn child inside her.

His child. Not his and Rachel's ... his.

David had hoped it would be over by now, that he would've woken up from the nightmare that had so plagued him. But the more he thought about it, the more he let thoughts of them run rampant inside his head, the more he reailzed that he already had woken up. Days like today - like Easter and Christmas, when he was Rachel's husband, part of the Reese family, and nothing more - they were the dreams.

David had already awoken, and had done so to find that his nightmare had come to life. There would be no waking up.

Not from this.

Singles Match
Kraven Whiskyjack

Hardcore Match
Seth Rotunda

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman

Anarchy

Singles Match
Paul Brooks

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Blake Vendetta and Bobino

Singles Match
Kraven Whiskyjack

Hardcore Match
Antonio Grimelli

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman

Anarchy

Singles Match
Mark Johansson (w/ Nick Bryson)

Main Event
Tag Team Match
David GS and Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson)

A disheveled Jack Eastwood returns to the Asylum, opening the doors with a deafening thud. He sighs, dragging his tired frame through the main hall, clutching a thin metal tube in his hand. Several Pack members run up to him, presenting food, alcohol, cigarettes. Eastwood shrugs them away, save for one cigarette which he lights, walking over to a chair and slumping down, breathing smoke rings up into the air. He raises the tube in his hand to his eye level, triumphant despite himself. Snake rushes up to him in surprise.

Snake: You've been gone for some time.

Jack looks up at him and nods, the weariness in his bones finally setting in. He slumps.

Eastwood: Yeah, I know. How long?

Snake: You don't know?

Eastwood: Time runs different in Hell in comparison to this plane of reality. It felt like I was on the other side for all of twenty minutes, maybe? Then I just got out and came back here.

Snake: Well, it's been about a month.

Eastwood: Is Daniel awake yet?

Snake: No, he's still unconscious... but the doctors say his arm's getting better.

Eastwood: Well that's something at least.

Snake: What happened with him, Jack?

Eastwood: It's... hard to explain. Hopefully this will go some way to explaining it.

He raises his hand and uncurls the fingers wrapped around the tube, which springs open into a rectangular piece of intricate gold foil.

Snake: What is it?

Eastwood: Hopefully it's the key to controlling the things going on with Daniel and I. I'd better go and see him.

He gets up, cracking his back and making his way to the infirmary suite, where medical staff welcome him in, leading him towards a prone Daniel, hooked up to machines. His father's ring has been removed, placed on a table next to him. Jack picks it up and frowns, shaking his head before slipping the ring into his pocket.



A knock comes from the door to Eastwood's Tower. He looks up, haggard from his work, and makes his way down to the bottom floor, opening it to find Seth there.

Eastwood: Hey Seth.

Rotunda: Jack. How are you?

Eastwood: Exhausted. Where've you been?

Rotunda: Sorting out a few things with my agent.

Jack sniggers.

Eastwood: Ooh, “my agent”... more like your boyfriend!

Rotunda: Come on man, you can do better than that.

Eastwood: I know. Gods damn it man, I'm just so frustrated with this shit.

Rotunda: Snake was telling me about it. You've discovered the lid to the Trinis Oculus?

Eastwood: Yeah. Come on up.

They ascend the spiral staircase to the second floor, to an office-style area, where a multitude of strange and mismatched articles span the breadth of the circle. Jack approaches a lit desk, where the gold foil is spread out next to the Trinis Oculus itself.

Rotunda: So what is it?

Eastwood: Right. You know how there's seven sins, each one walking the Earth?

Rotunda: Yeah, and you know about three of them.

Eastwood: Well, according to the scripture, the seven have to be collected in order. I can't just do it randomly. And there's more. Each one of us has a particular item that acts as a stabiliser for the demon, which they need to have for the demon to be present.

Seth looks down at the foil, pointing at a familiar shape.

Rotunda: I've seen this before.

Eastwood: Yeah, that's mine.

He pulls Prideman's ring out of his pocket.

Eastwood: And this is Daniel's. Without this ring on he can't fully tap into the side of him that is actually Wrath.

Rotunda: So what are you going to do?

Eastwood: Unfortunately, without the item the subject – Daniel, myself and others – can't function correctly. We become volatile, unstable. You saw what Daniel was like with the ring. I have to give it him back.

Rotunda: And then it's a race against time?

Eastwood: Yeah. So I have to go for number six.

Rotunda: Who is it?

Eastwood: ...Dunn. It's Dunn.

Corruption
Live from the Rupp Arena in Lexington, Kentucky

Singles Match
Adam Smith vs Kraven Whiskyjack

Hardcore Match
Antonio Grimelli vs Paper Bag Man vs Seth Rotunda

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Sharpedo King and STORMMASTER vs Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman

Anarchy

Singles Match
Mark Johansson (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Paul Brooks

Main Event
Tag Team Match
David GS and Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Blake Vendetta and Bobino

Corruption
Live from the Rupp Arena in Lexington, Kentucky

Singles Match
Adam Smith vs Kraven Whiskyjack

Hardcore Match
Antonio Grimelli vs Paper Bag Man vs Seth Rotunda

Main Event
Tag Team Match
Sharpedo King and STORMMASTER vs Jack Eastwood and Daniel Prideman

Anarchy

Singles Match
Mark Johansson (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Paul Brooks

Main Event
Tag Team Match
David GS and Matt Ashburn (w/ Nick Bryson) vs Blake Vendetta and Bobino

The Sharpedo Chronicles
Episode 02: One of Those Funny Omake Moments

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!

An explosion occurs as Sharpedo King leaps out of the explosion hitting a cocky combat pose. As the overwhelming pyre of the explosive blast faded into an inferno’s blaze, StormMaster appeared next to the Pokémon monarch, his arms crossed and his unmoving stature leaving him prominent alongside his shorter tag team partner. Narrated from its original Japanese in a manner that leaves something to be desired, the promo takes on a style that can especially sound like it was from the land of the Rising Sun.

Narrator (translated): The energy still ignites for alliance known as SUPER MEGA ULTRA TEAM! They take on THE PACK in tag team competition again. Here is message from the FMW Abandoned Champion, King Samehada!

The scene switches to Sharpedo King alone, with his abandoned title belt, he was making physical motions as the translator translates his body language.

SK (translated): As Full Metal Wrestling’s Abandoned Champ, I will continue bringing great justice to FMW! I will not allow THE PACK to rampage in my honorable kingdom I rule, Corruption. My honor is at stake!

Narrator (translated): King Samehada words hold great passion. His honorable tag team partner STORMMASTER would reflect the same views.

StormMaster just stands still doing nothing and saying nothing to bring commentary. He was sitting still as a statue, like always when people are around. Makes you wonder if he’s even noticing that he is being recorded?

Narrator (translated): Though STORMMASTER is at loss for words, Their ally, PAPER BAG MAN will be able to show some interest in this match-up.

Eyeing down an assistant as she got out of camera range, Paper Bag Man seems to be more preoccupied with something more… erotic in nature.

PBM (translated): It will be wonderfully pleasing to put my bagged face within your Valley of the Gods… Oh… we roll? King Samehada and STORMMASTER will show the Pack what it means be true alliance in King Samehada’s kingdom of Corruption. Sad I can’t rule as Abandoned Champion. It makes me cry out river of salty tears to not have been honored with that prize.

Narrator (translated): SUPER MEGA ULTRA TEAM! THE PACK! Both opposing forces will collide like tsunami crashing against the shore of beach! This APRIL!

~~^~~

SK: Sharpedo?! Shar-Sharpedo!

In the style of a comedic anime omake, everyone within Sharpedo King’s locker room were a bit more… cartoonish… than usual. The Deep Sea Sensation himself had an angry vein throb after watching that commercial on TV. Reggie and Peyton were present, as well as the distracted Paper Bag Man. The Linguist was away at a convention for translators.

Reggie: What the fuck are you getting your testes in a twist over, PedoShark? It was a great promo for someone of your style!

WHACK!

Sharpedo King smacked Reggie in the skull with the Abandoned title belt, punishing him for his implication. Blood was starting to trickle down Reggie’s head in a comedic fashion, making him look like a shmuck for insulting the Pokémon monarch.

SK: Shar… pedo.

PBM: Worry not citizen, for I think I can translate this for you!

Paper Bag Man reached in to another paper bag, pulling out an elaborate oversized book entitled, “Pokémon/English Dictionary, Hoenn Edition.” He thumbed through the book until he reached Part 319, he then read the definitions. The enigmatic hero nodded in understanding, the expression of PBM concealed by the paper bag he wears over his head.

PBM: He said to you Reggie, “He does NOT appreciate you calling him PedoShark, and you deserved what was coming to you.” Right, SK?

Sharpedo King nodded, working to restore the Abandoned Championship to its rightful place, secured tightly around his waist.

PBM: He also said that the exaggerations made him to cartoonish, despite it making a point! He despises it as much as he despises what had happened in the last encounter with the Pack.

Stormaster stood still, though a glare flashed where his eyes would be on his mask, then went back to being idle.

PBM: Do I understand you correctly, comrade-in-arms?

SK: Sharpedo.

Peyton sighed with a cloud coming out of his mouth, as he put a bandage over his friend’s head wound.

Peyton: After all the money the three of us managers spent on that promo, and making the rest of this promo anime.

PBM: Excuse me, Citizen, but who were you talking to just now?

Realizing that he had a fourth wall moment, Peyton blushed as if he was a grade school girl with a huge crush on the class heartthrob.

Peyton: It’s nothing, Bagger Bitch… I was just making a random remark.

SK: Shar… pedo…

The superhero wearing a paper bag on his head looked through his dictionary again, and translated once again.

PBM: “It looked like you were breaking the fourth wall to me,” Sharpedo King says. I think I agree with you, my fine finned comrade!

The second of StormMaster’s managers started to get comedically angry, like SK was earlier.

Peyton: What do you know?! You look like you got the Undashing Cody Rhodes paper bag treatment!

Shaking his head, Sharpedo King knocked on StormMaster’s helmet, then made a silent gesture. The often, statue-like StormMaster sprang to life, then followed SK out of the lockerroom. Seeing what the Deep Sea Sensation was doing, The Paper Bag Man dropped the heavy book onto Peyton’s toe. It caused the manager to be rattled by the pain of getting his toes crushed. He left the Abandoned Champion’s locker room, following his teammates.

PBM: That’s the spirit, SK! Let’s get ready for our matches!