FMW 10.1 VOTING AND PROMO THREAD

Japan. Eric Sanchez, who, at that time, denounced the name Jetstream to stay away from the American image he created, is sitting in his locker room. The room is very dim, and very dirty, like someone took shit and rubbed it into the walls. He is sitting in a black metal folding chair, black towel draped over his head. He's tired. Knowing the things he's done in the past month, he knew that the New Japan officials would be sick of it, even after the stunt he just pulled. That man could have been killed. Think about that headline, he thought to himself. Me a killer. At first, he didn't care, now, all of a sudden, almost killing a man after setting him on fire was unsettling in his stomach. He starts to gag. He runs to his toilet, kneels down, and begins to puke his guts out. Then a knock on the door. He flushes his dinner down the toilet, and gets back on his feet. He speaks towards the door.


[Eric] Yeah, it's open.


A Japanese man wearing a business suit walks in. Eric bows towards him, as he does the same. They then sit down, the Japanese man on the couch in the corner, Eric in the metal black folding chair. Then begin to talk about business.

[Japanese Man] Ok, Eric, what in the hell were you thinking? Setting him on fire? Yes, my people started calling you extreme, but you didn't need to take it seriously.

[Eric] Yeah well, when your fans are chanting "extreme" it's kinda hard not to be, you know.

[Japanese Man] These fans, they know jack squat. All they want is blood. They are cold, heartless, bloodthirsty maniacs.

[Eric] I guess I fit right in huh?

[Japanese Man] But, I don't think you can relate for very long...Jetstream.

[Eric] Don't call me that. Ever again.

[Japanese Man] You can't change who you are. You are what they call you. "The X-Stream One" I think is one of the many names they called you...

[Eric] Back to the main topic, what did you mean "I can't relate for long"

[Japanese Man] Yes...that is why I'm here. I had just come back from a important meeting with New Japan officials. I regret to inform you that you can no longer wrestle under New Japan or it's territories, which means that as of now, you are no longer New Japan Heavyweight Champion.

For a minute, Eric was stunned. Then, without saying a word, he reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his cell phone. He excuses himself, as the Japanese Man gives a hand gesture, showing that it's ok for him to make a call. He walks out of the locker room and makes the call...


Eric walks back into the locker room. The Japanese Man stands up and bows towards him, however, Eric does not return his bow, he simply pulls the New Japan belt out of his bag and throws it on the floor in front of the Japanese Man's feet. He starts packing his stuff as the Japanese Man continues to talk, assuming that Eric is hurt. But on the inside, Eric is actually the happiest he's ever been. He hides his smirk

[Japanese Man] I understand that you must have really strong feelings, but New Japan feels that your just too extreme for us right now. Three years ago, when you came back from FMW, we accepted you with open arms. We now must ask that you show the same pride as you did three years ago. But can I ask you one thing?

Eric finishes zipping up his bag, and looks at the man straight into his eyes.

[Eric] What?

[Japanese Man] What will you do now? Perhaps go back to music? Maybe finally retire? What will you do?

[Eric] Well, there's only one thing I can do now...

Japaneese man gives a really cheesy smile as Eric starts to walk toward the door. He extends his hand out to Eric. He looks down on it, spits in it, and punches him right in the nose. He falls to the ground, holding his nose in pain. He squats down near the man, and says this:

[Eric] I'm going home...to FMW.


And with that, the death of Eric Sanchez and the re-birth of "The X-Stream" Jetstream happened. All in a little shitty locker room.



Flying into that airport again made him feel like he was in a band again. Sure, he was, but it dosen't feel the same as it did before. But now, he retuned, back to his stomping grounds. Seattle, Washington. Even though he had be wrestling in New Japan for a good 3 year run, he was out of shape, mainly because he basically kicked the living shit out of opponets, using basically anything he could get his hands on. His tone, gone. His strength, gone. His dignity, long gone. So, coming home was a bitter sweet moment for him. Walking in that terminal wasen't the same either. No fans surrounding him, no virgins throwing their bodies at his dick, and not even one person asked for his autograph. He was actually kinda thankful for that, but he wanted at least one virgin. Now I really am insane, he thought to himself. He hitches a ride in a taxi. He gives a driver an location to drive to, and they're off.


Still in the taxi. He recieves a text message on his phone. He reads it only. He dosen't reply. They continue driving.



Car stops. Jetstream looks around. Nothing's changed he mutters to himself. The driver looks back at Jetstream, he holds out his hand.

[Taxi Driver] Yeah, that'll be $33.50. Hey, don't I know you from somewhere.

[Jetstream] If you did, you wouldn't realize it until I left.

Jetstream pays the man, and gets out of the taxi. The driver rides off, looking confused. Jetstream walks past a few houses. Then he reaches an kind of empty lot. The only thing on the lot is what used to be a house. Jetstream walks into the remains. He begins to hear voices.

Eric, don't mess with that candle. Eric, listen to me, do not drop that candle. OH MY GOD! ERIC WHAT DID YOU DO! WHERE ARE YOU GOING? DON'T LOCK US IN!


He walks in where what used to be a kitchen. He sees an old stove, and leans on it. His head remains low. The voices continue.

ERIC! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET US OUT! PLEASE! YOUR SISTER IS CHOKING! FOR CHRIST SAKE, YOUR GOING TO KILL US.

Jetstream stands erect, and squats down. He begins to pray. A tear hits the charred remains of the floor.

[Jetstream] Lord please forgive me for what I've done. And what I'm about to do. Understand that it wasen't my fault. I was only three. I didn't know what I was doing. Please God...give me strength...


It begins to rain. Jetstream stands up, and walks away from the house. He runs his fingers through his long, wet blond hair, as he walks down the sidewalk, leaving an old memory that has caused him pain.






Walking around in the back again feels like home to Jetstream...if the home included everyone in the back giving you the look of death. He didn't care. Being back home in FMW made him happy, a certain kind of happy that he hasen't felt in a long time. He has just grabbed an apple from the food spread when he heard the voice of one Mr. Christian G. Smitten, the Commissioner of FMW. He was walking rather fast towards Jetstream when he started to talk in a rather loud voice.


[Smitten] JETSTREAM! Hey, I wanna talk to you.

[Jetstream] And you are?...

[Smitten] Smitten, Christian G. Smitten. We spoke on the phone.

[Jetstream] Oh, right...good to see you too. If I may sa...

[Smitten] Listen, I don't know how New Japan ran things, but when your on FMW, you answer to me, and me only, IS THAT CLEAR? Because you have no idea what kid of strings I had to pull to get you in a match tonight. So do us all a favor, and don't fuck this up. You got that? Or do I need to spell it out for you.

[Jetstream] Yeah, just do me a fucking favor, Smiter, get some fucking breath mints, it smells like dick.

Jetstream walks off with Smitten's jaw dropped. He heads for the ring.




"Scentless Apprentice" by Nirvana plays over the P.A. Jetstream comes walking out of the backstage area. He nods in aprovial, and as walks down the entrance ramp. He slaps some hands on the way down, and slides into the ring. The announcer starts to say something, but Jetstream takes the microphone from her hand.

[Jetstream] You don't fucking talk. I do my own introductions.

She rolls her eyes, and gets out of the ring.

[Jetstream] LLLLLLLADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, PLEASE, WELCOME BACK TO FMW, "THE SCENTLESS APPRENTICE", "THE X-STREAM ONE"...Get ready...your not ready...almost time. Here it is. "THE...X-STREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAMMMMMMM"...JETSTREAM.


Crowd cheers as Jetstream continues

[Jetstream] Yes, the anomly of FMW has returned. But this time, no gimmick tag team, no stoner typecast, no messing around...when wrestling I mean. And tonight, each and every one of you will have the pleasure of watching me in action with two other wreslers against 3 other ones. Now, I will say this to my teammates. I respect you both, but if you two get in my way for any reason, your just like the enemy, and will be delt with accordingly. Now that's been established, my opponets for tonight, first and foremost: Bryce Thorne.

Crowd boos, as Jetstream hushes him.

[Jetstream] Hey now! Don't you dare boo Bryce Thorne. It's not his fault he can't read...or write...or really do anything productive in society...yeah, you know what, fuck it, boo your hearts out.

Crowd boos louder.

[Jetstream] Recently, Bryce has litterally become a thorn in my ass. He has been talking all this shit...well his "agent" has, and really pissed me off. So tonight, I'm gonna take this sixe twelve...shine up the end of it, cock it back, and shove it right up his ass so far, his ass will wistle when he takes a shit.

Crowd pops as Jetstream moves on


[Jetstream] Next on my "People to talk about" list, is Tj Tilli. Now, I got a card here. Hold on.

Jetstream starts to pat his jacket. Then he moves on to his pants, then his pockets.

[Jetstream] No, that's not it...no...no...that's my dick. Ok, fuck it. I got nothing on him...because I have no fucking idea who the fuck that guy is. Next. Big Ugly Guy. Yeah, name says it all. Not only that, basically I don't even need to say anything else. He lost at against my tag team partner at the fucking PRE-SHOW to Death Row, and not only that, he has a face that even a mom couldn't love. BUG, you better tag out when I hop in this ring, because when I do, I'm aiming right between the eyes. And once the bomb ticks to zero, everyone will be infected. Everyone, not only the unfortunate ones in my match, but every mothefucker in the back. They will know the name of Jetstream. They will fear the name of Jetstream, and they will remember..."The X-Stream"...Jetstream.


Jetstream's music plays as he drops his microphone. The crowd pops, and Jetstream drops and rolls out of the ring. He heads to the back to get ready for his match.


END

THANK YOU CLEVELAND!!! With that a long hair throwback to the hedonistic 80s glam metal days steps down off the stage for the final time handing the mic to some nameless tech. His name is Axel Van Osbourne....AVO to his fans and friends...Some say his time in the spot light has come and gone, but Axel is never one to let go too easy. Hell, if that were the case, he would have given this kind of life up long ago when his band Steel Dragon broke up and everyone went their seperate ways. If letting go was easy he wouldn't still have Becky's picture in his chain wallet and look at it as often as he could....If letting go was easy he would just step down off this stage, light up a Marlboro and walk off into the sunset, but if that was the case the man in the dark shades and dark suit wouldn't be at the end of the hallway looking at his watch impatiently.....

Quite a show Mr. Osbourne....The house did seem a little empty tonight though did it not?

I know Logan, that's why tonight was the last time I stand in front of those particular floodlights ever again I just can't do it anymore.... I just don't feel it anymore....But I see you have that iternary for me....

Yes I do Sir (hands AVO a manila envelope), are you sure this is what you want to do, start all over, with a "wrestling" gimmick of all things....You know you could get severely injured in that ring....And I have never even heard of this FMW....Mr. Smitten has sent all the necessary paper work and you start quite soon against a Japenese Fellow and an Iraqi War Vet....I can tell Smitten you have changed your mind if you like....retirement is something you deserve especially after all you have been through....

No ...No Logan this is something I have to do.....I have to prove to myself I am more than Aquanet and a Fender Strat strapped to my back....I just want to be out there hearing "them" again....(AVO bows his head his eyes tearing up behind the mirrored sunglasses)....Call Smitten and tell him I am on my way and I will be there for the show....Are you coming to Texas Logan?

I need to tie up loose ends here Sir, but I will be along in a few weeks....I will keep up with your schedule and meet up with you at a later time....

You are a good man, Logan .... Thank you for .....everything.....

Axel turns to walk toward his Camaro lighting a cigarette, the world heavy on his leather clad shoulders...

************************************************************************************
It has been a few days and it seems as though everyone in the FMW has crawled up Axel's ass worse than any hemmoroid as soon as they heard there was fresh meat in the locker room....He's got Ares and that Japense dude calling him classless and uncouth and Nikko Knucklehead or whatever his name is doesn't even acknowledge anyone in the fed and Axel thinks this match barely registers on his radar....We come on the scene as Axel is taking a seat at a local bar....

Bartender .... Gimme a double Jack and club to start....Its been a rough couple days so keep em comin til I can't think anymore

You got it bud.... By they way you look familiar are you in one of them rock bands or something?

Not anymore I did front Steel Dragon back in the 80s but its been forever...I wrestle in the FMW, they are in town this week and its my "debut" . All these guys puff themselves up to be way more than they are ya know? This fed takes it self alot more serious than where I came from. Hell they turn their nose up and dick and boobie jokes...I thought everyone loved dick and boobie jokes....My old Tag Team in the FWE lived on Jack and boobie jokes!!

Personally I am a boob joke fan from way back but nowadays with all the pc cultural senstivity bs you have to be so careful....Tell me more about the guys you gotta wrestle against....

Well there is this Japense monstrosity who is offended by my humor and believes he is gonna slaughter me at some point, Then the other guy I dont know too much about. I think he is in from Iraq and trying to raise money for monkeys with Post Traumatic stress Syndrome or something. He keeps talking about needing to get paid and stuff, really weird dude. Oh and the best of all is this dude Eric Ares who thinks just because I make dick jokes I am somehow not worthy of being a wrestler and now all of the sudden this chode wants to rip me apart. All of these douche bags say my gimmick is played out and because of that I must suck as a wresler, but hey whart are ya gonna do....

I can tell ya what you are going to do Son....You are gonna have another Jack and club and you and I are going to go to the gym tomorrow morning and get you ready for these bastards....If for nothing else for the simple fact that boobie jokes should live on!!

The bartender slams his fist down in indignation shaking the glasses on the bar....Axel looks at him quizzically....

I'm sorry bub, I usually pre train with the bartender...not used to the bartender wanting to be my trainer...But you have me intruiged

Just think of me like Burgess Meredith in Rocky Son....Are you ready for this?

(with a wolfish grin we haven't seen in quite a while) Sure!! Let's do this ...When do we start?

Bright and early ....5 AM!!

Sounds like a plan -- see you then....

Over the next few days AVO is worked over by the old bartender harder than he has ever worked before....We see this through a montage with the 80s classic "Your the Best" playing in the background. We see various cutscenes such as Axel pulling the portly Ralphie up a hill on a dogsled with ropes over his shoulders in the snow even though where they are in Florida has no snow this time of year--Don't ask--, Axel chopping wood, and inexplicably painting Ralphie's fence and washing and waxing his car as he barks orders ala Mr. Myagi from the Karate Kid. In a few weeks we see Axel and Ralphie talking outside his bar.

I don't quite get how all these chores and wood chopping are gonna help me beat a fat Asain and a mental midgit but you are the Boss Ralphie...

Oh hell Axel that won't do shit for ya I just needed my car washed and fence painted!!!

[i]Axel fakes like he is gonna punch Ralphie out but gives him a big man hug instead.....

You horse's ass!! HAHA -- Seriously though thanks for everything here are two ringside seats I hope to see you there

Ralphie takes the tickets and pushes Axel up the stairs of the bus and he heads off to Texas for the big debut show....

The scene opens up to a dark valley of rock as a tall, skinny, and sharp jointed creature runs. Behind it, on the top sides of the valley, are two soldiers chasing it with guns in their hands. One of the soldiers, the female, trips but catches her footing.

Rodney: Keep up!

They come to a gap in the valley but both clear it and catch their feet after rolling through. The creature looks back for a second and then jumps up the wall of the valley and up to the female who dodges and fires a couple of rounds into its head.

Rodney: Don’t kill it! Do not kill it!

A jeep speeds from out of view and skids right between the creature and the female as a large black male jumps out and throws a box connected to a wire right in front of the creature. The female jumps off behind the jeep as the black man shields his eyes and presses a button that causes the box to emit a blinding light. Everybody opens their eyes and blinks the dots away to see the box alone.

Rodney: Tell me it got it. Check the fuckin’ box and tell me we got it!

The black male goes to the box and clicks a button that reveals a screen. He looks over to Rodney and shakes his head slowly.

Rodney: Goddamnit!

The black male and the female look on in silence as Rodney kicks the box into the valley below.

Rodney: Call Nikko, now! Ask him where the fuck the money is!

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

The scene cuts abruptly to a bright city downtown where Nikko Nulthy Nathans waits in front of a bank with saltine crackers in his hands and a backpack on his back.

My name is Nikko Nulthy Nathans and by some corrupt sense of luck, I was forced to leave my friends in Iraq to come and raise funds for our cause. What is our cause? Well I can't really say but Rodney insist it is keeping the soldiers safe. Donny, a rather jolly black guy, insist it’s Rodney stroking some enlarged ego. Mayra, my old girlfriend, claims that it had passed up humane long ago.

Nikko gets a phone call and puts the phone up to his ear.

Right now a banker, or teller, or whatever inside of the bank is calling me and telling me it’s time for me to go in and beg my case for a loan. When I came back to the states to look for money I had to live lightly. Couldn’t be kept down by rent, living expenses, or insurance. So I decided to sign with some wrestling company which means I’d spend a lot of time sleeping on airplanes.

Nikko nods his head and puts the phone back into his pocket. He looks to the top of a building and is temporally blinded by the light as he shakes his head and turns to walk into the building.

INT. BANK

Nikko walks through a group of people and looks over the numbered desk to find where he is supposed to be. He comes to an empty desk and takes a seat as he waits to be attended to.

Unfortunately, wrestling was never really my style. I’m a bit too laid back to pretend to care when some hack, or hacks for this show, are trying to make me look bad by talking trash. To hurry the process up of which I could return to Iraq, I decided a loan would help out greatly. I won't tell Rodney because he’ll take it as me being half committed to raising money by winning wrestling matches.

The bank employee sits down across from Nikko and looks a bit uncomfortable.

He’s going to reject my loan.

Teller: I’m sorry Mr. Nathans but-

Nikko: Nikko Nulthy Nathans…no last name. All one name and it’s my first.

Teller: Alright, Nikko Nulthy Nathans, well I can't really mince words when I say this but there is no reason for the bank to actually loan you the money. You’re employed with Full Metal Wrestling but have yet to compete in a match. So your estimated wealth, as of signing up for the loan, is zero dollars and zero cents. The equation we use to estimate if a client can pay back the loan would show us that there is a zero percent chance you pay back the loan.

I kind of wonder if they divided how much I asked for by zero. Probably screwed their cheap little calculators up.

Nikko: So lets say I were to win a match against two people, like I’m scheduled to attempt this show, would you be more inclined to loan me money?

Teller: I’ll say it wouldn’t lower your chances any. While the likelihood of you getting the loan you just requested is still rather low, you could request a smaller amount and potentially get it.

Nikko nods his head and gets up to walk away. The teller goes to shake his hand but Nikko doesn’t notice as he pushes through people in lines.

I guess this is kind of fair since my intentions were to borrow the money, send it to Rodney, and then never pay it back. I’d get out of wrestling and get to go back right away.

EXT. BANK

Nikko is running to jump on a bus as the last of the patron’s board on. He pays with a small amount of change and goes to the very back and sits by himself.

Having to wrestle wasn’t the worst part of having to come back to the states. In fact, it would probably be good for me. I’m a bit of a shy person despite having wit you could shave with. Add to the fact that my parents are dead and I’m an only child and now I’m a completely lonely person. Friends never really were there because my desire to meet a group of shallow individuals was never really there either.

Nikko looks out the window to see a group of apartments passed by as kids play on the streets and parents look out through the windows.

Another good thing about wrestling and traveling is the fact that I never really could find a place to call home. Other people are a bit uncomfortable with not having a place to call home but what’s an empty home? My closest people are now across the ocean and I get the sad feeling that random bank tellers are going to be the closest I get to any kind of relationship.

A rather tall individual gets on the bus and walks to the very back to sit beside Nikko.

I sat back here because there were no other people back here and I enjoy having an eye on everyone in front of me. Not to say there wasn’t seats in front of me. This guy decided to sit back here, why?

Tall: I sat back here because you look like a person with a mind as sharp as a knife, and ambition that is unused as condoms in this current generation.

Nikko is shocked as the tall man looks over to him with red pupils and a mouth full of sharp teeth.

Oh-

Tall: -Fuck.

Nikko jumps up and squeezes out of the door onto the sidewalk as the tall man looks on and the bus continues on its route.

INT. BARNES AND NOBLE

Nikko hurries up the stares past the Starbucks on the bottom floor to an aisle of books titles “Wrestling”.

Oddly, the really tall guy reading my mind is nothing new. I just prefer to avoid him because then I my mind start to wonder and he isn’t exactly the right person who needs to know. Honestly, I never explained why we actually had to send me to get money. Usually the government funds programs that claim to help the soldiers but this one is a bit unofficial.

Nikko looks at a set of books and pulls out a book entitled “Wrestling Theatrics for Dummies”.

I kind of wish wrestling was only about skill but it isn’t. In order for the bookers to have incentive to book you in matches, which is where the winner is actually paid, I have to wow them. So indirectly I must show some form of charisma to be booked in matches so I can win said matches and the banks will loan me money. Which, obviously, will be followed by my retirement from wrestling.

Nikko opens the book up to a random page and starts reading.

Nikko: The charismatic rookie pretends to really think that victory is assured. While the average rookie’s chance of winning is usually around ten percent, despite many times being put against another first time wrestler.

Great, despite being put against two brand new wrestlers, like myself, the chances of us being cut off mid-match is somehow high.

Nikko: The charismatic rookie tries to connect with the crowd in the first match with his, or her, character. This gives the road agents a reason to book them in matches as it will sell seats. If the rookie can neither connect with the crowd, nor win the match, then chances are they will be left off the next card and forced to connect with the crowd through alternate means. If the rookie fails to connect with the crowd, but wins, then the chances of a match the next show are increased. If the rookie both wins the crowd, and wins, then the chances of a match the next show are almost guaranteed.

I kind of wondered if the author of this book considered that the rookie doesn’t even want to wrestle. Maybe winning the crowd and the match and not being booked on the next show would be a sign it isn’t my profession.

Tall: Why would you wrestle to gain money when the implicit cost is so much higher than the actual profit you would be making?

Nikko turns to see the tall man leaning against the bookcase at the end of the aisle.

Nikko: You know, Ribz, you got to stop following me around. You came across the ocean to watch me read books and wrestle? Kind of comes off creepy.

Tall: I told you this before, Nathan, I’m your guardian angel from another god. You’ve been messing with the devil all this time and I’m a bit shocked you decided to go legit and make a living. Turns out though that it isn’t to turn your life around but to further Rodney’s little plan.

Nikko: It doesn’t matter as long as I get the money to him and don’t get killed in the making.

Tall: The wrestling industry isn’t something you just dip you toes into, Nikko. Your first match is you diving in head first. You just don’t get out and expect to dry up right away. Add to the fact that you’re sociopath, cynical, and completely untrustworthy around certain things. One of those things would be competition. You’re not going to just go until you make enough money. You’re going to keep going until you are at the top. How do you think Rodney will take it when you don’t want to come back?

I guess the cat is out of the bag. I usually try to keep those facts out of my head when I go through my day. It helps me focus but this seven foot tall walking conscious of mine is exactly right. All that time following Rodney, with no actual way of winning, I forgot that I love to win. I guess drawing the short straw that day wasn’t a sign of my bad luck but a sign of destiny taking over.

Nikko puts the book up as Ribz disappears into a group of people.

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

The dry darkness of Iraq is clouded with dust in the air as Rodney sits in front of a laptop. Donny and Mayra sit in the back ground with cloths over their mouths and their forearms covering their eyes.

Rodney: Nikko, I cannot stress the fact that we need that money as soon as possible.

Nikko: Rodney, they assign me the matches and I wait for the scheduled date to get here. I have to travel around with the company so you can't really expect me to hold a job anywhere. I’ll get you the money when I get the money myself.

Rodney: We were this damn close, Nikko. It was ours but that doesn’t mean anything if the fuckin’ box just blinds us and lets the damn thing get away. I don’t give a damn what you have to do but get us the money…time is running out for the four of us. Eventually we will have to pay what we owe.

Nikko: Yeah, well lets hope I do good as we need me too, or else you’ll be the first three to pay up.

The image of Nikko shuts off as Rodney turns to walk up to Mayra and Donny and pulls the cloths from around their mouths to reveal they are gagged.

Rodney: Please get back to work and try not to yell out again. Nathan is a bit lazy if he isn’t motivated and you dead is a reason for him not to try.

END SCENE!

Tokyo Prefecture
Shibuya Ward
December 15th
2009

Kaoru: “Muscle…”

Rain in the city was different from out in the country. Out in the sticks, the water was cold and pure. You could smell that particular aroma that only comes from damp leaves and moist, rich soil. Maybe even the croaking of a toad that comes out after a storm to dry itself and catch a fly or two.

But city rain was always different. The rain in Tokyo, for example, was dirty almost before it hit the ground. Being in the largest metropolitan area on earth meant being surrounded by a ton of people. Uncle always said that, “…a ton of people produce a ton of shit. The less people, the more oxygen.” Even a light drizzle against downtown asphalt produced that grimy kind of water that you see running down concrete storm drains, like so many gaping mouths swallowing and swallowing until the streets themselves must feel ill.

“Vrrrrrrrr”

A cell phone vibrating against overpriced pants. Pants bought right here in Shibuya district where, as a rule, everything was overpriced. Doesn’t matter. All the kids eat it up as they make the rounds between nightclubs, karaoke bars, and gaming halls. What does matter is whether or not the code word comes through on the other side of the phone. “Stand down” means taking the night off, going to have a drink, and picking up some prepaid whore who got off on the idea of a so-called real thug. Influenced by stupid American music videos. But the other word means something else entirely. The other word means that there would be work tonight. All that has to happen is that the phone be answered, and that two syllable is whispered from the receiver…

Voice: “…Muscle.”

Tonight would be a working night.

Kaoru: “Who and Where?”

Voice: “The Korean place, Club Sonamu. Do-Hyup Bae has been skimming off the top again. He’s had verbal warnings, so he’ll be needing a visual reminder this time. Are you close by?”

Kaoru: “Yes. I’m in Shibuya already, by the scramble crossroads.”

Voice: “Good. Make it quick.”

*Click*

The wind was on the cold side, which meant that even the little drizzle going on was enough to make one shiver. Trench coat did the trick though. There was an ongoing joke back in “the office” that there was something inherently intimidating about a fat man in a large, black coat. It was an annoying, but people did seem to give some pause. Even the boyfriends, trying not so hard to get their squealing girlfriends out of the rain and into a different club, would stop for just a second to look up. It was enough. Enough to let them know exactly where they stood.

Club Sonamu being the assignment was good, because it saved subway money. Two blocks east of the station and the neon Korean glyphs jumped out at you, along with the popped-collar crowd waiting outside to be let in. A couple people were on the phone, probably calling people that were already inside to be let in. It didn’t matter too damn much because Sonamu wasn’t the crème de la crème. Just a place for college kids to unwind, blow some cash, and rub on girls to bad music.

The doorman was familiar. Stupid. But familiar.

Doorman: “Heeeey, it’s big man Hanayama. Man, you sure stand out in a crowd. Take up space, y’know? I think you’ve gotten even bigger since the last time. But I mean, like…’good’ bigger, right? Not like, fatter. Not that I’m saying you’re fat or anything b-b-b….”

Kaoru: “It’s okay. I understand. Thank you.”

His fear was palpable, even over the slightly muffled bass coming from inside the club.

Doorman: “So what brings you here, Big K? A little dancing? A little drinking? Ehh..ehh?”

Kaoru: “A little of both, sure. Maybe I could even have a drink with Do-Hyup Bae tonight.”

The doorman gulped nervously. He suspected, but wasn’t sure. Probably wanted to know if it was his own ass on the line. As long as his waist and hands were in sight, it wasn’t a problem. Texting someone on the inside about a visitor might have caused…complications. And complications out in the middle of the street for all to see were never a desirable outcome.

Doorman: “He-h-h-he-he. Maybe, K, maybe. But you know how it is. Do-Hyup, always running around, managing the club and kicking out the riff-raff. Of course, with a guest like you, he’ll surely make an appearance but…again y-y-you kn-kn—“

Kaoru: “Yeah. I know how it is. I’d still like that drink though.”

Doorman:“Oh yeah, for sure man, for sure. Come on in.”

Some of the kids grumbled at being forced aside in line, but still shut right up when confronted with a stare or an authoritative bump to the chest. One could complain about the rain and other forces of nature as much as one wanted. But one couldn’t stop them.

Kaoru: “By the way…that’s a nice walkie.”

Doorman: “Oh yeah, you like it? It’s really great because it doubles as a…”

Kaoru: “Can I see it?”

Doorman: “Oh, I’m not really suppo—“

It was off of waist before he could finish the half-hearted objection. A heavy thing, but it clearly had some bells and whistles. Still, at the heart of technology is nature. Those fine circuits and semiconductors in their purest forms were just plain old silica. All one had to do was put enough force to it and…

Doorman: “H-Hey..Hey what are y-!!?”

If he hadn’t called anyone before, he wouldn’t be doing it now. The frame of the walkie crumbled to the ground, crushed almost into the powdery silicon dioxide from whence it came.

Kaoru: “Oops. Sorry. From sand to sand.”

Those in line who had seen the display of strength pretended not to.

The interior of the club was tinted with an odd sort of blue lighting, which was immediately explain by several crumpled up fliers on the floor and walls that read ‘FRIDAY – DIVE INTO THE SEA LADIES DRINK FREE TILL MIDNIGHT.” It was a weird hue that could only be found in a raver’s fantasy, or a gaudy club owner’s imagination. You could only see what was going on in epileptic flashes, and even then those flashes were always in that nauseous blue. There was a fast-pasted techno song and everyone was trying their best to jump in sync without keeling over.

A good crowd, but the lighting would make this difficult. It really was like wading through an ocean at night, with only the slightest blue tint. Maybe that made it all the scarier when someone felt a massive, muscular frame brush quickly past them. The same kind of fear when you can’t see in deep water, yet you know that something big has just swam by. Something higher in the food chain. Something prowling it’s natural environment and looking for a kill.

A big fish.

Kaoru: “Hey…you got a second?”

Even in the dark, it was still possible to make out the cocktail guys bringing drinks to private tables. They were struggling to keep their balance and not spill any drinks in the unnatural light. The busboy looked around the side of his tray, attentive.

Waiter: “Sure, make it quick.”

Kaoru: “I’m looking for Do-Hyup Bae. Business. Where is he?”

Waiter: “The boss is where he always is. VIP box, across the floor, last left. “

Moving across a crowded dance floor was always a nuisance for a bigger man, especially at that hour of night when people had already danced up a healthy sweat. The coat was ruined. It really wasn’t worth checking an expensive coat at the door of a second rate club.

Do-Hyup’s office door was one of those pillow-looking plush doors that you could only find in nightclubs and strip clubs. Two men wearing dark t-shirts tucked into black trousers were flanking it.

Kaoru: “I want to see Do-Hyup.”

The man on the left answered.

Bodyguard: “Who are you?”

Kaoru: Kaoru. Kaoru Hanayama.

Tokyo Prefecture
Ginza District
December 18th, 2009

Uncle (Voice): “I am…not happy.”

That heavy feeling one gets on hot summer days. Heaviness and miasma all around your muscles that kisses your earlobe and whispers for sleep. And when you do sleep on those days, it’s an odd shapeless thing where you feel half aware and half dead. As though you were dreaming of sleep itself, but are keenly aware that you are still only dreaming.

You don’t feel much like listening to lectures on those heavy days.

Kaoru: “…Oh?”

Uncle sat on his imported leather chair, back turned for dramatic effect. He was gazing out over his meticulously kept courtyard. He only maintained it because he insisted on convincing visitors that he was old money, not new money, which was a lie. The back wall of the office was built from glass so people could see Uncle sitting in a panorama of feudal beauty, like a puppet in a vivid cardboard stage.

It was much better to avoid confessing when one didn’t know exactly what one was being accused of.

Uncle:“Don’t give me any of that. You are fully aware of why you are in my office. Pictures of your little…outing in Shibuya last night have already made front pages news. They’re calling it a gangland execution.”

Kaoru“I call it doing my job.”

He wouldn’t have allowed anyone else to speak to him that way. Using perks always gives people a sense of power, especially before a person who could otherwise make you feel powerless.

Uncle:“Your ‘job’ implies keeping this nice and tidy. It implies keeping things efficient. But most importantly, it implies keeping things out of the hands of those sons of bitches in the press!”

Kaoru: “I was told to give Do-Hyup a visual example, seeing as he’s been warned before and continued skimming money. Well…I gave him a visual example. It’s just that certain people in the champagne room decided they had something to say. I made them see my point of view on the subject.”

It was bullshit, plain as day. But there was no use. No amount of repentance would have removed the pictures. The truth was that there was no stopping it once it had started. Having some tough-guy punk talk trash can get you mad in certain ways. But it was after they took that first hit…when you saw that unintentionally pleading look in their eyes that signaled ‘I’ve had enough’…

…that was when you wanted to hit them more. It was just like a pet that had done something bad, and looked at you with those wide, infant eyes that begged to be disciplined. Hitting submissive animals is what fulfills their nature. It’s what makes them who they are. And when you finally do it, it feels like you are fulfilling god’s will.

Uncle:“You ‘made them see your point of view’? Look here.”

He threw the morning’s copy of the Ashai Shimbun newspaper onto his hand carved desk.

Uncle: “It says that one of them men was curb-stomped while being forced to bite down on a metal barstool. Another had his face grated against the edge of the bar itself, down to the cheekbone. Still another was force-fed the bullets from his own gun. They found nine slugs in his stomach, along with several teeth. He claims he was made to chew first, and then swallow. Apparently, the paper couldn’t even print what you did to Do-Hyup himself because the censors were made physically sick by it. Now I you may call that ‘making them see your point of view’. But do you know what I call it?”

Kaoru: “No”

…yes.

Uncle: “I call it a media nightmare! Now, what do you propose we do about this? Hmm?! I may have some cops in my pocket, but with the kind of publicity this case is receiving, even the police will be forced into action to avoid a public outcry. There are rumors that the federal government itself is going to use this opportunity to launch another crackdown to secure the ‘law and order’ vote.”

It was supposed to be a rhetorical question. Sometimes we choose to answer anyway, and learn that the question is far from rhetorical.

Kaoru: “I suppose we’ll do what it is we always do.”

Uncle: “And what is it we always do?”

Suddenly, Uncle’s intentions were not so clear. He intended to try something different this time, and he wanted that to be known. Something that, he assumed, would be disliked…as all good punishments should be.

Kaoru:“I go underground. Lay low. Avoid the gaming district and only take low-profile work, if any. Wait a couple of months for the heat to die down, and go back to my job when the dust clears. That’s pretty standard operating procedure. “

A wry, tight-lipped smile spread over Uncle’s mouth. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly in which direction the conversation was about to go, and thought it was a good one.

Uncle:“Oh you’ll be going underground…but not here. I’m not letting you just loaf around the grounds this time doing busy work. The problem as I see it…is that you’re a ‘thing’. An animal. Something that has fallen quite short of a human man. You are a physical creature, Kaoru. And physical creatures constantly need physical activity. Do you remember your cousin, the rugby player?”

Kaoru:“…sure…”

Uncle:“Do you remember how many fights he started after his last season on the school’s Rugby team had ended in his senior year? "

Suddenly, a cold and curious sweat leaking into the cotton fibers of an undershirt. Something was very plainly wrong. The words sound very apprehensive as they come out.

Kaoru: “…sure. I remember. But what does any of this have to do with…?

Uncle “Well that’s just it. After we sent him off to the army, he came back and didn’t start any fights. He was a physical creature who had gotten a chance to expend his energy into proper channels. And that is exactly what you are going to do. You are going to throw that enormous bulk of yours into a channel that is financially useful for me and for the firm.”

He was still pussyfooting around the subject. He wanted to see fear and uncertainty. Whether or not he was getting those things couldn’t be said for certain

Uncle: “Have you ever considered purofesshonaru resuringu?”

..and that was it. But it still made no sense.

Kaoru: “You want me to be in…puroresu? Like AJPW and NJPW? How in the world does appearing on a nationally televised program help me to keep a low profile?”

The smile on his face widened for the coup de grace.

Uncle: “No. You aren’t going to any Japanese promotion. That would be stupid and counterproductive. I have something a bit…farther in mind. A promotion with room for aggressive expansion. In other words, a good investment.

Tell me….what do you think of Full Metal Wrestling?

The Portrait

Elements of the supernatural has always been a part of the world. Here in this modern time there are few mysteries left. But some things do not change, even when they should...


Part 1:A Man Named Dorian

Three days had passed since Death Row 3, three days of mending wounds and broken pride. Gabriel Crow had stopped off at the home he, Damien, and Jess shared long enough to gather his things. Crystal was asleep in the guest room upstairs, the long trek across the U.S. draining the teenager of her usually boundless energy. Crow perched on the frame at the base of the bed near her feet, balanced perfectly like his namesake on a wire. Crystal's dark hair fell lightly around the pillow, the sleep of the truly weary. Soft features seemed at peace but Gabriel knew appearances were almost always deceiving. A slight chuckle caught in his throat at the recent trash-talking he'd heard from some of the boys in the locker room. Not wanting to disturb the child, Gabriel fluttered to the floor without a sound and left the room.

Tonight will be the last night she sleeps without nightmares, Gabriel thought. It hardly seems fair to rob her of it.

A shadow and a thought filled Gabriel's vision, a new occurrence for this young man. Something was driving him to leave, a purpose that he had not yet deciphered. But before he could indulge and discover the cause for his unease, there were a few practicalities he had to take care of. Mailing his guns to the hotel booked for him and Damien in Texas was first priority. Luckily for him there was a small shipping company that asked very little questions for the right amount of cash. His guns would arrive before he did and be waiting for him. Gabriel doubted he would need them on this trip but then a thought occurred to him.

What if this feeling I have is leading me into danger, he said to himself.

For the first time in quite awhile, Crow began to feel...something akin to uncertainty. As he packed his bags for the trip, flashes overcame him suddenly. A young man, late twenties, with short-cropped hair lightly graying around the temples. The gray gives him a more refined appearance, somewhere along the steps to old but not even close to aged. The rest of his hair was dark brown and meticuloulsy maintained . Sharp cheekbones and a proud forehead only added to this man's attractiveness, while his eyes betrayed a weariness only the most debauched are known to possess. His eyes were also a shade of gray, almost bereft of vibrancy.

Arriving in Dallas brought a flood of emotions back to Gabriel. Much of his life had been spent in the Lone Star State. His family's graves were here, a place he intended to visit before he left the state again. A wave of sadness crashed against Gabriel's senses, knowing that aside from the occasions FMW would arrive in Texas for shows or pay-per-views, he would not being seeing to their grave sites very often. No matter how much he wanted to, even the memory of their deaths couldn't bring any further feelings to the surface. The taxi ride to the hotel was uneventful. Marcus had said before they all left that he was fine running alone in Houston. Gabriel wasn't sure it would end well but Marcus would have to prove himself capable if he wanted to be the Television champion.

After settling into his room, Gabriel left a message for Damien saying he was taking a walk around Dallas, just to get reacquainted with the city. The shadow that had crept over his consciouness back home returned with greater fervor now that he was in Dallas.

Whatever is driving my senses apeshit has to be here, Gabriel said to himself, but where is it leading me to?

Gabriel stopped his forward progress after wandering aimlessly for half an hour. The sounds of the bussling masses, all drowning their sorrows in movements and jobs that did little more than kill whatever bit of a soul they possessed, crowded around him, threatening to suffocate him with their banality. Endless words mixing together to create a incessant buzzing in the background that would not go away. Closing his eyes, Gabriel began to phase out the noise around him, layer by layer, until the only things left that he heard were his own heartbeat and the call of the Abyss. Sharp pains splintered in his temples as his mind was assaulted with an image, a place in town called Purgatory. With his destination known, Gabriel went back to his hotel room to wait for nightfall.

A few hours later, Gabriel left the hotel again. A waiting taxi took him to the nightclub Purgatory. The bouncer at the door was a massive tree-trunk of a man, built mostly for intimidation rather than fighting. Crow's eyes scanned the man briefly, coming up with a quick assessment on what he would need to do in a fight with the bouncer. Luckily the bouncer was a fan of FMW.

Damn shame what happened at Death Row man. You Dancin' Macab boys are off the fuckin' chain, the bouncer said as he waved Gabriel in.

Crow paid little attention beyond a obligatory wave to the bouncer's words.

Why the fuck am I here? What the hell is pulling me to this club, the words screamed in his own head, bringing about a small headache for a few seconds.

Like most clubs in Dallas, this place was bathed in darkened lights. The illusion of seeing mixed with the obfuscating abilities of darkness to create a sensory experience conducive to drinking and debauchery. Young adults, many of them barely above the legal age to drink, as much or as little clothing as they dared, hoping to catch the attention of someone who was willing to give them a reprieve to their lonliness, even if it was for a few hours. Every surface Gabriel touched held memories and sensations, pyschosomatic touches of guilt, sadness, depression, lust, envy, even anger. The flood of raw feelings swept over his impassive heart, reminded Gabriel yet again that while he may serve the emotionless embodiment of Death, Gabriel Crow was still very much human. It was a sobering thought, changing Gabriel's posture immediately into something akin to resolute stoicism. That changed when he caught sight of a lone man sitting in a corner near the bar. Gabriel's breath left his body momentarily. Sitting there was the man he had seen in his vision shortly before leaving for Dallas. Sharp features hidden beneath a mask of shadow, giving the man an edge of mystery and aloofness. The lifeless eyes seemed to watch the dance floor and the party goers not with intent but rather a malaise born of too much experience. The man's face shifted slightly coming to a stop on Gabriel. From the look on this man's face, Gabriel could surmise that the man had the same reaction he did to seeing him as Crow had experienced mere moments before.

Neither man made a move to approach or retreat, both playing out what could possibly happen. As Gabriel stood at the bar ordering a whiskey sour, one of the barmaids sauntered over, her little skirt barely covering her ass. Her words were barely audible due to the music but she passed along a napkin, on which was inscribed:

Meet me outside in ten minutes.

Thinking quickly, Gabriel ordered a beer and downed the foul-tasting liquid as quickly as his body allowed him to. He paid for his drinks and walked out the front door, palming the empty beer bottle. This was one of those occasions where Gabriel wished he had brought his guns with him but they were sitting in their delivery box back in his hotel room. Walking outside, he quickly scanned the crowd and found the man from his vision waiting beside a Z06 Corvette painted a metallic green with red stripes down the side. If the owner had been trying to establish some kind of street racing look, they had failed miserably. Once Gabriel had cleared the club and made it to to the Corvette, the man sitting there smiled mischeviously.

Man from visions: So you're him, huh? Only saw a part of your face in a dream...but the teardrops gave you away. Who are you?

Gabriel: Gabriel...Gabriel Crow. Who're you?

Man from visions: Name's Dorian, Gabe. Come with me. I think we were supposed to meet here.


Part 2: A Surprise

Neither man spoke much during the ride. Gabriel had to admire how Dorian drove but he also conceded that this car had been tuned to perfection. When they stopped, Gabriel found himself standing in front of a mansion, the bright yellow paint standing out like a flame against the surrounding night. The style of the home appeared to be Southern Gothic, mixing the trappings of rich Texas cattle barons with the reserved asthetic of Victorian-age English lords. It was an odd mish-mash, one that seemed a little less than what it could have been. While not ugly, the building seemed to be missing that quintessential feeling of home. When Gabriel touched the doorknob, a wave of images coursed through his mind. Nubile young woman and men, an assortment of flesh that seemed to never end, coming and going from this home. The emotions were running high when these people had entered the house but there was a profound sense of loss when they left, as if a piece of themselves was left behind that they could never gain back was left behind.

Dorian guided Gabriel into his den, a place soaking with the sensations of debauchery and craven behavior. Plush pillows large enough to seat two or three people were scattered about the room. There were no tables present, possibly to avoid having someone fall over them during a drunken haze. There were three large couches however. Dorian gestured for Gabriel to take a seat in one while he prepared two drinks. The sweet smell of black licorice wafted over to Gabriel's nostrils. Something stirred in the back of his mind but he dismissed it just as quickly.

Dorian: So tell me Gabe, mind if I call you that?

Gabriel: Feel free.

Dorian brought Gabriel a glass with a thick white liquor in it and then took a seat facing his guest.

Dorian: You recognized me in the club didn't you? The same way I knew you.

Gabriel: I get visions sometimes but not like this. I felt...I don't know...driven to find you for some fuckin' reason.

Dorian: I know who you are. The famous wrestler from FMW. How's it feel to be known across the world? Bet you have stories to tell.

Gabriel: Not really. I don't spent too much time partying.

Dorian: That's pretty obvious chief. To say you're uncomfortable in a crowd is probably an understatement, right? Wait a sec...you said you get visions? How'd you start getting them?

Gabriel: Not sure. Just started happening when I was 15 or so. I touch something and I get flashes of things, images and emotions.

Dorian: That's gotta be wicked.


Gabriel took a long sip of his drink. Absinthe and a strong one at that. Diluted with water, two sugar cubes, and just a hint of laudanum for that out-of-body experience. The Green Fairy's magic surged through Gabriel's body, starting in his stomach and working its way through the rest of his limbs.
Dorian drank almost half of his glass empty but his body language showed no effect to the alcohol or the narcotic that had been added to it.

Dorian: The laudanum does give it a kick in the ass, don't it? You should be alright tnough.


Gabriel could sense he was losing touch with his limbs, a sort of death of responsiveness in his extremities. It was just laudanum that had been added to the drink. Something far more potent had been added to the mix. Fighting against the drowning of his mind and body did little more than hasten the reaction to whatever drug had been administered to him. The last thing Gabriel saw before he passed out was a wooden plaque behind Dorian that read:

The Noble House of Gray.


Dorian's expression shifted from cheerful to disappointment, his hair changing slightly in the light to a brownish ginger. While not physically imposing, reaching only 6 feet in height, Dorian lifted Gabriel onto his shoulders and headed down to the basement.

Dorian: I thought you'd be more resilient. Oh well, I guess we'll see how much of a tough SOB you really are.


Part 3: The Wages of Sin

Gabriel's eyes fluttered madly, trying to avoid the blinding lights above him. Sharp bursts of pain sounded between his temples over and over again, creating a current of agony that looped around and back into itself. The affliction became so astounding that Gabriel's mind separated from his body. He could see around him and for a moment he had to admire Dorian's gumption. It was then that Gabriel noticed the cables attached to his belt which ran to a live car battery. Once one of the cables was removed from the battery, the current coursing through Gabriel's body ceased. It took a few minutes before Gabriel could speak. When he did find the words, they came out of his mouth as little more than a cackle.

Gabriel: You got the drop me. Few can say they accomplished that. Congrats Dorian.

Dorian: Don't congratulate me just yet. That drug kept you out of it for too long. I've wasted a battery trying to wake you up. How'd you survive it?

Gabriel: I'm blessed.

Dorian: Sorry bout the chains but it's the only way to keep you in place. The metal gurney's good for conducting electiricity. Seriously though, how'd you survive for so long?

Gabriel: You wouldn't understand. Unchain me, let me walk out of here and I promise I won't kill you.

Dorian: Provide me with pleasure and I'll let you go. Whether you survive or not...

Gabriel: I'll survive. Before you start up again, that plaque upstairs? What'd it mean?

Dorian: The once noble House of Gray, of which I'm the last descendant. Dorian took hold of a small throwing knife. With a deft flick of his wrist, the knife spun end over end, striking deep into Gabriel's left pectoral muscle. The Gray family went back 15 generations in the Old World, English and French mostly. I was even an priest once, a saint even. And my looks could make even nuns questions their vows. Then the gray started to seep in.

Gabriel: Let me guess, you made a deal with a demon, didn't you?

Dorian: To be honest, I don't know. Never asked how I stopped aging. A portrait of me was done in...what was it 1815. I noticed subtle changes to the portrait, fraying around the edges at first. Then I saw this an a wondrous opportunity. Think about Gabriel, immortality...and all the trappings that come with it.

Gabriel: What the fuck are you talkin' about?

Dorian: If this was my time, I'd have scoffed at your vulgarity. Now it's par for the course. You've seen it, haven't you? How much fun have you had? Rape, murder, all those things.For a hundred years and then some, I've lived. Can you say the same?

Gabriel couldn't help himself, releasing a raspy laughter.

Gabriel: In a hundred years, you haven't learned shit, have you Dorian? You've taken lives? For what reason?

Dorian: Does there need to be one Gabe? You've taken lives. Why?

Gabriel: Death comes for everyone eventually. I simply help...speed things along.

Dorian: And you judge people worthy of death? Another knife slammed into Gabriel, this time finding the soft flesh of his upper thigh. How's that any different? Perspective, man. You see me as evil, don't you? I'm sure the people you killed saw you in the same light. Dorian threw one more knife, but this one missed its mark, scuddling across the cement floor leaving a trail of sparks behind. Dammit. I'm usually pretty good with these. The next blade did hit its intended target, imbedding in Gabriel's abdomen up to the hilt. Go ahead and scream man. It's only pain. Admit it, this is probably the most fun you've had in awhile, isn't it?

Gabriel couldn't deny that the desire to scream was there but pride left his voice silent.

Dorian: I tell ya, it didn't always work like this. Used to be a got my kicks with men and women and there was no pain involved. A little bondage and dominance from time to time but that was it. But...that stopped working. Once you done every sexually deviant act you can imagine, you need more stimulus. The flavors have to be different in order to enjoy the meal. For instance, I met this sister, a Catholic nun named Mary Francis. She was such a doll, just two years in the convent. It took me almost six months to get her just to speak with me and another three months to get her to sneak out of the rectory. After that it was...messy. But the good sister died with a song in her heart, or was it a blade?

Gabriel: Can you please get the fuck on with it? If I have to listen to your stupid shit for another ten minutes, I'll swallow my own FUCKING tongue!

Dorian: You're takin' all the fun outta this. Alright, if you insist.

The sharpened shaft of scintillating metal flew from Dorian's right hand. Gabriel could almost see it cut through the air, slicing with purpose and focus. The feeling of cold carbon steel enter his throat was unnerving, the blood flowing outwards in gushes down his neck. Spatters of vitae rained down over the concrete floor like a child's paint being flung with wild abandon.With each pump of his heart, more blood escaped Gabriel's body. His eyes slowly. Just before passing out, he could hear Dorian's voice in his ear.

Dorian: Death is the payment we receive for our sins, Gabe. Except for me. I endure, no matter how great my sins may be. A fallen saint can endure every depraved act known to Heaven and Hell. But I can't endure loneliness. That's a Hell I think you know something about. So the Demon of Violence, the so-called "Fallen" Gabriel will not die.

Dorian removed the knife in Gabriel's throat. The blood gushed through the open slit with the impatience of a boy experiencing his first orgasm. Then the wound slowly started to close. When Dorian pulled the other blades from Gabriel's limp, unresponsive body, the same effect occurred.

Dorian: What the fuck are you, he said with a quivering voice

Part 4: Recognition

Damien: Take your time. I'll be here waiting.

Gabriel labored with each step as he moved through the cemetary. When Gabriel had come here, the caretaker said the oldest graves were from the late 1800's. Looking over the weed-infested grounds and barely legible grave markers, Gabriel could see that no descendants remained to visit these places or even remember the names of those buried here. A sling carried his left arm, still healing from the wounds Dorian left him with. His voice had only just returned that morning. When he had come to, the house was abandoned. Dorian had taken everything of value and moved quickly. Odds were the other rooms in the house hadn't even been furnished to begin with. But there was little else he could do except hope he would get to repay the favor someday. Crow finally found himself standing before the graves of his mother, father, and older sister.

Gabriel: Mother, father...Jessi...I'm sorry I haven't come by to pay my respects more often but I don't really think ya'll are here anymore. You've probably been reborn already but...some part of me feels that I should be here. I've....I've seen what I could become and it scares the shit out of me. Dorian's truly fallen, beyond even what I could find in Angel or Damien. That's what I could be, had it not been for your deaths. You didn't give me much but that was enough. I may not be fair or just or even...more humane but I'm not like Dorian. I...hope you understand. Goodbye.

Back in the car, Damien waited until they were back on the road to Dallas before speaking.

Damien: We goin' after the fucker that did this to you?

Gabriel: No. Dorian's long gone by now, probably out of state. Since I can't get ahold of that Gray, the one on Corruption'll do just fine. We focus on our match at 10.1. My wounds'll be healed by then. So what you been up to?

Death Row wrote:

Edible: Yes! Triple elimination!

TJ Tilli, Simon Sheldon and Steve Monroe have been eliminated!

Next time, I’m coming out on top.


TJ slams his drink down on the bar.
TJ: Bartender, another one over here, and put it on my tab
Bartender: Haven’t you had enough for one night?
TJ: Listen, I tell you when I’ve had enough or not.
Bartender: Don’t get snappy with me
TJ: Ah bro, see this?
Bartender: See what?
TJ punches the bartender in the face, causing a major riot in the bar
TJ: That.
TJ walks out of the bar, with a smug look on his face

TJ returns to his hotel and turns on his flat screen TV.
Breaking News!
TV Reporter: This San Antonio bar, “Puzzles Bar and Grill”, was robbed earlier tonight by a man in a black shirt and a white hooded jumper. He was described as “Caucasian, around 6ft, and muscly”. The getaway car was described as Red and sporty.
TJ looked at his clothes. He was wearing a black shirt and a white jumper. He was 6ft 1, and muscly. Inside the hotel’s garage, was a Red Nissan Skyline GTR.
TJ thinks to himself “Shit, you’ve got to be kidding me”. TJ had a rap sheet in Texas, he’d been arrested for speeding, and assault to a police officer. One more strike, and he was gone. No trial, straight to jail for 18 months.

Texas State Lawcourt – 2 years ago wrote:

Judge: Mr. Tyler Greenaway, how do you plead to assaulting a police officer?
TJ: Guilty, your honour.
Judge: That’s two strikes Mr. Greenaway, one more and you’re in jail for 18 months. This time it is a $7000 fine.

I got off lucky that time. This time, I won’t be so lucky.
Police sirens sound outside the window. “Fuck” thinks TJ, “They think it’s me!”
Policeman: We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up!
TJ: Yes, officer, I’m coming
As TJ is escorted out he sees a man in a white jumper driving a red sports car out of the driveway, waving.
TJ is being forced by the policemen to get into the holding cell. Shouts of “You’ve got the wrong man!” are drowned out by policemen hitting TJ with batons.
Televisions all around the country are blasting with the news that TJ has been arrested. Child fans are devastated. Friends are shocked. And one man in a white jumper parks his car and smirks.

Policeman: Listen bud, we just checked your record, and this time, it’s serious jail time.
TJ: No! You have the wrong man. I didn’t rob that bar.
Policeman: You fit the exact description, you have a criminal record.
TJ: Do you have any witnesses?
Policeman: Yes, we do. This man, Karl Sanchez.
TJ: Sanchez? You trust him? He’s been in jail 3 times and you trust him?
Sanchez: Of course they trust me TJ. I am the most trustworthy person in this room right now, unlike you, breaking into bar’s and stealing stuff.
TJ: Shut up Sanchez, we both know it wasn’t me, I’ve put the past behind me.
Sanchez: Well, I see you being locked up. It seems like the past isn’t so far behind.
Policeman: Alright fellas, break it up.
Sanchez: Yes, of course.
TJ: Shut up you ungrateful bastard.
Sanchez: Hey! Watch your mouth TJ. You wouldn't want to get into more trouble than you already are.
TJ struggles to get hold of Sanchez while the policemen hold him back.
TJ (shouting): I’ll get you for this Sanchez!
Sanchez smirks as he walks off.

Policeman: Well, it looks like the cell for you.
TJ: Wait, before you lock up the wrong guy, can I have one day out to wrestle in Full Metal Wrestling?
Policeman: You seem to be sure that you didn’t do it.
TJ: That's because I didn’t! Get that through your fucking skull.
Policeman: We know Sanchez is a former criminal and you were the one that turned him in. Come to think of it he does have a red sports car. And a white jumper, hold on.
TJ: Sure.
5 minutes pass and TJ is waiting nervously when the Chief of Police comes out
Chief: Mr. Greenaway, you are free to go. We have checked the security footage from Puzzles and the criminal that robbed the store was clearly not you, it was Karl Sanchez.
TJ: Damn, that bastard set me up!
Chief: Yes, I’m afraid so.
TJ: Well, I’m all good to go?
Chief: Yes, sorry for all the confusion.
TJ steps out of the police station, surrounded by the media and paparazzi. Stepping into his car, he turns to the camera and says: Sanchez, you’re a dead man.


Butters, you may have beaten B.U.G at Death Row, but luck doesn’t happen twice in a row.
Christian Moore, you emo prick, get ready to get your head beaten to a bloody pulp.
Jetsream…Jetstream. Who the fuck is Jetstream?
I have B.U.G who will take revenge on Butters, and Bryce Thorne who will rip anyone who stands in his way to threads, and then there’s me. The next big thing in Full Metal Wrestling. All that the other team have are two wannabe superstars, and one washed up old guy. The future of Distortion lies in our hands, and it’s up to B.U.G, Bryce Thorne and me, “The Australian Assailant”, to set things straight.
It’s time to step up, it’s time to shine.
And my time is now.

Plain Street was an aptly named place. From the generic grey office buildings on the high side of the street casting dreary shadows while the mid afternoon sun peaked through the small gaps between them, to the quaint cafés and shopfronts lined up in a row on the low side each adorned with garish and outrageous signage that somehow made them blend into the surroundings even further. Each building was functional, unmistakeable and utterly devoid of character.

So too were the people, busily making their way about the street like mindless drones on errands for the hive queen. They buzzed this way and that in a seemingly random manner without ever seeming to falter a step. Here an elderly gentleman tipped his hat to the shopkeeper as he left the newsstand with his daily paper, there a cluster of teenage girls giggled hysterically at some triviality that was the centre of their very mundane existence as they made their way home from school.

Places like this could be found in any city of any country the world over. Sure the architecture of the buildings and the culture of the populace may differ but everything about the place fit perfectly together as if part of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Yes, Plain Street truly was the most unremarkable of places.


A little too unremarkable.


The distinct sound of leather on leather permeated the air as Abel Steele reclined back into the driver’s seat of his brand new black SUV. Casually Abel waved through the window, which was wound down to allow the cool sea breeze to waft through his car, at the short Greek man of middle years who was waiting upon the table nearest Abel’s car. The man’s silvery moustache billowed as he snorted at Abel’s presence before he scurried inside without acknowledging Abel’s existence.


People around here are very good at ignoring things they don’t want to see.


Angelo, or Ange as his friends called him, was the owner of “Eros Ouzeri” a small eatery that would not have looked at all out of place amongst the most traditional of establishments in Athens. Until yesterday Abel had spent substantial amounts of time enjoying Ange’s hospitality and sampling the sumptuous delicacies on offer from his kitchen. Ange had been a likeable and generous host, after the third morning Abel had been introduced to Ange’s family who all worked at “Eros Ouzeri” in some capacity. His wife had even insisted that Abel join them for a celebration at their home on Saturday night as their son was celebrating his engagement.

Then yesterday morning when Abel had arrived and asked Ange for his usual table on the sidewalk Ange had turned him away, swearing black and blue that there was not a table free even as his daughter was busy serving the distinctly aromatic coffee to the only other patron. Abel had received the same short shrift from each and every establishment along Plain Street, being turned away time and again from establishments that, with two or three empty tables for every occupied one “could not fit him in”.

Real Estate agents had told him with a straight face that they did not have anything available when he enquired about renting an apartment, even as he could see the litany of advertisements lining the office windows.

Even Mitch at the Plain St newsstand, a wrestling tragic who had talked incessantly about the latest rumours from the FMW that he had heard from a guy “in the know” as Abel stopped each day to buy a copy of the daily paper, had asked Abel to move along as soon as he had paid for this morning’s edition.

Something spooked these people into ignoring me.

Abel was in no doubt as to what that something was either.

He turned slowly away from the “Eros Ouzeri” to cast his eyes upon the blandest building he had ever seen. Its blandness was so striking that the building screamed out at him, even amongst the relative blandness that was the rest of Plain Street.

Abel had spent hours studying the goings on of 121 Plain street from the table at “Eros Ouzeri”. He had made mental notes of who went in and out as he searched for some clue to the mystery that lay within. The sign in front of the building provided no answers.

“United States Government – Department of Research”

The sheer volume of white collar stiffs who routinely trudged despondently through the front doors each morning, only to routinely drag their dreary listless selves back out the doors again each evening could not be mistaken as anything other than the soulless workforce of drones that are typically found within any government departmental works building.

What had attracted Abel’s attention was that as he watched the people going in and out of the building a sizeable discrepancy had quickly become apparent. For every two humdrum workers that bumbled their way through the foyer doors, three would depart. They were spread randomly across the day so as not to attract attention in a great rush departing at the end of the day but it was undeniable.


Either that is the world’s first express service maternity hospital or there is another entrance.

The problem was for the life of him Abel could not see it. He had circled the building numerous times searching for a back or side door and he had spent a very cold and lonely night, followed by a hot sweaty and rather fragrant day camped out on the rooftop of a nearby building on the chance that there was a secret rooftop entrance. Unfortunately he had found no way to account for the surplus of workers who left the building each day

Maybe they are running a human cloning facility in there?

A shadow passing over his window roused Abel from his ponderings and as he looked up to see the source of the shadow he was immediately sure of what was about to happen.

Office: Excuse me sir, is this your vehicle?

Abel had never cared much for authority figures. In his experience the power that was placed into the hands of an average human was a ticking bomb waiting to be abused, in this case though Abel wasn’t so sure.

The officer was a balding middle aged man whose paunch was getting to the point where it was entirely possible that he was taller asleep than he was awake. His uniform fit so poorly as to be comical with tiny black leather boots that bulged around his flabby calves, pants that were clearly at least three sizes to small and only being held up by a “one size fits all belt” that had more than its fair share of additional holes punched through the leather strap and a shirt that was missing exactly fifty percent of its buttons and two of the remaining three hanging on by the barest of threads as his giant gut heaved in and out under the enormous effort that simply was breathing. All of this was topped off with a hat that was doing it’s best to get blown away in the sea breeze and revealing the officer’s gleaming dome as it spasmodically lifted up off of his brow.

Not much chance of you arresting anything more substantial than a donut is there tubby?

The officer wheezed in a deep breath as the strain from walking from his patrol car, parked directly behind Abel’s car, to his place outside Abel’s window took its toll.

Officer: Sir! Is this your vehicle?

Abel rolled his eyes behind his mirrored aviator sunglasses. He knew why the fat arm of the law was disturbing him and not chasing a fistful of French fries with a hamburger smoothie, but decided to have a little fun with the rotund constable

Steele: No.

Officer: What do you mean no?

Steele: I mean no it is not my car. Is it yours?

By this stage the obese constable had begun to sweat profusely as his sweat glands reacted vigorously to the shock of leaving the air conditioned comfort of the patrol car. The stout officer begins to shift uncomfortably as his irritation grows not only from Abel’s belligerence but also from the rumbling of his stomach, which is so thunderous that several pedestrians stop to look skyward as if expecting to see dark storm clouds rolling in overhead.

Officer: Of course it’s not my car.

Steele: Well that’s a good thing then, otherwise I think we would have to write you up a ticket now wouldn’t we?

The corpulent constable begins to turn a beetroot red ad his body temperature rockets from the afternoon sun and indignation at Abel.

Officer: Grmmpff

Steele: Hey hey, easy there no need to get worried, see I’m a reasonable sort of man. I’ll tell you what how about I let you off with a warning this time?

The constable begins to shake with rage, which unfortunately only serves to make him sweat profusely, as beads begin to trickle from his podgy brow to his roly-poly neck.

Officer: Listen here. I am going to write you a ticket and a notice that from this date onwards, this vehicle will be towed from any parking bay within the district without warning.

Officer: That sounds like a lot of work. Wouldn’t you rather a nice icy cold milkshake instead?

Just at that point Ange happened to walk out from “Eros Ouzeri” attending to a customer at a sidewalk table

Steele: Ange, one chocolate thick shake for my friend constable….

Abel looked down at the constable’s badge.

Steele: He He… Small…. he he COUGH COUGH

Abel could not contain his smirk as he attempted to cover his mirth with a cough. Ange simply shook his head in sympathy and scurried back inside before Abel could speak up again.

Constable Small took the opportunity to recompose himself, anger at the joke at his expense rife on his face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the sweat from his face, but this only served to smear the remnants of a jelly donut from ear to ear.

Steele: Hahahahah, stop you’re too much.

Steele pointed at the obese man’s podgy face and began to roll around in hysterical laughter as the officer checks himself in the car’s wing mirror.

After licking the last remnants of jelly from the corner of his mouth Constable Small’s face went gravely dark. His life since joining the police force had been one of endless humiliation. It started with jealousy over every last member of his class at the academy being promoted before him, it turned into self loathing and comfort eating and culminated in countless hours of teasing at the hands of other constables. He was now hot, smelly, sweaty and pissed off with one obvious outlet for all his years of pent up rage.

Constable Small: Out of the car. NOW!

Constable Small drew his gun and levelled it directly at Steele’s head. His hand’s quivered and his heart raced at the most drastic action he had ever taken in his entire career, but he was enjoying the chance to shut up this smart ass of a man who had provoked pretty much every ounce of his considerable girth. He knew this was a massive over reaction on his behalf to Steele’s taunting but he did not care. This man had enraged him so greatly that he was willing to go to any length to see the smirk wiped from his face.

Constable Small: I said out! Put your hands behind your back!

Steele opened the door to his car and slowly stepped out of the seat. He placed his hands behind his back and grunted slightly as Constable Small snapped his cuffs around them.

Steele: Okay okay. I’ll come quietly officer, just please don’t eat me.

Steele grunted again as the impact of the constable’s considerable forearm driving the butt of his gun into skull reverberated through his head

Constable Small: You just don’t know when to stop do you. You are just making things worse for yourself. Now into the patrol car, you’re coming to the station with me.

Steele: Whatever you say constable, but should we call the fire department and ask them to bring the jaws of life so you can get into the car?

The gun smashed into Steele’s skull over and over as the constable beat him down to the ground.

Constable Small: How many times do I have to beat you down before you fucking STOP?!

Steele: I don’t know. How many times would you have to swing that gun before your fat ass shed one hundred and fifty pounds?

This strike knocked Abel to the ground, his face slamming into the pavement as his hand cuffed hands could not break the fall.

The last thing he could remember before darkness took him was the smell of constable Small’s body odour filling his nostrils and the wheezing of his lungs as the hefty man dragged Steele one inch at a time into the patrol car.


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


Gaol cells are not designed to be comfortable, in fact comfort is probably amongst the last things considered in the planning process. Nevertheless Abel was fairly convinced that he had stumbled upon the most uncomfortable cell in the US justice system.

I seem to recall thinking the very same thing the last time I was on this side of the iron bars

The floor to the cell was bare concrete, stained in several places with the blood of its countless occupants. The rear wall had a fist size hole that not only let in the freezing cold wind but also generated a droning whistle that paused long enough every now and then just to make sure you could remember what silence sounded like. The light globe flickered in and out like a firefly, shadows dancing upon the walls in a befuddling show that left the viewer feeling slightly seasick but unable to escape the display.

Well how do I get myself out of this?

The click-click of high heels approaching down the hall was offset by the thump-thump of Constable Smalls’s heavyset feet. Shortly thereafter the fat officer waddled in front of Abel’s cell.

Constable Small: Oi, smart ass get up, someone to see you.

Steele looked deliberately to the left and right the holds a hand to his eyes as if peering into the distance


Steele: Really? Are they hiding in your fat rolls?

Rap-a-rap-a-rap-a-rap

Constable Small ran his baton across the bars in what Abel could only assume was meant to be a menacing display. Unfortunately the officer’s portly appearance ruined the effect completely and Abel chuckled to himself.

Constable Small: Should I reintroduce you to the blunt end of my gun you cheeky shit?

A woman stepped into view from behind the gargantuan man. She was well dressed, incredibly attractive and her eyes flashed fire as they locked upon Abel.

Emma: That won’t be necessary constable. I will deal with this.

Constable Small: Yes ma’am.

Constable small was blatantly ogling Emma as he pulled the keys from his belt and opened the door to Abel’s cell, the rusty hinge swinging open with a screech that did nothing to appease the creepiness of the moment. For her part Emma somehow managed to blend looks or utter pity and pure disgust into one that the fat officer took as approval.

Constable Small: Do you find a man in uniform attractive?

Abel choked on nothing as he witnessed the train wreck before him. The constable looked sharply in his direction, rolls of lard wobbling at the jerky movement. He shot Abel daggers before assuming what he thought was an alluring pose and turning back to Emma.

Emma: I’d rather keep the remaining shreds of my dignity. Now if you have any shred of competence left in your hideous body get this man his belongings, we’ll be leaving now.

Constable Small: Yes ma’am.

As the obese man waddled off to collect Abel’s personal effects from the station storeroom Emma turned to look at Abel, who hadn’t yet ventured outside his cell. She looked down her perfectly shaped nose and narrowed her sky blue eyes, a small wrinkle forming in the corner of each eye only accentuated the perfection of the rest of her features.

Emma: I’m not going to stand here all day Abel. Are you coming or should I fetch constable small so that you can continue tormenting him from your cell?

Abel slowly lifted one leg and crossed it over the other in front of him before exaggeratedly stretching out each arm and resting them behind his head against grating texture of the cell’s cold hard concrete wall.

Steele: I dunno, this cell isn’t so bad. Besides last I heard you wanted us cease all contact.

Emma’s hands slid down her ruby red silk blouse and onto her suggestively tight skirt. They came to rest on her hips as she assumed a pose that every man, since Adam told Eve she might want to lay off the forbidden fruit, knew all too well. Abel returned the glare at first but eventually wilted under the unfaltering gaze.

Steele: Fine, where are we going?

Emma removed her hands from her hips but the fire did not leave her eyes. She turned and began walking out of the cell bank as she spoke, not looking back to see if Abel was following.

Emma: We’re going somewhere we can talk, or rather I can talk and you can listen.

Steele: We could have done that back at my cell.

Emma: No, it is not safe for us to speak here. You never know where they have ears.

Steele: Who has ears?

Emma paused long enough for Abel to catch up beside and looked around the empty hallway before answering.

Emma: C.R.Y.P.T.

A confused look flashed across Abel’s face as he walked.

Steele: Who?

Emma stopped dead and spun to face Abel. She spoke quickly in hushed tones, eyes darting this way and that as she watched police officers make their way through the station.

Emma: Not who, what..... Listen Abel do you have somewhere we can go and talk that is safe?

Steele: I have a place. Let me get my car from the impound and I’ll drive you there.

Emma: No time for that, I have my car parked out the front.

Steele: I kinda need my car Em.

Emma: So get it tomorrow Abel, this is important.

Abel began to draw himself up, set for an argument. Just as he was about to speak his eyes took in Emma once more and he realised that her confidence and bravado since arriving at the station was all an act. Her actions were all very slow and deliberate but beneath it she was a wreck.

Her hands were shaking, her breath was short and panicked and her eyes, while outwardly fierce had an undertone that Abel knew to be fear.

Something has her spooked.

Steele: Okay Emma, let’s go then.

Emma’s nod was for more than Abel’s agreement. She knew what he had seen in her eyes and she was acknowledging it.

What the hell is C.R.Y.P.T and what reason could Emma have to be so terrified of it?

The clip clop of Emma’s high heel shoes was the only reply to his unspoken questions as Abel followed her down the hallway and into the parking lot. He knew that the building in Plain Street where he found Tim’s body and spent the past few days observing was at the centre of it but he could not figure out why....


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


The fluorescent lights flickered a couple of times each before they came on, each flicker casting eerie shadows on the walls. As they finally settled down into a humming steady light Emma’s eyes slowly adjusted to the brightly lit scene before them.

Emma: What is this place?

Emma stepped into the room as she took in the full expanse of it.

Steele: Since you insisted I move out from next door to you I needed a place of my own.

Emma walked over to a nearby bench and picked up some blueprints that were lying under a half full can of coke. As she scanned through the contents her eyes began to widen. By the time she finished her mouth was agape and she looked at Abel with incredulity.

Emma: These plans are for some kind of a ....a fortress.

Abel stepped away from the light switch and over to the only completed section of the room. He picked up a telescopic lens digital camera and pointed it at Emma, snapping a couple of shots of her beautiful face in extreme close up.

Steele: A fortress is something designed for defending Emma... No this is more of a hideout.

Emma placed a hand on the end of the camera, her bangles jangling as she pushed it down away from her face.

Emma: What do you need a hideout for Abel?

Abel placed the camera down on the stainless steel bench top beside him, lights reflecting in his eyes as he stared unflinching at Emma.

Emma: Can we sit?

Abel dragged a couple of empty buckets over and placed them upside down on the smooth concrete floor. The nearest one groaned under his weight but it held as he motioned Emma towards the other with a grunt.

Emma: A drink..... I need a drink

Emma squirmed on her seat under a steely gaze.

Emma: I don’t even know where to start.

Steele: You could try the beginning

Emma: The beginning.... right.... well I guess it all started when I received an anonymous offer to pay Tim’s medical expenses

Abel’s head dropped into his hands as realisation sank in.

So it was all my fault

Emma: It wasn’t your fault Abel.

And I thought I was the only one inside your head...

Steele: Where the fuck have you been?

Emma: What?

Steele: Nothing sorry Emma, please go on.

Emma looked concerned as she continued on, keeping a close watch on able as she spoke.

Emma: Anyway, I agreed to a meeting and that was my first contact with C.R.Y.P.T.

Emma’s eyes welled up as she spoke. Her eyes now were not fearful, they told a story of pain.

Steele: What is C.R.Y.P.T Emma?

Emma: I don’t even know Abel. I think they are tied to the government but I have my doubts. When they started out offering to help Tim I was suspicious but they told me they were massive fans and wanted to help..... Abel I am so sorry, I thought it was the answer to my prayers.

It’s not your fault either Em

Steele: It’s not your fault either Em.

Did you just speak through me?

Did I?

Emma furrowed her brow at Abel’s face where distraction and confusion were evident.

Emma: Once they moved Tim to that “hospital” on Plain Street everything changed and they started making demands.

I see where this is going.

Steele: Demands?

Emma: It was nothing onerous to begin. Requests for information or meetings that i was expected to attend but each time was little more until.....

Emma choked back a sob as her emotions swelled. She twiddled her thumbs as she nervously continued.

Emma: I’m so sorry Abel, they told me if I didn’t do it that they would pull the plug on Tim. I was so confused and I just didn’t know what to do.

Abel reached out and placed a hand on Emma’s shoulder, rubbing her soothingly as he spoke.

Steele: Do what Emma?

Emma: I was supposed to get you to quit FMW.

You what?!?

Emma: Say something Abel...., please.

Steele: I... you.... why are you telling me this now?

Emma: After you moved out of the building they left me alone Abel. I thought it was finished..... until this morning.
When you wouldn’t stop watching that building they came back again. They had a final demand.

Emma fidgeted with her wedding ring as she spoke, the diamonds glistening in the light as it twirled on her finger.

Emma: If I can’t get you to stop watching the C.R.Y.P.T. building and out of FMW they.....

Emma cut off as sobbing overtook her.

You should have come to me Emma.

I love you Emma

Steele: I love you Emma

Would you fucking stop that!

Emma’s head sprung up in surprise as she took in Abel’s words, a look of hope on her face.

Steele: I mean I care for you deeply Emma. I will do anything for you.

Emma dried up her tears with a tissue, mascara staining her cheeks with dark lines.

Emma: Then please Abel stop pissing C.R.Y.P.T off. You never knew when to stop, niggling away until you get yourself into trouble. Well this time you need to stop.

She took both of Abel’s hands in her own and held them tightly

Emma: Please Abel. Let it go.

Abel stood up as his bucket tipped over behind him, the metal handle clinking on the hard concrete. He wandered away from Emma and paced back and forth without looking at her

Steele: Okay Emma

Emma: What?

Don’t do this Abel.

Steele: It’s over. I quit FMW as of now. You can tell them that Emma.

No, we can’t stop fighting them. Don’t give up, this is exactly what they want.

Steele: If this is what they want and if it means you are safe I will walk away and never look back.

Noooo You can’t fucking do this to me! My body is still in there.

Yes I can

Abel muted Tim’s voice to a dull buzzing in the back of his head as his friend wailed about fairness and not giving in to evil. Abel shook his head and focussed his thoughts back on Emma.

Emma: Thank you Abel. I need to go and tell them before they decide to follow through on their threats.

She stood up and walked to the door, turning back to Abel as she held it open.

Emma: I know it is not your way to sit back and do nothing when faced with adversity but you have just saved me Abel......thankyou.

Abel waved her away, hiding his disappointment as she closed the door behind her.

This is wrong and you know it.

Shut up Tim.

Abel wandered aimlessly through his half built retreat, idly picking up a hammer and rolling its smooth cold head over in his hands as his mind raced.

Go on then quit. You big fucking pansy.


That can wait. I’ll phone it in tomorrow.

Why? Afraid to admit you are a quitter? I never thought I would see the great Abel Steele walk away from a fight

There is too much at stake.

Even more reason why you shouldn’t quit.

Abel made his way to the back of the room as the argument raged on within his head. His hand slid along the solid wall, fingers feeling the bumps and hollows of bricks and mortar as they searched…..searched….and found the secret latch hidden within a false brick.

If this is the only way for Emma to be safe then I have no choice.

A section of the seemingly solid brick wall lifted up to the roof to reveal a sealed dark passageway big enough for a single man. As Abel placed his foot on the first section of floor a light on the roof above him lit up. Each step saw the light behind him fall dark and the section in front light up to reveal the tiled floor and polished stainless steel wall and roof as he made his way through the corridor.

Do you actually believe that?

Abel reached the end of the corridor and what appeared to be a solid plate of steel blocking his path. Abel made light tap on a section of wall with the toe of his well worn sand shoes, a couple of chunks of dried up mud falling free at the impact. Immediately a pin pad popped out from the wall in front of him.

Believe what?

But Tim was gone, his voice no longer filling Abel’s head as he punched in a code that opened a doorway in the end of the corridor. Stepping out into a small room with only one wooden door, Abel walked over to a computer against one wall and scanned its monitor, checking no one unexpected was on the other side of the door before he stepped through and climbed the stairs on the other side.

Brian: Where have you been?

Abel sat down behind a desk in the office of Brian Cousin’s wrestling gym. He flicked off his shoes, sending more mud on the floor and put his feet up on the desk.

Steele: I just quit FMW

Brian: You fucking what?

Steele: You heard me old man

Brian: But I can’t think why the fuck you would do that.

Steele: Emma asked me too

Brian: A fucking woman, I should have known. Last week she didn’t want to know yo and what now? Does she want you to run away with her?

The old man was up out of his chair and standing on the other side of Abel’s desk. His chest was puffed out and his wispy silver hair was billowing out wildly as he spoke with great verve.

Brian: You can’t fucking leave me. What about the gym? All those people…

Brian gestured through the glass window of the office to the refurbished gym that lay outside, a far cry from the dilapidated and empty place that Abel had stumbled into some weeks ago. Almost every piece of equipment was filled and several rings stood littered throughout the building with at least two combatants training in each.

Brian: Only fucking come here because they heard that an FMW superstar was using this place as his training base. If you fuck off so will they and then where am I?.... Fucked that’s where!

Abel sat calmly in his chair, unperturbed by Brian’s rant. He had spent enough time training with the old man in recent weeks to know that this was simply how he spoke. Abel grabbed a hold of one of his sweaty socks and pulled it free of his foot as he spoke.

Brian: And what about that fucking dungeon or whatever the fuck it is you are constructing in that warehouse basement across the street

I wish you wouldn’t speak about it out here. It’s supposed to be a bloody secret.

Steele: It’s all over Brian.

Brian stopped his rant and looked Abel in the eyes as he heard the resignation in Abel’s voice.

Steele: I had to quit to protect Emma. They were going to hurt her if I didn’t

I can’t have another life on my conscience.

Steele: If quitting made her safe I had to do it. I had no choice

Brian shook his head and furrowed his brow

Brian: There is always a choice Abel

The lack of obscenity made Abel pay attention. Brian was trying to make a point here and Abel knew what it was.

And this is my choice.

Brian: What did that fuckwit Smitten say when you quit?

Steele: I think I will call in the morning. I can’t face that arrogant shit right now. No doubt he’ll claim that I am running scared from him or something

Brian: Aren’t you?

Abel sat up in his chair and spat his words at Brian as his pent up frustration from the day’s events took hold of him

Steele: I am not running from that worm. I told you that I had to quit for Emma’s sake

Brian was unflustered at the explosion. He had trained enough tempestuous wrestlers in his days to know a tantrum when he saw one.

Brian: Yes you fucking are. You are running away scared because someone threatened you. It’s the exact same fucking thing. If you run away scared from one then every man who thinks he can fucking hold something over you will chase you away for the rest of your shitty life.[/i]

Abel slammed his hands down on the desk in rage. He stood up and pointed, each point digging his finger into the bony chest of the old man before him as he spoke.

Steele: Shut the fuck up old man, you don’t know anything. Emma was being threatened and I can’t pay that price.

I won’t.

Abel ran his hands through his hair, quivering with rage as he massaged his scalp.

Steele: It’s over. I quit and Emma s safe.

Brian: Is it over. If they threaten her again will you roll over and give them what they want?

Abel slumped as the fight went out of him

It’s over…...

Abel pushed the soft leather chair in under the desk behind him. It knocked up against the desk with a thump as he turned and made his way to the corner of the gym he had converted into an apartment.

Steele: Emma is safe Brian. She is safe and I am going to lie down.

Brian shook his head at Abel as he pushed past the old man. Abel refused to look him in the eye as the bumped, knowing full well the look of disappointment that would be in his trainer’s eyes.


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


Brian: Abel…. Abel get up.

Brian shook Abel in his sleep, each shake interrupting his raucous snoring. After a few seconds Brian’s shaking became more vigorous.

Brian: C’mon you slack shit. Get the fuck up!

Slowly Abel’s eyes widened as the blazing light of the gymnasium apartment flooded in, causing him to squint up at Brian between his sandy eyelids.

Brian: Abel there’s some fucking…. I mean you better come out here.

Steele: Huh? Who? Tell them to come back later.

Brian looked away from the Abel, doing his best to study the wall beside him. If Abel didn’t know the old man better he would have sworn that he was choking back tears.

Steele: What is it Brian?

Brian: Just get up alright.

Abel sat up on his bed, roused to compete alertness by the oddity of his friend’s demeanour. He quickly pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a singlet as he followed Brian, who shuffled his way out of the room towards the office. When they got there Abel’s world crashed.

Brian: I’m so sorry Abel…..

In the office were two police officers. One was holding a backpack full of clothes and box filled with toys. The second was sitting at Abel’s desk playing noughts and crosses with a small boy. As Abel approached a solemn and grave expression appeared on the face of the standing officer.

Steele: No…..no…..nooooooooooooo!!

What are you wailing abou……oh no. Fuck me no!

Abel stumbled into the nearest wall, Brian reaching out a spindly arm to support him as his young protégé wept openly.

Officer 1: Mr Steele?

Abel could not muster a response. He already knew what the officer was going to tell him and it was all he could do not to run away. Brian nodded to the officer on Abel’s behalf as the young detective continued.

Officer 1: Mr Steele I am afraid there has been an accident.

Abel felt the world closing in on him, the walls suddenly felt extremely close and the air seemed thin. As he choked for oxygen he looked into the room and saw T.J. looking at his hero broken on the floor.

I can’t let T.J. see me like this. Not now.

Abel gathered himself and stood up straight. He pushed emotion down into a flame in his mind and burned them all away until only calmness remained. Abel signalled to the officer to step outside of the office away from T.J.

Steele: Emma……How?

Officer 1: We found her drowned in her bathtub. It looks like suicide

She was supposed to be safe.

You were supposed to be fucking protecting her!

Officer 1: You are listed as the boy’s guardian in her will. Will you take him?

I was trying to protect her.

You fucking quit!

Abel nodded dumbly at the officer who signalled to his counterpart to bring T.J. over

I had no choice.

There’s always a choice.

Officer 1: Hey buddy…you’re gonna stay here with Mr Steele for a while ok.

T.J. nodded acknowledgment but remained silent

I’m so sorry T.J..

You should be… You fucking killed her..

Forgive me Emma!

Officer 1: Someone will bring the rest of his things in the morning.

Abel nodded at the officer who turned and left with his partner. After they went Brian came over and placed a hand on Abel’s shoulder, clasping down strongly in a show of support.

Brian: Hey T.J. buddy, why7 don’t you come with me and we’ll make a hot chocolate ok?

T.J. didn’t reply but he took Brian’s hand and followed him off to the kitchen as Abel sank down to the floor where he stood. His body thumped down as his strength deserted him.

She was supposed to be safe!

I told you we shouldn’t quit. People like this don’t stop because you do. They will take everything without remorse.

I only wanted to protect Emma

And by submitting to them her usefulness expired. They only kept her alive as a tool to use against you.

No

Evil men don’t abide by the terms we set Abel. They hold a grudge for reasons that only make sense to them. When you gave into them they won the game Abel and Emma paid the price.

It should have fucking been me. I wish I was dead.

That won’t help Emma now.

So what then?

Only two things matter now.... looking after T.J. and…revenge.

Revenge? Against C.R.Y.P.T….yes

And anyone else who threatens the innocent. They are all the same Abel and we owe it to Emma.

If I begin hassling C.R.Y.P.T again you know who they will threaten next….

Abel looked over to the gymnasium kitchen where Brian was handing T.J. some marshmallows to melt in his hot chocolate

So we don’t just hassle them. We strike them fucking hard and we strike them often. Let’s see how these fucks react when they are the ones being threatened!


Abel sat, rocking back and forth on the hard gymnasium floor as he contemplated his revenge. Tonight he would weep for Emma, tomorrow he would be strong for T.J., but tomorrow night and every night for as long as it takes Abel would be going to war.

Family

The History

Daniel “Syanide” Lincoln is a father, to eleven-year-old Joseph Lincoln and a husband, to Jane Lincoln (née Brown). Jane, a former police officer from Venice Beach felll pregnant with her now son, Joseph after being viciously attacked and raped by Lincoln in the comfort and safety of her own home. Jane, only seventeen at the time and living with her father, legendary police officer Detective Jim Brown, managed to keep Joseph a secret from Daniel for nearly ten years until daddy came a knocking and whisked them both away, against their will, to the charming surroundings of Harlequin’s Theatre where they lived “happily” for about a year until just prior to No Holds Barred II.

The Fire

The flames seemed to spring up and like to dark dessert sky, the screaming had stopped now and the only noise to be heard was cracking and splitting of wood. His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, breathing in the smoke from the all-consuming blaze that had quickly overcome and utterly engulfed the small hut. He thought that he could almost taste the sweet aroma of death entwined within the smoke. A sick unnatural smile broke across his battle hardened face as his eyes lit up taking in the inferno.


The table was rectangular and oak, it was old, it could’ve done with a sanding down and a fresh coat of varnish but even then it wouldn’t have been “clean”. It hadn’t been hard to find, actually it was too easy for his liking. He was looking forward to the hunt and couldn’t deny that he was a little bit disappointed to find it in the same place he’d last laid eyes on it eleven years ago. Two glass tumblers sat on either end of the table filled with a healthy measure of whiskey. The atmosphere in the room was dark and heavy, the air seemed too thick, too wrong.

“Sorry about the decor, if I knew I was expecting guest I would have asked my wife to clean up.”

A single grimy lightbulb hung above the table casting scant light on the two men who sat on either end. The man closest to the door picked up his glass and brought it momentarily to his lips before seemingly changing his mind. He laughed quietly to himself before placing the glass down again.

Daniel Lincoln’s eyes glinted in the yellow light, the beginnings of a crooked smile appearing on his face.

“I have to say I was shocked when I heard, I thought that she was just fucking with me. Trying to push me over the edge so I’d slit the cunt’s throat and end her suffering...”

Syanide raised his hand and whipped away the spittle that had collected on his mouth.

“Sorry about that, I get a little bit excited discussing such things.”

The Chair

“You look so beautiful...”

Deep down in her subconscious Jane knew that she was once beautiful but not now. Her skin was pale and looked as fragile as eggshells, her hair was matted, filthy and dead. Weeks upon weeks of little or no sleep had left with immovable dark bags under her eyes. All this coupled with her newly acquired broken nose made her almost unrecognisable from the former high school cheerleader she once was. She had reached her breaking point, she thought back to a few months ago when she stood upstairs in the theatre with the gun in her hands, her tormenter in her sights, one shot to free herself and her son from this nightmare...

But she missed...

She missed...

Everyday she thought about that moment over and over again until she had relived it in her mind a thousand times.

Though, when she relived it she didn’t miss, she didn’t shoot him either. She simply turned the gun on herself and ended her own suffering.

Every time she pulled that trigger a single thought sprung to mind, Joseph. She had not seen her son in weeks, but she had heard him, laughing as he ran through the maze of corridors inside this prison of a building. He laughed as he played with The Clown, as he showed her young son dark tricks and techniques that would turn your blood cold. Sometimes, like now, in some dark corner of her mind, where logic was twisted and objectivity skewed, she was strangely happy for him. He was happy...

Suddenly the reality dawned on her and the primal insincts of a mother kicked in. She screamed, only to find it muffled by the silver packing tape pulled tightly across her mouth. She went to pull it off, only to find her hands bound tightly behind the chair in which she sat.

This was her life, her prison...

She lifted her tear-filled eyes and looked into the masked face of her “husband”. She was a broken women, it had to end soon. Her eyes pleaded with the monster in front of her but he did nothing but bend down and roughly rip away the tape from her mouth.


His eyes were grey and dead behind the mask.


He leaned his head in closer to her, she could her his breathing muffled by the mask, it was heavy.... excited.

“Kill you? Why would I kill you? Despite what you may think, you do have your uses...”

He grabbed her roughly between the legs, his breathing becoming instantly heavier.

“Besides...”

His mouth was next to her ear, his whispers menacing.

“...you’re the mother of my little boy. Everybody needs to have a mommy...”

Her next words betrayed a promise to herself that she had made what felt like a lifetime ago.


Syanide jerked back into a standing position, she could see his shinewiny muscle tense but almost immediately relax again.

“HA! You think I’m that easy to manipulate? You think that you can just say something like that and, BOOM, it’ll over. I’m not that FUCKING stupid...”

Daniel Lincoln turned towards to the door of the small cramped room but paused with his hand on the door handle. He lifted his hand and pushed his fingers in under the lip of the skull mask and pulled it off, throwing it to the floor.

“Ah fuck it, I’m curious...”

He turned to face her, the dead look in his eyes amplified now that she could once again see the rest of his face.

“If I’m not the little cunt’s father, then who is?”

Tears streamed down the face of the old man at the other end of the table. His leathery face contorted in pain as the monster across from him’s words cut him deeply.

“So Harley knows some people who know a few things so it didn’t take long for us to get a few test done and what do you know...THE KID’S NOT FUCKING MINE IS HE!”

Rages burned in the dead eye’s of the former Television Champion.

“If you haven’t realised already, I’m a curious little fuck so I did a little digging then I got a few guys to do a lot of fucking digging. Psyche reports, medical records blah blah FUCKING BLAH! Suddenly it all makes sense, just imagine the headlines...

HERO COP RAPES DAUGHTER, DAUGHTER PREGNANT

...your own fucking daughter, you sick fuck Detective. Sure, I know what it’s like your wife leaves, you have a few drinks, next thing you know YOU’RE STICKING IT TO YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD! I can’t really blame you, she’s a cute fucking cunt I’ll give you that.”

Detective Jim Brown’s anguished sobs were muffled by the tape covering his mouth. He hung his head as pain of it all sent tremors through his body.

“I bet you couldn’t believe your luck, you’re daughter’s pregnant with your kid when she’s assaulted and raped by some skinhead trying to get back at you and what do you know, didn’t the motherfucking rapist impregnate your baby girl.... the monster.”

Syanide took his glass and through back the amber liquid with a satisfied groan.


A bolt of shock rippled through Detective Brown’s body and he sat straight up in his chair, his eyes wide with confusion and his hands straining against their bounds.


Syanide pushed his chair back with a screech and got to his feet. He inhaled deeply through his nose as a faint unnatural smile spread across his face.


He prowled down to the other side of the room until he stood behind his guest.

“And here’s where you come in Detective, I’ve been to prison as you know, I didn’t enjoy it much and have no desire to go back. So I think that it’s only fair that you take some responsibility for your actions and as a favour to me take the rap. You see a friend of mine has put me in touch with this amazing “company” who can make my dreams come through. They’ve made it look like you had Jane and Joseph locked up in the shack for months, that you’ve been planning this for YEARS! They are just unbelievable...”

A rope slipped around the neck of the Detective as wheeped softly to himself.

“Pity you won’t be around to hear about it...”

The Boy

The boy sat with his arms behind his back as he father tested his bounds.


A deep permanent scowl was set deeply on the face of Daniel Lincoln as he walked around the face the boy. He always though the boy had his eyes but now that he studied them closely he saw no resemblance, they were the eyes of a stranger.


The boy looked up at his father, his icy blue eyes wide in admiration.


The boys eyes wandered over to the door way leading into the back room, a soft muffled weeping could be heard faintly.

“Your mother...”

The boy frowned in confusion.


Syanide busied himself checking all the windows in the small two room shack.


Syanide turned to face the boy again, anger dilating his pupils and excitement quickening his breathing.

“Listen kid, I’m not your fucking daddy...”

Roughly Daniel Lincoln placed a section of thick tape over the boys mouth and headed for the door.

“Have a nice life...”

He pulled the door open and stepped outside stopping only to throw a single lit match atop to pile of oiled
rags inside the door.

The Return

My name is Daniel “Syanide” Lincoln. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife – and I couldn’t be happier. Leon, you hurt me but hurting me isn’t the same as hurting other people. When you hurt me, you help me. You help me feel something. You see Leon, the only time that I feel alive; that I feel connected to this world is when I’m in pain. Pain is my life, pain is my gospel and like with any gospel I take great please in spreading the good word. You stand between me and a glorious return to Full Metal Wrestling; you stand between my destiny and me. I cannot let you get in the way. When I am finished with you and you lay there a broken and beaten man, you should know that it’s not your fault Leon, it is not your fault that you are inferior to me, it’s not your fault that our paths have crossed, it’s just bad fucking luck. For I am..

The Aryan Fighting Machine

The Walking Hate Crime

The Messiah of Hate

The Miracle

The Cancer

The Alpha

The Omega

The Sick Sadistic Skinhead

Syanide

The Kombatants for Metal Kombat arrange themselves at Jaro Kahn’s palace in the Outworld. Jaro Kahn sits on his throne and welcomes his guests.

Jaro Kahn: Welcome to the Metal Kombat Tournament. Here you shall fight one another to the death, for the fate of your World depends on it. (obligatory evil laughter)

There is some unrest among the Earth Warriors

Drew Kang: Fear not fellow Earth Warriors, we have been chosen to defend the Earth Realm from Jaro Kahn’s forces of evil and we will not fail.

Johnny Celt: I have a bad feeling about this…

Jaro Kahn: Behold! The tournament schedule!









Jaro Kahn: Any questions?

Johnny Celt: (raises hand) Yeah, hi. Johnny Celt, first-timer. Uhhh with all due respect oh Emperor of the Outworld, it kinda looks like you have me fighting everyone.

Jaro Kahn: Indeed.

Johnny Celt: One by one…

Jaro Kahn: It does look like that, yes.

Johnny Celt: And how am I going to go about fighting myself?

Jaro Kahn: Mirror match. Duh.

Johnny Celt: Yeah, it’s just that… well, that’s not really how a tournament works.

There is murmuring amongst the Kombatants

Jaro Kahn: EXCUSE ME!

Johnny Celt: Well there’s supposed to be brackets. This is just me fighting one guy after another.

Jaro Kahn: What’s your point?

Johnny Celt: Well, for example, Faith is up in Round 5. So… what is she doing before then?

Jaro Kahn: She waits, I suppose.

Johnny Celt: So Faith gets a four round bye?

Jaro Kahn: If you want to call it that, yeah.

Johnny Celt: Okay, this isn’t fair or logical. What happens if I lose?

Jaro Kahn: Well then I suppose everyone wins, right?

There is more murmuring among the Kombatants, all of whom seem to be nodding in agreement with Jaro Kahn

Smitten Zero: Absolutely.

Eric Scorpion: That sounds pretty fair and logical to me.

Johnny Celt: You’re KIDDING me, right!? What retard organized this?

Jaro Kahn: Whoawhoawhoawhoawhoa. Whoa. Whoa. …… Whoa. We do not use the “r” word in front of Goromeo.

Goromeo:

Johnny Celt: What “r” word? Retard?

Jaro Kahn: Goromeo worked really hard on that tournament schedule. Didn’t you, Goromeo?

Goromeo: I make good schedule?

Jaro Kahn: Yes you did. Almost as good as your scoreboards.

Goromeo: I has relevant now?




Goromeo:

Drew Kang: Do not fret Johnny, I believe in your skills. Like your “shadow kick”.

Johnny Celt: My SHADOW KICK!? This guy over here shoots spears from his palms!

Eric Scorpion: (firing a spear, yelling) I REQUEST THAT YOU TRAVERSE TO WHERE I CURRENTLY AM PRESENT!

For some inexplicable reason, a middle aged man appears in the bottom right hand corner of the screen.

Some guy: TOASTY!

Johnny Celt: What was that?

Jaro Kahn: What was what?

Johnny Celt: You didn’t just see that?

Jaro Kahn: I didn’t just see what?

Johnny Celt: Seriously, what the fuck was the point of that?

Jaro Kahn: Why is the grass green? Why is the sky blue? STOP ASKING QUESTIONS! Some things in life just cannot be explained. Now let’s begin, Smitten Zero is getting antsy.

Smitten Zero creates an ice sculpture of Johnny Celt, and then proceeds to kick its head off

Johnny Celt: JESUS CHRIST! Did anyone see that? He’s not allowed to do that during the fight, is he? That’s gotta be some sort of disqualification!

Drew Kang: Oh don’t worry about Smitten Zero. You’re not fighting him until Round 4.

Johnny Celt: Aren’t you fighting too?

Drew Kang: Oh… well… yeah. I thought I’d double our chances.

Johnny Celt: Not cool.

Drew Kang: To be honest, I pretty much just hate everybody. Good, bad, doesn’t matter. I figure if I just ramble for long enough about how greedy and unrighteous everyone else is, maybe people will forget that I’m a pretentious bible-thumping douchebag that’s hell bent on winning every championship and don’t care who I have to step on to do it.

Johnny Celt: C’mon man. Whatever happened to fighting for the greater good?

Drew Kang: Shut your trap before I flying bicycle kick at you.

RCAiden: Johnny, I’m afraid you must face me as well.

Johnny Celt: You too, RCAiden?

RCAiden: Sorry. I just really want to win. If I lose, I’ll never stop bitching.

Johnny Celt: You’re turning your back on me?

RCAiden: Quit whining. That’s my gimmick.

Johnny Celt: You mean to tell me I have to fight every single person in this death tournament, including the immortal wizard God who brought me here?

RCAiden: (shrugs)

Grayden: (appearing from nowhere) You know, my name works a lot better with Raiden. Gray + Raiden = Grayden?

Jaro Kahn: Who the hell are you?

Gray: I’m Gray, newest Drew minion.

Jaro Kahn: Yeah right. If you think you’re making it into this promo you’re sadly mistaken.

Gray: But I already have?

Jaro Kahn: FINISH HIM!

Gray: Huh?

Goromeo grabs Gray with his bottom two arms and clasps him tight before pummeling madly on his head with his top two arms. The force causes Gray’s brains to be shot down through his body and out his anus.

Jaro Kahn: FATALITY!

Johnny Celt: *gulp*

Jaro Kahn: Ah yes, forgot about you for a minute there. Was almost going to just call off the whole tournament, but fortunately for everyone you made such an audible gulp. Johnny, Kano… take your positions.

Johnny Celt lines up against Mass KANO

Johnny Celt: I feel like I know how this is going to end.

Jaro Kahn: Probably because you've seen it on collegehumor.

Johnny Celt: I knew this felt familiar.

Jaro Kahn: ROUND 1. FIGHT!

MASS Kano throws a lance through Johnny Celt’s stomach, resulting in a profuse amount of blood pouring from his torso

Jaro Kahn: FLAWLESS VICTORY.

MASS Kano transforms into a lion and devours what’s left of the flesh and entrails of Johnny Celt

Jaro Kahn: ANIMALITY!

Drew Kang: Well that went about as well as I was expecting.

Jaro Kahn performs a ritual over the pile of muscle and bone that was once Johnny Celt. He raises his arms and looks up towards the sky.

Jaro Kahn: Johnny Celt… YOUR SOUL… IS MINE!

The soul of Johnny Celt rises from the corpse and is sucked through the eye of Jaro Kahn

Jaro Kahn: I’ve always wanted to say that in a promo. “YOUR SOUL… IS MINE!”. Just sounds really epic, you know? I’ve been doing all these dark, creepy short story promos and you’d think there would have been an opportunity to bust out that line in one of those without it sounding too campy? But no. Needed a Mortal Kombat parody to pull it off. P.S. Sucking souls through your eye. Totally don’t recommend it. I think I dislodged my contact.

Eric Scorpion: Well, what do we do now?

Jaro Kahn: Hmm. I’ve consumed the soul of the original FMW newbie… what else is there to do? As per our agreement, I am allowed one request if I should defeat him.

Smitten Zero: What are you asking for?

Jaro Kahn: I’m leaning towards taking his first born child.

Eric Scorpion: For what purpose?

Jaro Kahn: This one:







Jaro Kahn: LOLOLOL. JARO KAHN HAS A BANHAMMER!

Smitten Zero: Very appropriate manipulation of game sprites.

Jaro Kahn: Thank you.

Smitten Zero: Hmmm. How about you find a brand new newbie’s hopes and dreams to crush?

Jaro Kahn: Fantastic. Which unproven FMW superstar shall I feud with next? How about TJ Tilli? That could be a good side-splitter.

Eric Scorpion: OH! OH! We could call him Newb Saibot!

Jaro Kahn: Brilliant! Let’s get to work on that promo right away!




AND AS IT WERE…

THIS WILL BE CONTINUED!

Skyler Striker: Wait a minute, you mean to tell me that even though there’s a goddamn character in Mortal Kombat named Stryker for god sakes… you still couldn’t fit me in this parody?

Jaro: My bad.

Skyler Striker: What the fuck is your problem with me man?

Jaro: I just don’t like you really.

Skyler Striker: But we’ve never had any formal interaction. Never even been on the same show before. I mean maybe our paths have crossed a little with the Original Sin vs. Resistance thing…

Jaro: You just answered your own question then.

Skyler Striker: C’mon man, I’m begging you next time you gotta put me in one of these parodies.

Jaro: No.

Skyler Striker: Why not?

Jaro: I’d like to get a promo score above 7.0. Sorry bud, you’re just boring. What would your lines be? “Hi, I’m Skyler Striker. I’ve got a kid. I do the right things because good things happen to good people”. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Skyler Striker: I’ve got more character depth than that.

Jaro: I bet you do. But I’ve made a commitment to TJ Tilli now… you’re gonna have to wait.

Skyler Striker: But…

Jaro: NO FURTHER QUESTIONS!

“Where there are days, there are nights … Where there are joys, there are sorrows … And where there are scars, there are tortured souls!”

The whistle of the wind is the only sound that greats us. The moon casting it’s eerie glow through the trees our only light. Suddenly, the blade of a knife flashes into view, it’s tip covered in blood. The camera turns to see who’s holding the knife. In the eerie glow of the moon appears the face of a smiling Christian Moore, a thin trail of blood running down his right cheek. Christian holds the knife up and gazes at the blade, watching his own blood slowly drip down towards his hand.

"Blood is such a wonderful thing, don’t you think? It’s amazing to think that something so innocent looking can be so important to all of us. It’s amazing that just one tiny drop of blood can tell us so much about ourselves, whether we‘re black or white, male or female, or even if we are ill … and yet we never really understand how much it can show us about the type of person we are."

Christian wipes the blade of the knife on his shirt and slides it into a pouch strapped to his wrist.

"I detect that you don’t believe me. Allow me to explain, and I’ll use my opponents as my test subjects."

Christian looks up through the trees as if trying to find the right words. The moonlight glinting off the blood on his face. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a photo.

"Let’s start with the man simply known as B.U.G. The man who’s genetics haven’t exactly been the kindest in the world to him. What’s impressive about B.U.G is that he was once a man who couldn’t talk and yet somehow managed to become an actor … although it’s a pity he did because if he still couldn’t talk we would’ve all been saved from his incoherent ramblings."

Christian looks back down and looks at the photo, which we now see is of B.U.G., with a snigger.

"Sorry. Sure he’s an intense, powerful brawler in the ring, but if he doesn’t get the job done during his matches, what’s the point of all that power?"

Christian looks at his hands, scars covering the backs of them.

"But what does that have to do with his blood? Simple, his blood has made his body powerful, but it’s made his mind weak to the glory he desires. No matter how much he yearns for the love of the fans, he knows deep down in his blood that he doesn’t deserve it because his mind is too weak to allow him to do whatever it takes to win and become accepted."

Christian tears the photo of B.U.G. into tiny pieces and throws them in the air, the wind catching them and scattering them around in the air. Christian watches them dancing in the wind before reaching into his pocket and pulling out another photo.

"Then we come to this man … Bryce Thorn. The man who was blackballed from the movie business. Why? Who knows. There are rumours of him only ‘performing’ in his much more famous co-stars trailers … There are rumours of him begging a certain Governor for a taste of his ‘massive strudel’ … And there are rumours of many beautiful actresses turning him down because “they’ve never known a guy with such a huge ego and yet have absolutely nothing to brag about” … But only he knows of they are true or not and I’m sure he will never tell us."

Christian chuckles slightly to himself and shakes his head..

"Ok, I’m sorry. I just had to get those out of my system."

Christian looks at the photo in his hand and quietly stares at if for a few moments.

"His blood has made him technical and fast, but that’s by his own opinion. We don’t know that for certain because he has yet to step in the ring and prove himself."

Christian tilts his head to one side.

"Why has it taken him so long? He says it’s because he has been training … but what if that isn’t the reason? What if deep down in his blood and bones, he is fearful? What if, in his blood, he has always been fearful of what may happen to him?"

Christian starts to slyly smile.

"But then again he should be fearful, because no matter how big and brave he thinks he is … I know better because it’s written in his blood how scared he really is."

In the blink of an eye Christian pulls his knife back out from by his wrist, and begins to slash across the photo of Bryce. Pieces of the photo begins to fall to the ground at Christian’s feet. Christian chuckles as he looks down at the shredded photo of Bryce.

"I wonder if that is going to be a premonition of what is going to happen to Bryce during his time here in FMW … I sure hope so!"

Christian’s laughter is soon halted by a strong gust of wind that seems to snap him out of his maniacal trance. Christian stops and listens to the wind as if hearing a voice talking to him. Christian slumps his shoulders and sighs.

"Ok, alright, I’ll get on with it. You know you used to be a lot more fun when you didn’t nag all the time."

The wind howls loudly as if answering him, blowing against him, forcing him to put his arms across his chest.

"Alright! Geez! Sorry! Now can I please get on with this? This is supposed to be serious!"

The wind begins to settle allowing Christian to once again go into his shirt pocket and pull out a photo. Christian goes to run his knife across the photo when he suddenly stops.

"This kid intrigues me. He’s been through a lot in his short time on this Earth and it seems that has made his blood grow stronger … and that intrigues me greatly."

Christian begins to flick at the edge of the photo with the tip of his knife.

"The kid’s been in other groups before and doesn’t show fear or intimidation … that’s why this little ball of energy has caught my attention. He’s different from B.U.G. and Bryce. He deserves his skills, he deserves his confidence … but he chooses not to use it. Why? Why does he choose to be so … quiet?"

Christian stops flicking the photo and turns it over in between his fingers a few times.

"Maybe he’s trying to lull everyone into a false sense of security? Maybe in San Antonio he’s going to show his true colours? … All I know is, I’m gonna have to keep an eye on this kid, he could come in useful as a tag partner somewhere down the line."

Christian nods to himself and puts the photo back in his pocket.

"Well I think those examples prove my point. If you look close enough at what a person says or does you’ll see exactly what has made them that way."

Christian pauses for a few seconds as the wind whips around him again.

"I’m not being very clear, am I? Ok, look, in this world only two things are certain … We have blood and we die, right? Well it’s what we all have in our blood that affects how we feel about death. Let me try and explain this, some people are ready for death because it’s built into who they are that there is nothing they can do to stop the inevitable from happening … They are accepters, a very rare type of person."

Christian clears his this throat as the wind gently whistles around him.

"Then there are cheaters. They are the ones who either spend every penny that they have to try every available medicine to keep themselves alive or they never expose themselves to any sort of dangerous situations … and if they do find themselves in a potentially dangerous situation they try to hide away from it or make someone else do it for them. They are definitely the most common type of people because their blood makes them fearful of the unknown."

Christian stops again. This time he brings his knife up towards his face. He stares intently at it for a few minutes as the wind whirls around him, whipping his hair around his face giving him an almost demented look.

"And then there are people like me. The ones who can see how fearful people really are and want to rid them of the blood that holds their fears, sorrows, insecurities and pains. We’re not takers, oh no. We’re bringers. Bringers of peace … bringers of light … Bringers of DEATH!"

Christian turns and faces the camera. An eerie calm crosses his face.

"So when all of you fearful people realise how weak and scared your blood has made you and you decide you don’t wanna live like that anymore … Come find me, I’ll quite happily drain you of your blood and rid you of your problems."

Christian smiles a twisted smile.

"Hell I’ll do it for you even if you don’t want me to. Hahaha!"

Christian walks away into the night, but his voice still stays.

"I might even bottle it all up and sell it to that Alistair Wolfe guy. I’d make a fortune out of that bloodsucking …"

Christian’s voice finally fades into the whistle of the wind as the scene fades to nothing.




OOC: I know it seems a little all over the place but it's like that to show how screwed up in the head he is. More will be revealed with each passing promo.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I would like to thank you for this amazing opportunity to present to you my theory. It has been the goal of my years of research, questioning, thinking and, at times, praying, that I would be able to come to a solid conclusion. A solid conclusion I have indeed come to, although the irony in its solidity will become apparent.

Rollercoasters, ladies and gentlemen. Rollercoasters ascend to the highest heights and then dive into the lowest lows. Up and down, a cycle, a never-ending cycle. Not every ascension is to the peak, and not every descent is to the deepest trench. But these climbs and falls are not of concern tonight.

Some of you, when you were but children, will have had the chance to sit on a rollercoaster. You would know the typical pattern. The ride begins with a number of smaller hills and perhaps a loop-de-loop. They get your adrenalin flowing, moving. Then the climbs and their respective falls become bigger. The higher you rise, the higher you fall. The principle of ‘what goes up must come down’.

The highest ascent of the ride is terrifying to most passengers save those who live off adrenalin. Normal people will be thrilled by the fall once it is over, some will be scared even after exiting the ride. Some rides prolong the time at the highest peaks so as to add suspense and shock.

The rollercoaster theory can be applied to human life, my dear audience. This is the principle of the world, that people rise and fall, and the bigger the rise, the bigger the fall. Those who stay at the top too long, however, suffer from shock, an inability to cope with being down once one has been up. The methods they use to cope are often dangerous. They try to ascend again, although usually not to the same effect.

The research shows it. I have analysed lives – human lives – for years now. Experience has taught me that a karma-like balance does, in fact, exist on this earth. There are exceptions, as in everything, but I have many interesting case studies which show how people react to the rollercoaster effect. Several subjects preferred never to risk, never to get on the ride at all. Those who rose and fell quickly coped rather well. However, those who remained there too long... it was not the fall back down that hurt them the most.

What destroyed them from inside was their attempt to climb back up.”

A silent wind blows through the backstage halls. It is too early for anyone to be inside the arena, but two notable figures stand, facing each other, one with upright posture and a fearless attitude, the other a broken man.

“I’ll crush you, Romeo. I swear it.”

“The only things liable to be crushed here are your Abandoned Title reign and the bones in your wrist. I have nothing to fear from the likes of you.”

“I won’t... I won’t lose.”

“Ironic last words, Striker.”

Sparring with Leon hurt Striker more every day. Maybe it was the resurgence of wounds he had when he was younger, maybe it was just the wrist, but either way Striker didn’t think he could keep this up for much longer. The doctors had prescribed him far more pain meds than he had ever had before.

Skyler: AHH!

They still weren’t enough.

Leon floored Striker with a hip toss and typically, Striker’s arm would land first. Pain shoots through every last one of his nerves and he almost loses consciousness as it hits him. Leon rushes to his tag partner’s side and helps him sit against the ring ropes, passing him a bottle of water. The cool water runs down his throat, a momentary gentle relief from the biting pains in his left arm, but H20 alone is not enough to heal him and the throbbing returns within seconds.

Leon: Dude, I’m so sorry. Are you alright? I told you we shouldn’t have been sparring with you in this condition!

Skyler: I’m... I’m fine, just let me-

Leon: Bull. You’re not fine at all.

Skyler: I- I am, just give me another shot, I can-

Leon: Dude, we need to get you to a hospital... I think your wrist is broken.

Striker heard this and panicked. Leon wouldn’t really take him there, would he? He couldn’t afford to leave, not now, not with everything ahead of him.

Skyler: Look, my bottle of pills is in the bag, just grab me one and I’ll be better in a few secs.

Leon: Mate, this training session is over. I’m taking you to the hospital, NOW.

Skyler: No, you can’t, you CAN’T, get it? You need to listen to me, Leon, I can’t go to the hospital. If they scan me and find out I’ve got a broken wrist, they’ll tell me I can’t wrestle, and that’s NOT acceptable, do you understand? You know what kind of a match I’m in, Leon? Pandora’s Box. If I win, I’m one step away from a World Championship match, and I’m the ONLY one who’s beaten TyranT, which means I have the best chance of defeating him! I-

Leon has been walking towards Striker as he speaks, but Striker failed to see the quick right hand to the jaw that Leon threw at him, knocking him to the ground, unconscious.





It would be a while before Striker woke up again, and the moment he did, the superstar looked around. White everywhere – no, white wasn’t good, damnit! The nurse closest to Striker was an arm’s reach away, he grabbed her and turned her around-

Leah: Sky! You’re awake!

Striker blinked a few times. The white wasn’t actually white, it was simply the beige walls of the Striker household back in Australia. Leon – had Leon brought him back here? Skyler couldn’t really tell, but regardless, he hadn’t been in hospital as far as he knew, which was a good thing. An X-ray was an unacceptable event.

Skyler: What... what’s the time? The, uh... day?

Leah: It’s Friday, Sky. Friday afternoon. Leon left about ten minutes ago, but Jade will text him to let him know you’re alright. Now lie back, you’ll strain yourself otherwise. I’ll grab you a glass of water.

Skyler laid back, but his eyes remained focused on Leah as she left the room. His wife looked beautiful, a picture of perfection despite her disability. Leah was slender, unable to exercise enough to build up too much muscle, but she was not even close to being a stick. She had chocolate brown hair that was just beyond shoulder length, left untied. Her hands were slender, and Striker was well versed in their soft touch. She dressed modestly, although Skyler could not have thought she was any more beautiful than she already was. He considered himself lucky very often, and her blindness had never caused Striker to love her any less.

Indeed, right now Striker was grateful for her lack of sight. He wasn’t sure what kind of a state he was in himself. Leon’s blow had come back to him and Striker gently rubbed his fingers over his left cheekbone. Looking at his fingers, he looked at his own dried blood. The double champion turned his head, ashamed that he had forced Leon’s hand in such a way. He understood his partner had only wanted to get Striker to a safe place.

After all, in the state he had been in, it was not as if Striker would have been willing to negotiate the terms of a hospital visit. The pain meds were taking their toll on him, especially as he took more and more. They weren’t hard to get, albeit the government’s close watch on the prescription market, and Striker had found himself taking more every time just to quell the pain. It would begin in his wrist but would often shoot straight up his arm and across his left shoulder and chest.

For now, Striker’s wrist felt fine. He exercised his fingers under the blanket, but felt something else there – what was – no, his arm... wrapped?

Striker tore back the blanket that covered him, sitting up. His eyes, at first a curious blue, narrowed as he turned to look for the culprit. Striker’s left arm was bandaged, wrapped in a white sling. He breathed deeply and looked down – how had he not noticed it before? And who had taken him to the hospital in the first place? Was it Leon or Leah? Striker stood up from the bed, shaking his arm from his sling. The bandage hung from his neck but that was of little concern as the debilitating pain rose again, forcing Striker to grab his left arm with his right, clenching it so tightly that one of his nails drew blood. His scream of agony echoed through the house walls, and he immediately regretted it – now Leah would now he’d discovered the bandage.

Leah rushed into the room only seconds later, a glass of water in her hands, but she set it down on the bedside table and felt around for Skyler, lifting his arm back into the sling.

Leah: Sky, honey, look, I’m sorry, the doctors said-

Skyler: Yeah? The doctors said, huh? What’d they say? I can’t wrestle? Did you ask them that?

Leah’s eyes could not betray her emotions, but a brief moment of hesitation was enough for Striker to realise the implications of the sling. That one, stupid piece of white fabric meant that he’d already been X-rayed, and it meant the doctors had already issued their orders to Leah – to put Striker into bed, keep him rested, and make sure he didn’t undertake any strenuous activity.

Skyler: What did they say, Leah?

Striker’s one good hand found the front of Leah’s shirt and grasped it tightly, a sudden and unexpected move for the calm and usually gentle Skyler.

Leah: I- I don’t, I-

Skyler: TELL ME WHAT THEY SAID!

Leah’s voice became more timid as she struggled to get the words out, although in her mind it was obvious that this was not the same Skyler she knew, not the one she had fallen in love with. Her Skyler would never have raised his voice like that, nor would he ever have grabbed her so physically. Something else was changing him, something beyond just the sling on his arm.

Leah: They, uh... they said that you won’t be able to wrestle for... for two months.

Skyler: Damnit.

Leah: I’m so sorry, Sky, I only-

Skyler: DAMNIT! You couldn’t wait, could you? NO, you and Leon had to get me into a hospital because it was ‘for my own good’! Well, let me tell you something, Leah – this is NOT for my own good! I wrestled and won two matches after I got that injury! I didn’t need a goddamn doctor! I didn’t need EITHER of you telling me that my health was on the line when I’m doing just fucking FINE!

Leah: Sky... you’re... you’re not fine...

Skyler: Oh? Well, that’s not the first time today I’ve heard that line, and it’s not going to be the first time today I believe it. I can be the judge of my own health, especially when it’s the honour of everything I stand for as well as everything Faith stood for on the line!

Leah stepped back, away from Striker as he released her. She just hoped that Jade was not around so she wouldn’t see what her father was becoming. She had to protect Jade from him. Had to protect herself from him. Skyler’s breathing slowed a bit, he was calming down, maybe she could talk him out of this insanity that was running through him.

Leah: Skyler, I’m begging you, please, just forfeit the match! You have so much more on the line than this, than just a world title shot... your career is in danger if you keep fighting! I just want you to be happy, and you’re better than this, than all of this! Drew’s getting inside your head, TyranT, too, just rest for a while and-

Skyler: And I’ll be fine, right? Everything will go back to normal?

Leah: Yeah! Exactly!

Skyler: Well, guess what? That’s NOT how the world works!

Leah was pressed back into the wall as Skyler advanced again, pinning her against it with his right arm close to her neck, leaning on the wall, using his bigger stature to intimidate her. Leah felt like nothing and wished it was all a dream, that she could wake up any second, but it felt like more of a waking nightmare.

Skyler: You know who’s inside my head? Me. I’m in control of everything I’m doing here, and I’m the one who says what goes around here! If Drew and TyranT are getting inside my head, then GUESS WHAT? By sneaking me into a hospital while I was asleep, you’ve just stolen from me the only chance I had to show them that they’re not the ones who judge me, that it’s MY opinion that matters and NO-ONE else’s!

Leah: What about Jade? Or Faith? Or... me?

Skyler: What about you? If you gave a DAMN about me, you’d have let me fight!

A moment of silence passed as the Abandoned Champion’s gaze bore down on Leah like the full force of the sun’s light. By this point, Leah’s blind eyes are crying, weeping out of a mixture of fear and sadness.

Leah: Who... who are you? Let me go, Skyler, I don’t know you anymore... You’re not my Sky.

Skyler: You’re not going ANYWHERE! Not until you’ve answered for what you’ve done! You made me like this!

Leah: Me? I-

Skyler: No! No excuses, I’m tired of it, damnit!

Skyler’s fist pushed off the wall and his fist clenches, launched at Jade wildly. Striker’s eyes are by now very bloodshot, something clearly wrong. Jade, blind, cannot see anything, and so she cannot see the blow landed.

Leon: DON’T YOU DARE!

The blow landed is thankfully dealt to Skyler by Leon Caprice, who charges through the door and tackles his partner to the ground. By the time the dust has settled, Striker lies beaten by Caprice for the second time in a day, laying amongst the wreckage of what used to be a table. Leah watched Caprice get to one knee and then stand, brushing himself off as Skyler coughed in the dust on the floor. A movement in the corner of her eye takes Leah’s gaze to the doorway, where Jade Striker stands behind, uncharacteristically fearful at the man she calls father.

Jade: Father! FATHER!

There is no response from the fallen Striker, although whether it is for the choice to ignore his daughter or the inability to reply straight away remains unknown.

Jade: SKYLER! DAD... I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!

Leon’s hand raises, signalling for Jade to quieten down. Striker coughed again and Leon looks briefly back at the two ladies behind him, ensuring their safety. Leah noticed a defiance in his eyes, an anger that is not malicious but with an air of disappointment. Then his eyes returns to survey the situation at hand and how best to deal with it. Leon’s feet are planted, and he stands firmly between Skyler and his family. Caprice speaks, but he does not turn, his eyes remaining on Skyler the entire time, refusing him any opportunity to surprise Leon.

Leon: Jade. Take Leah, get the twins and leave. My car’s parked outside, be ready to go.

Jade: But I can... I can help him, it’s the medication, I can get the anti-

Leon: I don’t care what you can get, Jade, or how smart you are. Get Leah and the twins out of here NOW!

Jade nods, the authoritative tone in Leon’s voice enough to push her into action. Leah’s hand is taken by young Jade’s and they make it to the doorway before Skyler’s voice once again rings through the room, still full of anger.

Skyler: So this is it, huh? You’ve rallied the troops against me, Leon? What kind of a friend are you?

Leon: I’m one who gives a damn about your wellbeing. I only noticed it at training today, Skyler, but you’re taking more than your prescribed dosage. You’re killing yourself from the inside. You’re not just taking these pills any more, Skyler. Look at yourself. You’re addicted. We can help, if you just let us. Taking some time off is the first step. You know that World Championship opportunities like this will come around again. I’ll talk with Smitten about postponing our tag defence, and then-

Skyler: See? It’s you, too. ‘You’ve got a problem’. ‘You’re not fine’. You want to know what you are, Leon? You’re afraid. Afraid that even though you beat VanGuard, even though you beat me in the Hayabusa Cup, you’re still just being carried by me. And with fucking good reason to fear, too. It’s all about the tag gold to you now, isn’t it? I’m just the tool you can use to help you hold onto the belt for as long as possible! Isn’t that true?

Leon: These things are making you even worse than I thought, man. You need to calm the hell down. You’re not my tag partner, I’ll tell you that. You almost just hit your own wife! The woman I’ve watched you protect for months, and you were about to knock her flat!

Skyler: She STOLE my chance!

Leon: Your chance at WHAT? IDIOCY? You’re doing a good enough job of proving that right now! In any case, you won’t be fighting with that sling and that doctor’s report submitted to FMW, so no matter what you want, you’re going to be out of commission for a while. I’ll take care of Jade and Leah while you take care of yourself for a little while. You know that management will pay for the rehab, so get rid of this demon before it even starts taking hold of you. Maybe then you’ll be fit to be a friend, or a husband or a father, or even a damn human being.

Leon turned and walked away while Skyler clambered to a knee, still panting, blood evidently running down the side of his face. Caprice breathed out for a moment, a little unsure as to how his friend had fallen so far. The man before him was nothing but a shadow of the real Skyler, messy, unsure, angry and unpredictable. Leon shuddered at the thought of how much Skyler was actually taking – it must have been a lot for him to have even thought about hurting Leah, let alone actually swinging a fist at her.

Skyler: Fuck you, Leon... damnit, I’m better than...

Skyler’s words faltered and faded, following his own consciousness. The chemicals running through his system kept making him woozy, and the last thing Skyler heard before everything went black was Leon’s voice calling triple zero.

The office of Commissioner Smitten is, admittedly, almost never completely calm, but this particular afternoon it is filled with the shouts of a certain, very unhappy superstar. Skyler Striker stands before Christian G. Smitten , one hand leaning on Smitten’s table and the other held carefully in his left pocket. Naturally, pain medication is the only thing keeping Striker from having it in a sling, but his now somewhat silly defiance in the face of pain is taking its toll.

Smitten: Raising your voice is not going to force me to accede to your request, Striker. Now look me in the eyes and tell me coherently what you desire from me.

Skyler: Read my lips, you wanker. I WANT TO COMPETE. TONIGHT.

Smitten: What you want and what I can do legally are two very different things, Mr. Striker.

Skyler: Bullshit. You can do anything legally. You managed to get Jade’s custody case over and done with quickly, and you can damn well sign a piece of paper so I can compete in my Pandora’s Box match tonight!

Smitten: Jade’s custody was one thing. That just screams bad press, and I couldn’t exactly fire you – the shareholders might thing I was up to a nefarious scheme if I began firing my champions, especially a double champion like yourself. Were you not wearing the belts, it would have been a different story, but it was a fortunate day for you. As for your request to compete, quite frankly, the crowd have seen Romeo v Striker before – twice. It’s not a huge loss, so you’ll just forfeit your title, Romeo will advance to the World Title contender’s match, and we’ll move along.

Skyler: When has anyone in this industry EVER listened to medical advice on when we’re fit to compete? You know I’m ready to be in this match. I won my last two matches no sweat. A couple of panadol and I’ll be fine.

Smitten’s smile widens, a smile that is never good for anyone on the receiving end.

Smitten: A little test, then, before I make my judgement. You want to prove that you can compete so badly, then hit that concrete wall. Hit it with your fist – your injured arm – and prove to me just how badly you want this match. If you manage to not scream, I’ll consider your request.

Skyler: That’s garbage, Smitten, and you know it. I-

Smitten: No arguments. You don’t hit the wall? You don’t get the match.

With a look of disgust on his face, Striker turns to the wall, but does not hesitate. With the amount of pills he has already taken any pain will be only temporary, and Striker hits the wall hard with his injured hand. The pain – however temporary it may be – is almost unbearable, but Striker clenches his teeth, refusing to let Smitten get the better of him in this situation. The pain begins to subside after about twenty seconds of this destructive agony, allowing Striker to turn to Smitten, now holding his left wrist with his right hand.

Skyler: Now give me my damn match.

Smitten: The Honourable C.G. Smitten will indeed honor his word. You may compete tonight. But be warned, if you fail a drug test any time soon, you WILL be suspended indefinitely. Is that clear?

Skyler: Crystal.

Smitten: One more thing, Striker – watch your manners and tongue next time you see fit to grace me with your presence. Tonight, I’m about to demolish Abel Steele for acting fairly similar to you. I can’t continue losing superstars in that manner. Looks bad for the company.

Skyler: Up yours.

Striker leaves without another word, having secured the only thing he wanted to begin with – the match with Romeo. He had medication enough to keep him safe from anything severe tonight. Of course, it wouldn’t be a cakewalk. Romeo had already beaten him once and the memories ran fresh through his mind – that hellish Sadistic Madness match. Tonight someone was guaranteed to bleed as well, but Striker was adamant that it wouldn’t be him. Walking down the arena’s empty hallways, Striker rounded a corner and suddenly doubled over, falling to one knee, clasping his wrist tighter than ever. A sudden shock ran through it that had surpassed the barriers his medication had put up. Clearly the shot against the wall had taken more out of him than he had first thought. Bloody Smitten.

“You look a mite uncomfortable, Mr. Striker.”

Striker looks up to see the form of Romeo standing above him. Dressed impeccably in a new, tailor-made suit and with his hands behind his back, Romeo simply stood, enjoying his superiority over the semi-collapsed Striker.

“Something I can assist you with, perhaps?”

“You... what do you want from me? Our match isn’t until tonight.”

“Of course it’s not, but then, you’ve already been through so much these past few days. Word gets around very quickly. Your wife and children, staying in the house of your best friend – and the rumour that you assaulted her? I could have you escorted out of here before tonight’s show even begins.”

“I’ve been through hell just to get here, you conniving bastard. Nothing you do will stop me from watching your blood stain the floor tonight.”

“As persistent as you are, Mr. Striker, I doubt there is much you can do. However, you have nothing to fret. Your weakness is more public than the genitalia of Lady Gaga, and I can end tonight’s match in record time. My quest for the world title is not over. Not by a long shot.”

“Oh, yeah? Well neither... neither is mine.”

“You assume you can beat TyranT because you’ve beaten him once. Cute. No doubt you’ve made the same mistake with me, too. However, we’re currently one a piece. Tonight, that will change. Pandora’s Box will be open to me, and your blood will lead me to gold either way. I have much to thank you for, Mr. Striker. Your lack of control, your addiction, your injuries and your total incompetence with your family have seen to it that I am virtually assured victory tonight.”

A silent wind blows through the backstage halls. It is too early for anyone to be inside the arena, but two notable figures stand, facing each other, one with upright posture and a fearless attitude, the other a broken man.

“I’ll crush you, Romeo. I swear it.”

“The only things liable to be crushed here are your Abandoned Title reign and the bones in your wrist. I have nothing to fear from the likes of you.”

“I won’t... I won’t lose.”

“Ironic last words, Striker.”

“You think this is already over... you’re... you’re pathetic, Romeo. My fate is my own.”

“We shall see, Mr. Striker. We shall see.”

“And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.
And it came to pass, as they journeyed from the east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there.
And they said one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for morter.
And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.
And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.
And the LORD said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.
Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech.
So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.
Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.”



Glossolalia, defined the language of “speaking in tongues”. Most hear only mad gibberish when one descends into speaking in tongues; it is one of the most ridiculed practices in religious thought and one often pointed at to show the true absurdity of faith. Within circles of believers, however, speaking in tongues is considered a gift, a blessing, a smile from a benevolent deity upon a mortal soul. To speak in tongues is to be in tune with the divine, to know a deity’s supernatural grace while still existing within the natural world. Two distinct parties, both made up of rational and sane people, believes two extremely different things.

Both may be right.

Glossolalia has another connotation, one much more vivid and powerful then just a touch from the divine or mad gibberish rationalized by a mind desperate to believe in a higher power. Some, mainly those who believe in the Abrahamic religions, believe that Glossolalia is the language spoken at one point by the entirety of the world population before the fall of the Tower of Babel and the confusion of tongues. Glossolalia was spoken by Adam and Eve when they confronted the serpent, Glossolalia was spoken by Cain when he begged repentance for the murder of his brother Abel, and Glossolalia was spoken by Noah as he prepared his Ark for departure before the Great Flood.

And then suddenly, Glossolalia was not spoken again when man became far too prideful and challenged the authority of their Creator.

Glossolalia was not spoken again on the surface of this planet until after the resurrection of the LORD Jesus Christ when his apostles were gifted with the ability to spread His Word among the people of Israel, then the Roman Empire, and then the rest of the Gentile world. Since then, occurrences of speaking in tongues greatly increased and it has been said that this was the one connection to the divine, to our past, that was allowed after Christ returned and swept much of what was once commonplace supernatural away with the New Covenant.

Now, glossolalia has become even more commonplace then some would imagine and one has to wonder, when the majority of the population hears nothing but gibberish and noises when one speaks in tongues…

What is truly being said?


The scene opens to a damp, disgusting apartment. The majority of the surface area in this home is covered with books, many of them open and obviously well read with marking and notes throughout. The apartment though, for one of an obviously avid reader, is dimly lit and seems barely cared for at all. Sitting in the only open seat is a man with a shaved head wearing a purple robe with a large scorpion on the front. He is extremely thin and seems somewhat sickly, as if he cannot find time to care for himself physically due to his intense studies.

As the scene focuses more on this man, he reaches to his left and pulls a knife out of a jar of rubbing alcohol and wipes it off slowly with a rag that seemed to have been thrown down next to the jar before casually tossing it away. He switches the knife from his left hand into his right and raises up that left arm to pull the sleeve of the robe down to his elbow. He then lowers the arm back down carefully before running the blade of the knife across his skin. Upon contact, he tenses up quickly but completes the task bringing blood to the surface quickly and methodically. The man runs his right ring finger over the blood and brings it up to his eye. As he stares at his own bodily fluid, a flash of light explodes into the scene and before him stands a familiar figure in the life of Drew Michaels, a being of both magnificent light and a sinister glow.

He is the archangel Gabriel and before him stands his charge Gregory Corbett.

Gabriel: You have summoned me from my duties Gregory; I hope for your sake it is important.

Corbett: Is that a threat my guardian?

Gabriel: You know as well as I that I cannot harm you. However, I would think you know that my plans are delicate and need my constant attention.

Corbett: So you may fail again in your bid to gain power?

Gabriel: Failure is only a temporary affliction when you have eternity to succeed.

Corbett: I do not have an eternity however and I need you now.

Gabriel: Then speak my charge.

Corbett: I need you to bless me and protect me from…HIS vision.

There is an obvious scorn in the word “his” that is likely directed towards the currently unknown man and his vision.

Gabriel: What business do you have with my son Gregory?

Gabriel’s tone has instantly changed from the previous tone that reeked of a lack of caring about this conversation to one that is instantly enthralled in every detail being uttered.

Corbett: It seems our paths are going to cross again. At least, the paths of the man I have chosen to endorse in the little holy war.

Gabriel: The Scorpion.

Corbett: There are always two, the Chosen One and his Scorpion. The two sides are constantly at war since the days of Simeon the Zealot.

Gabriel: And you think that this cycle belongs to the Scorpion even though the last did.

Corbett: The last ended with the Chosen One blowing his brains out in an apartment in Israel after your son was ordained his successor. The Scorpion had little to do with it.

Gabriel: Did he? For one who has devoted himself to the current, you have little faith in the Scorpions past.

Corbett: The last Scorpion’s sudden disappearance before your son was even ordained proved his failure in my eyes.

Gabriel: Then why throw your lot behind the Scorpion instead of the Chosen One?

Corbett: The Scorpion is about power, intelligence, and cunning. The Scorpion belongs to a wrathful and vengeful God while the Chosen One is but a weak symbol that stands in the forefront preaching the Word while the Scorpion enforces it. Simeon believed the faith had to be spread by force, by power, and was willing to do what it took to bring forth God’s wrath upon those who stood in his way.

Gabriel: Hence why he was not chosen to lead the Church on Earth.

Corbett: The greatest injustice in history. It was when he was put to death by saw that he prophesized the lineage of the Scorpion and it is that prophecy that motivates my decision.

Gabriel: You truly believe the delusional rantings of a man made near mad by torture?

Corbett: Simeon said it will be the Scorpion who leads us into the next era of enlightenment. That era is set to begin in 2012; I hope to push that date closer.

Gabriel: You want to jump start the apocalypse.

Corbett: You could say that.

Gabriel: And you want me to protect you in this madness?

Corbett: Do you have a choice?

Gabriel: No, no I do not. Of course, whoever said I would want to stop you?

Corbett: So you believe my mission is just?

Gabriel: I simply believe that this could be the chance I have been waiting for to bring order to reality completely and totally…

Corbett: Then protect me from your soul son’s vision and allow me freedom to roam my guardian.

Gabriel waves his hand over Gregory’s head as a yellow glow fills the air as he passes through it. A crack is heard and Gabriel nods his head.

Gabriel: It is done. Be safe my charge and be well.

Corbett: Oh, I shall my guardian. I shall…

The scene fades to black around the devious smile of Gregory Corbett, the man who would look to end the world…


The scene reopens to the streets of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; the place often called “The City of Brotherly Love” and the hometown of Full Metal Wrestling superstar Andrew Michaels. It is that same man who is walking down the street with his compatriot Abraham as Drew is peering carefully into a local sandwich shop while Abraham looks extremely impatient.

Abraham: Andrew, we really need to get going. This meeting with the councilman is extremely important…

Michaels: I know, I know; rebuilding the Mason support system, establishing powerful allies, setting in motion the salvation of humanity, blah blah blah. But first, I want to see if this shop has a good cheesesteak on the menu.

Abraham: This is Philadelphia; EVERY shop has a cheesesteak on the menu.

Michaels: But do all of them have fresh peppers? No, most of them use that frozen shit and believe me, you can tell.

Abraham: This is insane…

Michaels: Both of our lives are entirely insane, this is actually one of the more sane moments actually.

As if on cue, a ragged old man rushes up to Drew and throws himself at his feet with a primal yell. Drew jumps back in shock, for the man must be over seven feet tall, and purely out of habit pulls his hands out of his pocket and up to protect himself from violence, violence which never comes. Instead, the man just mutters incoherently at Drew’s feet before screaming out again.

Abraham: I hate this city so much…

Michaels: Like Jerusalem is much better. (To the man) Sir, what is wrong?

Man: Asfaded metfall nobs fagina vellitrop valavaletry!

Abraham: What in the world? Come on Andrew, he is obviously mentally disturbed…

Abraham goes to put his arm on Drew’s shoulder to pull him away from this embarrassing scene but Michaels simply just shrugs him off nonchalantly and stares intently at the large man on the ground now weeping openly.

Michaels: Who is she?

Man: Asfaded metfall nobs fagina vellitrop valavaletry!

Michaels: I understand that but who is she? Who has her?

Man: Asfaded metfall nobs fagina vellitrop valavaletry!

Michaels: Telling me over and over again solves nothing!

Drew lets lose a loud sigh and turns to Abraham.

Michaels: What do you think of this?

Abraham is staring open mouthed at Drew, completely shocked by the scene in front of him. Finally, he musters the energy to speak.

Abraham: You…You understand him!?

Michaels: Of course, do you not?

Abraham: No, all I hear is complete nonsense whenever he speaks!

Man (Interrupting): Asfaded metfall nobs fagina vellitrop valavaletry!

Michaels: I understand this; we are working as hard as we can! (To Abraham) You really do not understand him? It is clear as day, he is saying “They have her, they have her!” over and over again. The problem is I have no idea who “they” are or even who “her” is.

Abraham just stares quizzically at Drew for a minute before the Chosen One bends down and looks the man in the eyes. He stares intently for a minute before speaking again in a slower, more deliberate tone.

Michaels: Do you understand me?

Man: Yes, oh God yes! You speak Gossolalia, I knew you would!

Michaels: Gosso-what?

Man: The language of angels, of the heavens!

Michaels: I am not so sure about that but the important matter is that I do indeed understand you. So what is going on, who is she and who are they?

Man: They are the Church of the Scorpion and she…she is your wife.

Drew stumbles back and nearly falls to the ground himself but catches his weight on his left hand quickly in order to save some dignity. He leans in closer to the man and continues the conversation.

Michaels: How do you know who she is?

Man: I just…I just do. I woke up this morning and knew what happened, they did something to me and now they have her. Something told me to search the city for you, to find you and to warn you. I think they are in my head.

Michaels: I will get you help, we will figure this out.

Man: NO! No, there is no time for me. Save her, save her please.

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. Drew scans over it quickly to see it is an address.

Michaels: What is this place?

Man: She is there, I know it. I have never been there but…but I know she is there. I’m so sorry I can’t help you more.

Michaels: It is okay, we will get you help when I get do-

Drew is cut off by a horrible explosion; the force throws him back as blood splashes all over his body. He is able to quickly wipe off his face to see the man with a large, smoking hole where his chest had once been. Drew mutters something as Abraham throws his arm around the Chosen One and drags away from the body. Screams are everywhere as Drew simply stares on.

Michaels: What…what happened?

Abraham: A bomb attached to his heart, it went off. Oh God, we have to call the police before someone else does; we have to protect you in this!

Abraham pulls out his cell phone but Drew waves for him to lower it.

Michaels: Not yet, I need to get out of here first. I have…I have to go save her.

Drew’s eyes are glassed over; he is still obviously in shock after what has just occurred in front of his eyes.

Abraham: What happened down there?

Michaels: Did you not hear him!? They have Juliet!

Abraham: I could not hear anything but you both talking in that utter nonsense and gibberish!

Michaels: He said it was…(Thinks for second) Glossolalia. Yes, Glossolalia.

Abraham: Speaking in tongues…

Michaels: Sounds good to me. He said the Church of the Scorpion has Juliet, that fucking psycho Eric Scorpio has my wife!

Drew is coming to from the shock of seeing man die in front of him; the situation is becoming clear to him as everything begins to connect together in his mind.

Michaels: He has my wife…and he killed that man! I cannot allow this, I WILL NOT allow this! Abraham, handle this situation here with whatever contacts you need to use. I have business to deal with for the last motherfucking time.

Abraham: Are you sure?

Drew glances over at the still smoking body, now being surrounded by a crowd of horrified spectators, before looking back to his associate with a grimace on his face.

Michaels: Fucking positive…

The scene focuses on the smoking body as we fade to black…


The scene reopens to the inside of what looks to be an abandoned church, perhaps one left empty after the congregation has moved on to something bigger and better. The sanctuary seems uncared for, it is dirty and disgusting with cobwebs hanging from every possible angle. Drew practically kicks the door down as he storms into the room and looks around quickly in search of his target, foe, and eternal enemy Eric Scorpio. Drew’s head seems to be on a constant swivel as he searches the seemingly empty room for any possible signs of life. He stalks forward and, after seeing nothing at all in the room, reaches the altar in the middle and places his left hand slowly on the smooth service. He runs his fingers across the altar and pulls it back noting an obvious lack of any dust.

Someone had been here recently.

Drew begins frantically searching the altar for something. A switch, a button, a lever, anything at all. After searching for about five minutes and finding nothing, Drew collapses against the altar and takes a deep breath in frustration. As he does that, he feels the object of his relaxation moving away from him quickly under his body weight. Drew jumps up and sees that the altar has been moved about three feet back already and is revealing a spiraling staircase downward. Drew just stares down the dark hallway and just shakes his head before pushing the altar back another five feet completely revealing the vastness of this stairwell.

Michaels: Damn. Just…damn.

Drew descends the staircase slowly and deliberately, constantly looking ahead in an attempt to discern his environment and how dangerous things are definitely going to become. He knows Eric is waiting for him at the end of this stairwell, his gut tells him this is true. He knows that the madman has his beloved Juliet and he knows he will stop at nothing to get her back in his arms.

He knows a loaded handgun is hidden away behind his back. What he does not know is if he is truly going to be able to use it.

As Drew reaches the bottom of the stairwell, he presses himself against the wall to his left and slides down the wall in order to give himself more cover from whoever may be waiting for him. As his right foot steps out into the open, the only exposed portion of his body, a voice calls out his name.

Corbett: Andrew.

Fuck.

Corbett: Andrew, step out and speak to me please instead of playing super duper spy over there.

Michaels: Where is she!?

Drew steps out into the open as he speaks these words to see Gregory Corbett, and only Gregory Corbett, standing before him. Corbett is grinning slyly as Drew is attempting to take in the situation. He wonders where Juliet and Eric are while also wondering who this gentleman grinning like an idiot in front of him is.

Corbett: Why whoever are you referring to Andrew?

His tone is mocking and condescending, Drew can easily tell he knows something.

Michaels: Who are you?

Corbett: Who am I? WHO AM I!? (Laughs) No good Chosen One, the question is more who are you?

Michaels: You seem already know the answer to that it seems.

Corbett: I know more than you could ever imagine, son of Gabriel.

Drew freezes, he can actually feel his heart rate drop those words are uttered. Gabriel, the angel who was cast to Earth and took refuge in the mortal form of one Matthew Bryson, the man who would impregnate Mary Michaels in a fit of passion that nine months later resulted in the birth of their son Drew. The only two people Drew had ever had the confidence to tell about Gabriel were his cousin Nicholas and his wife Juliet, no one else could possibly know.

Could they?

Corbett: Ah yes, struck a chord with that one it seems. Yes, I know all about your…unique conception Andrew and I also know even more than that. It is why I brought you here, so we could share in our understanding of your past and how it shall affect the future.

Michaels: You brought me here!? Then where is my wife you bastard!

Corbett: All in due time Andrew, all in due time.

Corbett turns to walk away from Drew but, after taking a couple steps, thinks better of it and turns back to yell at the Chosen One.

Corbett: As for that little gun you have hidden away, and yes you know I am not bluffing, I would suggest keeping it right there. Any attempt to fire upon me would be…devastating to your health.

On cue, twenty armed guards all wearing the same sickeningly purple robes emblazoned with scorpions on the chest step out of the shadows with automated weapons. Drew sees just how hopeless his situation is and, with one hand already behind back decides instead to play along even if only for long enough to reach Juliet.

Michaels: What is this place?

Corbett: This is the shrine to the Scorpion, eternal rival of the Chosen One and the true Savior of mankind.

Michaels: Yeah, I have dealt with a “Scorpion” before. Guess it is good to know his entire old cult did not die out when he forsook the whole “running a religion” thing…

Corbett: You mean Eric, son of Remi? Whoever said he was the true Scorpion of this generation?

Michaels: I am pretty sure he did. A lot. Or at least called himself hallowed to an obnoxious degree, that might have been it. That counts, right?

Drew’s attempt at humor falls on deaf ears as he knew it would. However, the solitary moment that it allowed him to feel in control of the situation was priceless.

Corbett: I do not doubt Eric’s belief that he may be blessed indeed but I am led to disbelief his authenticity. There is a much more likely candidate for the job in existence and I fear it has indeed fallen into their hands.

Michaels: Let me guess…you. Big shocker there.

Corbett: Actually, I was referring to you.

Drew freezes completely, his face attempting in vain to form some sort of sentence in response to that but failing miserably. Corbett laughs.

Corbett: No witty joke for that one Mr. Michaels? No clever comeback? No valiant cry against my evil? I expected more truly.

Michaels: You are full of bullshit.

Corbett: I am a lot of things but a liar is not among of them. My extensive research on the subject reveals only one possible solution, the Scorpion must be you. You are the one meant to lead us into the next generation; you are the Savior through violence.

Michaels: I am the Chosen One, the Messiah of this generation. The Scorpion opposes that from what I have gathered.

Corbett (Angrily): You have gathered NOTHING in comparison to I! (Regains his composure) Sorry, I have a bit of a quick temper. Yes, the thing is I feel you have been misled by a combination of factors; the main being your Templar support network. After all, was it not already proven they were drugging you at one point to induce hallucinations?

Drew is no longer surprised at how much Gregory seems to know about his life and instead answers relatively quickly.

Michaels: That was The Grail, not the Templars. Seems like your facts are off this time.

Corbett: What is the difference in secret organizations other than a simple cosmetic change in name?

Michaels: Intent, purpose, ideals.

Corbett: Both needed a Chosen One and you were more than happy to comply.

Michaels: You are insane.

Corbett: No, I am a genius. The distinction between the two has been blurred many times in history though so I will forgive you this time. Back to the topic at hand, my research points to you being the Scorpion so I thought it fitting to bring you to your followers and give you the chance to do the right thing.

Michaels: Meaning…?

Corbett: You lead us in a war against the nonbelievers and crush all those who would oppose the will of the faith under your might just as the Zealot commanded.

Michaels: Yeah…not going to happen. Sorry to disappoint but I do not do that whole “crush all those who would oppose” thing. It is kind of a dick move.

Drew believes his bravado to be impressive considering he is staring death in the eyes; he hopes going into the afterlife with a smirk on his face will be enough to convince St. Peter to let him slide on by through the legendary pearly gates for a second time.

Corbett: I figured as much so I prepared a back-up plan hence where the need to obtain your wife came into play. I needed a sample Andrew and the best way to obtain that was to obtain your most recent receptacle.

Michaels: Meaning…?

Corbett: I kidnapped your wife in order to obtain the straggling semen in her vaginal area.

Michaels: …Huh. And what point did that have exactly besides help you expand your surely impressive collection of celebrity sperm?

Drew makes a horrible joke in an attempt to mask his anger; just the thought of the torture and humiliation these bastards have put his wife through is enough to drive Drew into complete and total madness. For his own sake, and Juliet’s, he must keep his cool. Corbett just allows a smile to again cross his face.

Corbett: The point…is this!

Corbett pulls a lever to his right and jumps back. A large door rises revealing an actual chained giantess, a woman who must be ten feet tall. She is beaten and weak, her eyes as empty as her soul. She looks disfigured, as if she has suffered years of abuse and is clothed in only the most minimal coverings. Drew is sickened by this sight and turns away to regain his composure as Corbett continues to laugh.

Corbett: You do not like to look upon your relative Andrew? This family reunion too painful?

Michaels: What the hell are you talking about you bastard!?

Corbett: When the Earth was young, man was but in his infant stages. At that time, sons of God came down and took the women of mortal flesh as their own and from them sprung a group who were both angel and man. They were the Nephilim. This right here is the last pureblood Nephilim in existence, a result of extraordinary life spans and even more extraordinary inbreeding.

Drew stares at the being in front of him in a mix of wonder and pity.

Michaels: Still not sure what this has to do with me.

Corbett: Not all of the Nephilim remained strictly pureblooded of course; some intermarried with the mortals and created the Anak, a portion of the human population that was touched by the divine. As time passed, one of the most important figures in human history was an Anak and few even recognize it.

Michaels: And who would that be?

Corbett: Mary, mother of God.

Michaels: That is quite a claim.

Corbett: How else could a mortal frame hope to ever carry the radiance of our LORD!? Yes, Mary was an Anak and from her family sprung the first of the two lines; the Chosen One and the Scorpion.

Michaels (Nodding): Yeah, Christ’s cousin John the Baptist was the first Chosen One; the first soul selected to spread the Word and protect the world from evil. But what of the Scorpion?

Corbett: A commonly held misconception is that Mary was always a virgin, which is a foolish assumption. Jesus had many brothers, most named within the holy texts, and even some unnamed sisters. One them was Simeon, often called Simon. What made Simeon unique, however, was his parentage. His father was not Joseph the carpenter, for his death prevented that. No, he was birthed of the union of Mary and Clopas; both Anaks. This combination of power gave Simeon a power of vision paralleled only by his half-brother Christ and his cousin the Baptist.

Michaels: And this Simeon, he is the Scorpion?

Corbett: Yes, Simeon took his ministries into Egypt after the death of Christ and there saw the power and the fury of the scorpion itself. He saw this as a metaphor for what the Church must become, what it must do in order to spread the Word and save the world.

Michaels: Indoctrination through violence. Disgusting…

Corbett: No, brilliant! Power is the ultimate persuader and what better way to convince the masses of God’s might than to topple their rulers! Christ said with the faith of a mustard seed we could move a mountain; if we have such power then why not use it!?

Michaels: Christ also said the meek shall inherit the Earth.

Corbett: And they shall after the entire world is meek in front of the LORD’s glory!

Michaels: I still do not know what you needed that sample of mine for.

Corbett: Ah yes, it seems I got a touch distracted. The need for you Juliet was twofold. Of course I wanted to bring you here and knew you would not walk away from a chance to save the love of your life when it was handed to you and believe me, I handed it to you.

Michaels: The man…

Corbett: Yes, another Anak. I used him to reach you and test your authenticity as the Chosen One and you passed Andrew and confirmed all my suspicions and researchs. Andrew Michaels…you are an Anak. In fact, that man was probably a distant relative of yours; same with our “little” Nephilim captive here.

Corbett motions towards the confined giantess and chuckles.

Corbett: Yes, the bloodline seems to run through your father’s side; the Brysons themselves seem to descend from a family of Israelites who fled to northern Europe after the Crusades and mingled with European culture. Over time they gained money, power, wealth, and many local allies as a result of the previous three. This family split many times to solidify powerful bonds and some theorize that the royal families of the old European order, all known to be related anyway, were the result. In my own research of your family tree I have been able to trace it back to this group and more importantly been able to follow this group back to Israel. Weaving my way through old lore and documents centuries old, I was able to find evidence to suggest that the Bryson bloodline does indeed descend directly from Mary, mother of God.

Michaels: …Damn.

Corbett: Your genetics have been studied before and found to have a striking similarity to the Savior, this explains it completely! You came from the same bloodline that spawned John the Baptist and Simeon the Zealot giving you a rightful claim to both of their positions and that is why I brought you here.

Michaels: You are hoping I will forsake my duties as the Chosen One and take up arms as the Scorpion. Well, you already know my answer.

Corbett: A pity that you have made up your mind so quickly; you would be a perfect Scorpion. You are already a warrior and so quick to resort to bloodshed too less I have to remind you of what you have hidden behind your back. Yes, you fit the Scorpion mold so much more neatly than that of the Chosen One, the bringer of peace.

Michaels: Perhaps a more proactive stance towards bringing that peace is needed in order to prevent the utter domination of the Scorpion.

Corbett: No matter what you do the Scorpion shall prevail, that much is guaranteed. Before his untimely death Simeon prophesied the end of days much like John would later do on the island in Revelations. However, Simeon’s prophecy spoke of the ending cycle, of the Scorpion’s tail lashing out and taking the world as its own. My research indicates this cycle ends in 2012.

Michaels: So does the research of every whacked out conspiracy nut. Congratulations, you are on the path to wearing a tinfoil hat.

Corbett: Laugh if you want but my studies are solid. The problem is, 2012 is so far away. No, we need redemption now. So I am going to take the sample I obtained from you and use it to breed myself a new Scorpion with this fine young woman here.

Corbett again motion to the Nephilim chained up behind him.

Corbett: Her purity will be diluted by your Anak blood, this is true, but it should not be enough that it should matter. In fact, the insertion of new genetic material into this bloodline will likely revitalize it. Yes, this child will be so powerful he shall cause the apocalypse within months after conception.

Michaels: You are mad! A child is supposed to end the eternal battle!? A child!?

Corbett: A child that is pure, unadulterated power!

Michaels: NO!

Nephilim: You speak the tongue?

Drew is taken aback; he did not know how he slipped into Glossolalia but seems to have, the stress and anger must have made him revert to this old language that is still so new to him or perhaps all the talk about the past has reawakened something inside of him long dormant. Either way, Corbett seems to have taken the indiscernible yelling to be a sign of defeat and just cackles again like the madman he has proven himself to be. Drew instead diverts his attention to the rather large woman chained up within about six feet of the psychopath.

Michaels: Yes, I am like you. Well, similar it seems.

Nephilim: My son, he was an Anak. I understand.

Michaels: Your son…your son is dead. This man killed him.

Drew points at Corbett who has taken notice of the conversation going on around him.

Corbett: What is happening here?

Nephilim: My son! (Begins to weep) You must stop this demon before it is too late.

Michaels: I know not how I can do that, I seem to be surrounded.

Drew looks to his left and right at the armed guards, still standing at attention.

Corbett: Glossolalia…YOU ARE SPEAKING GLOSSOLALIA! I cannot believe it, I have never heard the ancient tongue spoken so clearly. It is beautiful…

Nephilim: I know not what you speak of; there is no one there but you and the madman who murdered my son.

Michaels: Excuse me?

Nephilim: I see no one but two. He must be using his trickery to insert the image inside your mind.

Michaels: What trickery?

Meanwhile, Corbett is furiously attempting to record the language being spoken in front of him. For all his posturing and talk of Armageddon, he is an academic first and foremost.

Nephilim: He has one of the ancient ones on his side, one of our ancestors. He used the ancient one’s divine power to capture me and my son and seems to be using it again in reference to you.

Drew thinks for a minute before speaking again to himself, this time in English.

Michaels: An angel…(Slight pause) GABRIEL!

Drew’s yell echoes in both languages; it seems the name of the archangel is the same despite the change in tongue. Corbett reacts quickly knowing his cover to be blown, pulling the lever to close the Nephilim back in her prison before diving to the ground only second before bullets rip by him. Drew has his handgun out and had shot for Corbett’s shoulders, a nonfatal but crippling blow.

Michaels: You made a deal with him!?

Drew leaps on to the stage where Corbett has been standing; he is cowering against the wall on his knees shaking violently. Though he looked strong and in charge only minutes ago, now he seems so insignificant and weak. Drew closes in on his captor and shakes his head as Corbett begins to beg.

Corbett: Oh God no! Please don’t do it!

Michaels (Calmly): God? God is not here right now. Just His Chosen One…

Drew places his left hand on Corbett’s head and just nods.

Michaels (Bluffing): And now I know who you are. I know where your family is, I know where your research is, and I know where my Juliet is. Just think about it, I can destroy your life’s work in minutes and you can do nothing to stop me. Where is the Scorpion now? WHERE IS HE!?

Drew slaps Gregory with that same left hand, causing the man to fall down before Drew quickly pulls him back up to his knees. Gregory is shaking violently; Drew’s bluff about reading his mind had done serious mental damage to him.

Michaels: You seem to have spent your life studying, using your senses in order to gain astute and accurate observations about the world around you. Well, today that ends. I shall not kill you, though you deserve such a fate after what you did to her son.

Drew motions towards the now replaced wall where he knows the Nephilim is held captive.

Corbett: Please no, he said he would protect me; why isn’t he protecting me!?

Michaels: Gabriel? Never trust a father, I learned that long ago. As for your fate, (Drew raises his hands up into the air) I am going to take from you an important tool for a scientist, your sight. From this day forward you shall never see again.

Drew presses his two thumbs over the eyes of Corbett as he yells out in terror. Drew ignores his pleas and instead presses forward as a burning yellow light is generated from the points of contact between the two.

Michaels: Blind.

The simple command, said with the authority of Heaven and Hell both, causes the light to increase when suddenly Drew bursts out laughing.

Michaels: Nah, I cannot really do that but how fucking cool would it be if I could?

As Drew feels Corbett begin to calm down somewhat, he brings a swift knee up and smashes it into Gregory’s face, slamming his head against the wall and knocking him unconscious with the one swift blow.

Michaels: But I totally can do that. Now to really find Juliet…

Drew turns around but a flash of white light explodes in his face. Standing before him is the archangel Gabriel and his face is consumed with disappointment.

Michaels: YOU!

Gabriel: Sleep.

Gabriel waves his hand and Drew collapses into a pile, asleep and thus completely unable to stop his soul father. Gabriel floats forward to stand over Corbett and his bleeding face.

Gabriel: You failed me Gregory, you crossed the line. I gave you the power to pull one over my son but you foolishly tried to make a grab for power that just is not yours. The Nephilim is too powerful for mortal hands, especially one with such a powerful bloodline. But my own...well that may be arranged.

Gabriel waves his hand towards the wall and it begins to rise. As the Nephilim is revealed, Gabriel smiles.

Gabriel: Hello my daughter…

And at that, our scene fades to black…


Omega: …And the last thing you remember is an angel waving his hand to knock you unconscious?

Michaels: Yep.

Omega: And then you and Juliet woke up here in the gym?

Michaels: Pretty much, yeah.

Omega: Damn you make it hard to not be a believer with stories like that Drew.

The scene reopens around the voices of friends Seth Omega and Drew Michaels in the gym owned by Omega. The two are seated in a pair of metal folding chairs, not unlike those seen far too often in their professional careers, discussing the events that recently occurred in the saga that is Drew’s life.

Omega: So what is the next move?

Michaels: I have to focus on Eric first, this match is important and the fact stands that he could still be the Scorpion and stopping him has to be a first priority of mine.

Omega: But what if the prophecy is true and you are destined to fall the current Scorpion?

Michaels: Then I damned either way, right? Might as well try, I got nothing to lose if I go in with that attitude. There seems to be a false rumor floating around this company that I cannot beat Eric, that I have never beaten Eric. I know this to be false and so does he but anyone who feels the need to believe it can do just that. It has been some time since I have been the underdog and let me tell you, it feels kind of nice.

Omega: Really?

Michaels: Yeah, the expectations are lower. The opponent trains less. You train more. Dammit Seth, I am ready.

Omega: And what is your decision?

Michaels: What do you mean?

Omega: About the Pandora’s Box challenge; do you take the C-4 title or the chance at a FMW World title shot?

Michaels: Here is the thing Seth…I am a belt mark. I love title belts; I will do just about anything to get one. When I have a title belt I take it to church with me on Sunday, we do communion together. It sleeps in the bed with Juliet and I and sometimes I wear it when we make love. Hell, sometimes I will work around my house in the title belt and nothing else because dammit I AM THE CHAMPION! It is not about greed or pride or any of that, it is about being recognized as the best in your business. A title belt means so much to me as a competitor because I am just that, a competitor. I enter that ring every week and compete to the best of my ability. Sometimes I lose, more often than not I win but every time I do it without the help of any type of illegal substance; more than many in this industry can say. Every time I do it without the aid of backhanded tactics, again more than most can say. Every time I do it without having to break my own personal moral code and that is why I am a champion at ALL TIMES even when I am not currently wearing a title belt.

The question though is whether I take the instant gratification or prolong my hunt for gold in search of a bigger prize. Everyone and their mother knows I want the Full Metal Wrestling World Heavyweight title back. Eric took it from me and it seems fitting that my chance to reclaim it could come at his expense. It is the top prize in the industry and should be the goal of every competitor in this company. The FMW World title is my ultimate prize at all times and all routes in this decision eventually lead back to it.

Meanwhile, the C-4 Division Championship is rightfully mine. I never lost the title, instead I was forced to vacate the belt despite the fact I was healthy and able to compete within the thirty day limit. It was an injustice not only to myself but also to the prestige of that title which is so important to me. The chance to restore some of that lost luster, and ruin Eric’s day, is very appealing. I have always said the C-4 title was important to me because it deserved so much more recognition than it was given before and if I choose to win back my public recognition as champion than I would continue to do just that.

Omega: So do you know which one you are going after then?

Michaels: Actually, yeah. Let me just say that this recent experience in my life has allowed me to see instant gratification is not the correct path and, well, sometimes one has to put their own glory aside in order to do what is right.

Omega: Meaning?

Michaels: Meaning Eric Scorpio’s waist could be a lot lighter in a couple days. The Scorpion must be stopped, whether it is him or not is unimportant because a faction believes in him still and to stop him stops them and thus weakens a possible support base for whoever he or she may be. I see through his hallowed bullshit and instead see a scared man just like Corbett who seeks to control what he does not understand. Too bad for him that I will NOT be used and I shall NOT be taken lightly.

Bless me LORD for I am ready.

Omega: What?

Michaels: Oh nothing, just a little trick I picked up on the way.

Drew laughs as Seth stares on confused while we finally fade to the eternal black…

The Night of Death Row, after the show.

Celt: What the fuck happened out there? Gods above! Fucking bullshit!

The Celt’s body shakes in anger, literally trembling to match his ferocious emotions which all seem to be boiling to the surface at this very moment. Sweat pours off his body as the sensation of being molten hot is another feeling coursing through his body, while every joint screams and aches of pain. His legs curse him for continuing to stand as they tire of supporting his weight; that’s right, it hurts just to stand. Blood covers his forehead like paint, giving the Celt the image of some disaster survivor, his appearance reminiscent of someone who stood in front of bomb.

Celt: Somebody gives me a fucking answer!!

FMW’s background staff are not exactly forthcoming to the fiery Irishman, they all avoid his gaze in fear his fury may spill towards their direction. Celt marches down the corridor as the crew basically part like the red sea before him. As Celt’s eyes dart from left to right he’s spot his answer: A TV Monitor. Crowded around it are some of FMW new rookies. As Celt walks up to the TV they step back from him. Gazing at him, they notice that the air almost seems to shimmer with heat around him. Clearly he’s not in his public relations mode.

The Celt looks into the screen. On it plays a loop of the night’s “highlights”; amongst others some stand out for Celt: PX cheating his way to victory over Seth Omega and gaining the Television Championship, A video promoting the return of one Daniel Lincoln: Syanide, as well as that of Hannibal Frost whose departure had causes so much strife, Mark Johansson being taken out of the triple threat by a mysterious attacker referred only to as “Virus”, and finally The Celt being pinned by his new sworn enemy Jason Roy, Jaro.

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH” shouts Celt in an almost animalistic roar. Tiredness and Fury flood his mind. A feeling that could only be said to be similar to a migraine hits his head.

“Everything that could be going wrong is going wrong” thinks Celt. The Celt runs his hand through his now sticky hair, pulling at it randomly. “You’re boxing me World, You are boxing me the fuck in”.

As Celt storms forwards to the dressing rooms he can hear his own heart beating: thud thud thud as his blood pumps around his ears at full power. His mind isn’t calm and neither is his body, as far it’s concerned he’s still ready to fight on a little longer; the skin along his torn up and scratched skin is actually itchy because it doesn’t feel it’s being used enough.

Then it hits him: The feeling of sickness.

As his mind processes (slowly but surely) the awful consequences of the night’s events and he realises what the future may hold for him an ill feeling rolls down his body along his spine. It’s almost like oil, oozing down him from his head, or a rock splashing down into the centre of his stomach. Instantly he feels he must vomit, but can’t.

“Oh Gods...”

The Celt forces his heavy heavy feet onwards as he considers what the future could bring: A world where Mark Johansson can no longer aid him in his fight, a world where HavOc have reformed, A world where his own flesh and blood contradicts his word and a world where Jaro rules from a throne built on the suffering of others.

A world where he’s all alone with the weight of the world pressing down on him, with his enemies stomping it down even further than before. The Celt feels dizzy now as he desperately seeks out the changing rooms.

“Gods, I’m...fuck, I’m being boxed in, the cage is dropping...”


3 days after Death Row

“You happy with yourself?” asked Celt, loudly.

“Well, happy with this belt anyways” smiled PX.

PX was positively beaming from his seat in the centre of the hotel lobby. Draped across his newly suited shoulder was the FMW television title. In front of him stood the Celt, staring down his brother with arms folded. As looked down at PX, sitting comfortable in his finery, he could almost smell the taint of PX’s new outlook on life.

“Happy living with the shame too?” asked Celt.

“What? The shame of having outsmarted that idiot thug Omega? Yeah I’m fine with that, thanks. Hell, I hope I feel that shame about everyone in FMW” said PX with a smirk.

With PX’s answer Celt was instantly remind of that sick feeling. His tongue and throat couldn’t stand PX.

“How could he change so much in such a short time” Celt asked himself.

“Just goes to show...I’m on to something now that I’ve broke from your twisted thinking” says PX.

“Something foul PX, something tainted, something stolen, not earned”

“Jealous talk from an inferior mind, words spawned from a hypocrite”

“Oh Yeah, I’m real jealous of a guty most people can’t stand”

“Those idiots in the crowd can’t stand success, because it elevates people like me above them; that’s why
they flock to you brother, you’re just like them, you’ll never achieve what I have”

“Oh Gods...Listen to yourself PX I mean-“

PX bolts out of his seat and stands up

“That right Celt, I will listen to myself, for the first time in my life I will listen to myself instead of saying, doing and thinking what you say to. Things have changed forever, I recognize now that it’s your stupid way of doing things that was holding me back, from exploring the possibilities of the world and taking the opportunities that I deserve! I refuse to be you! I am an individual, not only separate from you, but superior to you in body and mind!

“He’s trying to box you in...hit him, hit him in his bullshiting little mouth. He couldn’t be anymore thick----I CAN’T! I CAN’T ASSUALT MY OWN BROTHER, fuck’s sake, what am I even thinking here???”

Celt’s right fist trembles as PX stares at him, daring him to do something.

“He's such a damn child, he wants to be punished for his nonsense so he can cry injustice with his false logic...boxin’ me in....”

Celt breathes deeply, nose to nose with the brother he’s known and grown with his entire life. He tilts his head to the left and right; the entire lobby is staring at the two, shocked by his open display of fraternal dispute. Celt doesn’t say again. He turns. He leaves. PX remains frozen to his spot.


The Night of Death Row, after the show.

Celt is pretty much stumbling now. Like a drunk, he clings to the walls of the arena for support as he moves in search of his destination. “Is this what’s it’s like to be fucking blind with rage?” wonders Celt. Everything is sore to touch now, as the adrenaline drains from his system the body begins to realize all the problems with it, one of which is that the top of his fingertips have all been skin’t from fighting, and now bits

of soft tissue hang from them, exposing the under skin beneath. Wall, Wall, Wall, Door knob? The Celt looks up and see’s a sign: Dressing Room. Weakly he opens the door and enters.

“HavOc could reform...HavOc could fucking reform damnit! They’re boxin me in...boxin me in...”. Thoughts of future danger and peril swirl around his head as the energy he had not so long ago leaves his body. But just a few more steps remain, forcing himself forward he reaches out. The gentle feel of tiles greet him. He doesn’t have the strength or the energy to remove his gear now, he’s spent. He turns the handle-

Relief

The metal shower head spring to life as water flows through it. As the cleansing water impact on his skin the Celt lets out a sigh of relief. He collapses downwards, time to rest.

But he can’t. Because as the water takes away the blood and sweat with its sweat flow, it so too enters his open wounds. Into his open cuts the sprouts of water go, stinging them as much as it relieves the rest of his body.

But he’s fight back now, he can’t even think about it.

Because he’s too busy breaking down.




The Night of Death Row, after the show.

“I’m being fucking...fucking boxed in damnit!”

His anger had left him now. He could have only maintained that for only so long. Now his psyche was taking over, overwhelmed as it was. He wasn’t angry anymore, he was miserable. With one hand covering his eyes he sat in the corner of the shower with the water running. He couldn’t do it anymore, a man can only be pushed so far before he falls. He doesn’t want to be this way, he doesn’t what to release it, but it’s beyond him to hold it in. His eyes, which before burned with tiredness, well over.

“I fucking failed, good fucking job Celt...good fucking...Job”.

It’s coming out now, anxiety, fear, disappointment at himself, regret, especially about his brother.

“This is fucking it, it’s over...it’s fucking over, I botched it. I’m alone now, alone. Da...Damnit”.

He failed, and not just at something throwaway. This had been the most critical night of his career, maybe even his life so far. He had promised everything, done everything, worked harder than ever before, pushed himself further than ever before.

The result? An outstanding failure.

He had put it all on the line, his word, his reputation, his body and his soul.

It hurts, even to say it just to himself it hurts. He’s believed in himself, he believed in what he was doing. Celt bites down on his busted bottom lip, and as he does the salty taste of tears enters his mouth. He wants to be a man, to be strong, to not let this happen...but it is, and he can’t stop it.


The taste of deep red blood...

“Hey” she said gently.

He peeked out from under his hand. Morrígan was sitting there in other corner of the shower with him.

“No...No, don’t, don’t look at me like this, please”.

It broke his heart to be in front of her in this state.

She stayed there, the water pouring down on her too, soaking her.

“It’s ok”

“No, it’s really fucking not, is it?”

“I’m not sure”

“I’m just one man Morrígan, I have limits. I thought that I could push my limits at times...but it now things
feel like I’m always pushing my limits. I’m drained...

In sometimes it feels like it’s killing me slowly Morrígan, it feels like dying. Tonight, tonight I couldn’t have tried more...I did ALL I could, ALL. I was more than myself tonight; I was myself and a half. ”

“Gods...(sigh) I let that fucking monster win...how could I let him get away...again! I’m fucking worthless...I’d be more use dead.

Morrígan shakes her head

“Please don’t say that A grá, that’s terrible”

“That’s truth I’m afraid. It feels like I’m dying from the inside out.

Some tears are falling down Celt’s cheek now, this is hurting him so much. Morrígan can almost feel his heart ache at the whole mess.

“You know, before...

Celt rubs at his eyes

“Before I was willing to put up with that feeling, I could just about tolerate it, because I thought I could see a positive future, you know? I thought things were changing...HavOc fell apart, I beat Harlequin...and I got you back and we put the fighting behind us”

Celt and Morrígan both smile weakly, but Celt can’t hold it for long.

“Things are heading in reverse now...as if I didn’t make a difference at all. Ha, as if I had never done a fucking worthwhile thing in my life”

The Celt drops his head down, this is all too much. The water continues to pour down on both him and Morrígan, turning Morrígan’s dress a darker shade of red as it absorbs the water. Little droplets of water form on their skin. But more noticeable is the effect the water is having on her face; mascara runs down her cheeks leaving a trail of dark smudge. Morrígan stares at the depressed Celt and his emotional state impacts on her too. She can’t help it as some tears begin to fall down her face too.

“I must be fucking insane. I mean, what am I even thinking? Just look at the roster...do they even care? They don’t seem to give a shit whether we tilt from order to chaos. It’s just all a fucking game for them.
They don’t want the law...they want madness. Most of them anyways...assholes."

Celt puts his hand up to his mouth, just trying to control himself...just trying to hold on to himself.

"Roy, Quint, Lincoln, Vizzini, Tyrant...who the fuck am I to stop those monsters? They want a world of chaos so that everyone is under their foot, so that no one can rise up and stop them. I want to be that guy so bad Morrígan...I do, I do, I do, but this is killing me.

I mean, fucking look at me...I’m look at me, I’m pathetic!”

Morrígan really wells over now

“NO YOU’RE NOT!...You’re the strongest man I ever met out okay?! OK!? I mean that! Don’t fucking say that!”

“Oh yeah? O yeah? Look at me Morrígan: I’m lying here in a shower broken. I’m just a broken man fucking crying about shit things are. And fuck, I could even be a fucking broken man not only crying to himself, but talking to himself-

Instantly Morrígan looks hurt

“Celt!?”

“No, that’s just it...it could be fucking true, couldn’t it? Look, I know I said I didn’t want to know either way...but, that’s just how things are. I’m sorry”

Morrígan shakes her head left and right over and over before moving over to Celt. She looks into his eyes before gentle punching him in the arm, before curling up beside him, placing her fair-skinned arms around his bloody body. The Celt looks down at himself and seeing bruises beginning to form around his hips from all the damage they suffered against Jaro.

“Gods...and even if that’s not enough girl,

Celt can barely see now because his eyes are so tear covered

“My bother fucking hates me. He fucking does...Gods. I thought that it was just going to be all anger between us...but now it’s worse. It fucking hurts, it hurts now so much what’s between us.

The Celt points to his heart as he says this, emphasising the pain of being parted from his brother.

“I love James you know? I love him, he’s my own brother! And he thinks I’m a fucking idiot! I’ve gone beyond anger now...I’m sad, It’s hurt me so much just to see him now. I thought we had something together, and now he’s says that’s all bullshit. That hurts me more than anything in the world right now. Worse than HavOc, Worse than Roy...not having my brother with me hurts more than anything I ever thought.

Celt takes his hand and lifts Morrígan’s chin up so that her eyes lock with his.

“I love you more than anything Morrígan, I really do, but he’s my brother and I need him too”
Morrígan purses her lips.

“Yeah, I understand. I’m sorry”

“Don’t be sorry...not your fault.”

Celt lets his head fall back against the wall. He goes silent now, and the only sound in the room is the sound of running water, falling gently onto the two lovers.

Minutes pass by, they don’t care. They’re trapped in a moment.

Morrígan wants to say something, anything that could change this, but she just can’t think of the words. She doesn’t want things like this. She didn’t want to cry either, but she just couldn’t help herself, the emotions just seemed to flow out of her. She wants to be strong now, to be herself because she knows herself, and that she is a strong enough person to do it but for some reason she just can’t seem to do it. It’s all just too much. She supposes this is the exact thing Celt must be feeling now. In her mind she damned herself not being able to say more, to find the right words to make him realise.

“No”

Morrígan pulls her head up from Celt’s chest and looks at him

“...Fuck this, No. That’s not me.”

“What?”

“This. Defeat, that’s not me. It’s not who I am as a person.”

Celt furls her brow

“I’m not done...I can’t be. I...won’t be.

You know what? I am hurt. I am disappointed. I am hard-pressed. But I’m not done. That not me.”

[/i]The Celt clears his throat[/i]

“They want to box me...but giving up won’t change that. When you’re boxed in, you burst out. I’m going to burst out of this. FMW is such a hard place now...but I’m hard too. That’s who I am. I’m as hard as it takes. I’m human, I have limits but this is a test of that, not a rejection. The world is trying to get me down...but I won’t let. The World doesn’t control me, I control myself. They can’t box me in, I’m immune.”

Morrígan wipes away the tears from her face, then she strokes his face gently.

“I’m a man...they want to grind me down, but they can’t if I don’t let them. I’m beyond them. They can hurt me, but they’ll never break me.

Celt draws Morrígan’s forehead to his own.

“I’m sorry I said all that...sometimes even I have doubts and fears. They pushed me so hard tonight that they all came out...that’s not me Morrígan. I’m sorry.

“Besides, there’s something about me. Something I know I can do. It doesn’t matter whether I’m winning or I’m losing, I’m still winning. It’s not whether I beat the problem straight out, it’s the fact that I challenge it. And when I challenge, no-one challenges quite like I do.

Morrígan puts her hand on his shoulder, her thumb against the side of his neck.

“That right Celt, because I know who you are. You’re right, defeat isn’t you...so please don’t scare, please don’t make me think differently. You’re a good man Celt, you’re the man I love, and you can share anything with me. Don’t let them hide yourself from me, don’t let them make you ball your problems up. You’re not alone.”

Morrígan kisses him on the forehead

“Don’t ever forget that; you’re not alone. And don’t ever forget who you are a grá.

The scene fades as Celt lovingly kisses Morrígan. He’s renewed.

“You did it, PX!”


“Great Job, PX!”
It is the only word for it. The sweetness of victory in the form of a belt being clutched in his arms was almost cancelled out by the bitterness of the silence that ensued. PX sits in the corner of his locker room, knees against his chest. The Television title belt sat on his lap, with his arms around it. PX is experiencing unusual feelings. The first and foremost is success. To be a victor, it’s something PX has rarely known. To hold a physical representation of it in his hands too had a certain feel to it he has not known in a long time. He did not expect it to be so different from last time. The last time he held a belt, it was a surreal moment. PX recalled that moment of overwhelming joy, and the waves of congratulations he received thereafter. It was a night that PX will never forget. He recalled the happiness felt by both himself and those around him. It was sweetness. This time, the success tasted nothing like it.

The sound of the bell this time sent a cold streak through him. It was an odd feeling, but PX was happy nonetheless. It was returning to the back that was so much different. He returned to his locker room and sat there, and not a word was said to him. There was no congratulations. There was no feeling of happiness in the air from those around him this time. That made this time so much different. Nobody was happy for him, leaving PX bitter.

PX then recalled the bitterness he felt from his last title too. The following weeks were filled with anger that he could not escape NEW while all those around him graduated. He recollected the bitterness of it all, seeing his brother and tag team partner move on without him. It was then PX remembered the loneliness of being champion. Last time wasn’t so different after all.

“You’re the best, PX!”

The delusion continued. In the confines of his locker room, PX had only himself. He imitated the voices of others, and told himself all the things he wanted to hear. He could imitate the voices, but not the sincerity. He could wish for it, but nobody was going to come through his locker room door with a smile to congratulate him. He chose not to wait. PX stretched out his feet, and stood up.

“This is the life I chose.”

Ultimately, PX knew nobody would come. He wasn’t truly expecting somebody. He knew his own actions these past weeks made him the friend of none. But PX didn’t make those choices to have regrets. PX turned to the mirror in his locker room. He looked at himself holding the title. He felt a warmth.

“This is what my choices have brought me; Success.”

PX smiled. He raised the title aloft.

“I have earned this.”

For all the bitterness that accompanied it, it seemed the sweetness outweighed it in this moment. All his worries had vanished in that one instant, like they never existed. For one moment, he was on top of the world. Then he came crashing down to earth in an instant. A sudden realisation struck him like a punch to the gut. PX stared at himself with shock in his eyes. He has realised finally the destination of the journey he has been on.

“I know what I have to do”

After the time that has past, and all the soul searching PX has done, he has finally realised what he must do to discover himself. It occurred to him in a flash, and PX left his locker room. His locker resided at the end of a corridor. He walked past the locker rooms of other stars that have since left the building. There is nothing to be heard as PX passes through. PX is about to exit the corridor when he hears a noise. He comes to a full stop instantaneously. The noise was distinct; a sobbing noise. It is coming from the door next to PX. The door was sitting ajar. Written upon it is “The Celt”. PX peers in the door to see The Celt sitting on the floor of his shower, hanging his head. He is bruised and bloody. His arms are folding and resting on his knee. His face is blank. In every breath he exhales, the sound of the emotion he’s feeling can be heard, even over the sound of the water spraying from the shower head, thudding against his back and head.

Celt had never gotten emotional about defeat, in the depressing sense. He would usually take a loss on the chin, and keep moving forward, leaving it behind to memory, or maybe he’d be enraged at coming short, but PX is witnessing a different Celt today. There was something about his match that meant a lot to him. Celt was so sure of himself, and yet he has come short once again. Coming up empty handed after a serious effort wasn’t exactly something he wasn’t used to. He and PX had encountered it plenty over the past year together. But there’s something about this occasion that’s upsetting Celt.

“…I… Promised…”

Celt spoke to himself, reminding himself of his own words.

“I promised I’d beat him… I’m sorry.”

PX listened intently to Celt. He sat alone, yet heard him speak as if there were somebody listening.

“I’m sorry FMW. I have failed you.”

Celt is filled with remorse. He made a promise he could not keep. Now he has to sit alone, and live with his failure by himself. There is no one to comfort him. PX hadn’t seen Celt like this before. PX could do nothing, but stand idly by. Even if he wanted to, PX felt he would make things worse by showing up. Celt was just as alone as he was.

“Don’t worry brother, you won’t make any more mistakes soon enough…”

PX chose not to dwell over Celt any longer. There was no consolation he could offer. If they were to speak, it would not be on this day. He found Celt hard enough to speak to on the best of days at the best of times, to try it now would be a waste of time. PX departed from the lockers, and the arena.


PX is pacing down the sidewalk of a street like a business man with an important destination. His eyes were locked on the path in front of him. The sky is dark; the clouds have masked it from vision. The ground, the road, the pavement are all wet, evidence of the rain that fell earlier. PX moved with a destination in mind. He followed the path down the street until he could do so no more. He reached a dead end. The road stopped at a barricade of sorts; a metal railing prevents the road moving any further, for it has reached the beach. PX spun around.

“You again…”

PX walked forward slowly. He could see a silhouette standing in the middle of a road. Though he could not make out the face, he already knew who it was.

“Hello, Brother”

Celt called out to PX from the distance.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I know you aren’t really him.”

PX spoke back in anger. He was expecting Celt to appear. His mind had created that image of Celt that he was seeing. This, PX was sure of. To PX, it felt like this mirage of Celt represented his doubt. It always questioned his motives. But then, so did the real Celt.

“I know who I am, brother. The question is, do you?”

PX smirked.

“You’re always full of questions. Well, brother, to be honest with you, if you had asked me last week, I wouldn’t have known. But I think I’ve realised finally what it is I have to do now to find out.”

PX walked up to Celt. Celt turned accordingly, and the two walked down the street.

“Please, tell me your plans, if you are so sure.”

One thing PX was aware of when speaking to the figment next to him, and actually talking to Celt was that this one spoke more softly, and without the ad-libs that living in Ireland will give you.

“The weeks that have past by, they haven’t been easy. I’ve distanced myself from you, everyone in fact. I planned to do something horrible. But any time I thought of something, there was something wrong with that idea. Nothing felt like enough, like it needed to be more evil. Then I questioned doing this at all. I wondering if distancing from you was the right choice.”

“So, have you reconsidered this tirade then? Because I‘m willing to forgive if you are.”

PX smirked again, then shook his head.

“Not quite. I did question my departure, but then things changed. I‘m someone I‘ve never been before; a winner, a success. And you know what? It feels so good, to be a champion. To have all my work recognised finally, it’s a great feeling. And it‘s what I‘ve achieved without you.”

“But this is something I knew you were always capable of. You didn‘t need to separate from me to win this!”

“But then why did it only happen now? Why is it without that this suddenly happened? It wasn‘t with your help either. I did this on my own.”

Celt sighs.

“It doesn’t seem like I can change your mind. You really feel like you can be more successful without me. That‘s your choice I guess. But we didn’t need to depart on such poor terms. I don‘t see why we must apart now.”

Another difference between the two Celt’s, is that this one is less temperamental. He asked the right questions of PX, the ones that provoked his thoughts.

“You’re a man of the law. I am someone looking to commit a heinous crime. That’s why. You and I, we will not be allies ever again. That is how it shall forever be. ”

Celt reaches out, and places a hand on PX, much to his shock. He touched him! He can feel it, the course skin of Celt’s hand touch his shoulder. How can this be? A mirage can’t touch somebody! Could this be him, is Celt really standing in front of him? PX had been making mental notes during their conversation of the differences between the real and imaginary Celt, but it seems like he was wrong.

“Never say never, brother. You shouldn’t burn bridges.”

The two have stopped walking. The two are staring into each others eyes. Celt’s face has a calm demeanour, while PX’s is more in shock. He’s speechless, and his forehead is creased with lines. It must be the actual Celt, not the one he spoke to on the beach.

“I didn’t want this to happen, but it is.”

PX begins walking again, and Celt follows suit.

“It doesn’t have to be this way”

Celt searches PX’s face for an answer, but doesn’t get one. PX stays silent, and a minute passes before the silence breaks.

“I think I’ll tell you what I’m planning to do now.”

Celt nods, allowing PX to continue without responding.

“I’ve thought about it a lot. In fact, it’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about. It’s plagued my mind for a long time now. I never realised that the answer I searched for was right in from of me the whole time.”

Showtime…

Celt was looking ahead of himself, not at PX as he had been doing earlier. He just listened on, watching his step.

“I’ve thought about who it is people look up to, who it is people cared for. I wondered who was the hero of the people, who stood up for them. The answer was so obvious I’ve looked over it from thinking about it too long. I’ve decided to take away the hero from the people around us. I’m taking the law from the people.”

Celt gasps.

“Wait, wha-?!”

Celt came to a halt, and his head shot over to PX, or rather, where PX was. PX had stopped moving a second before him. PX stood directly behind Celt, holding .44 magnum to the back of his head. Celt’s heart rate shot up. He started sweating immediately. His eyes glanced down to his belt, to find his holster empty. PX had taken his weapon, but when? It happened in a flash, Celt missed it entirely! Did he take it in that moment? Did he steal it earlier? The questions ran through his mind. He daren’t move. PX had fire in his eyes. Celt could only look at PX through the corner of one of his eyes, his turned as much as it would.

“I’m sorry brother, but this is what it has come to.”

“Wait, no stop! Why?”

“I’ve thought about this long and hard. Think about it; you are my brother, you are the law, you are the beacon of hope to all in FMW. You are their idol. You are the perfect target. There are a lot of good people in the world. There‘s guys like Barack, there’s the Pope, but to be honest, I‘m not much of a travelling guy. So I decided it needed to be someone nearby, for the sake of convenience. It had to be you. When I pull this trigger I‘ll finally know what person I am. ”

“And what if you were wrong?! What if you’re a good person in the end after all, and you’ve made the wrong choice? Will you live with that your whole life, knowing you killed your own brother?!”

Celt was clearly distressed in his tone, and he had every right to be. His life was lying in the balance.

“That’s the risk I’m willing to take. I have to know, so just don’t make this harder than it is! This has to happen!”

PX too was very distressed. His hand was shaking violently. Droplets of sweat rolled down his brow.

“James please don’t! You don’t have to do this! This is me, your own flesh, we‘re talking about!”

Celt spins around to look PX straight in the eyes. PX’s eyes are bulging, and his eyebrow is quivering above his eye. The pressure was immense.

“Just put it down, please! Gods, what is going through your mind?!”

PX’s mind is clear. He is simply staring at Celt, all he can think of is the trigger.

“I know things have been tough but we haven’t come to this! Brother please, I lov-

BANG!

The sound of the hammer smashing against the bullet in the barrel echoed through the street at deafening volume, startling birds perched nearby. The bullet tore through the skull of The Celt, before re-emerging at the other side, bringing bone, brain and blood out with it. Celt collapsed to the floor. PX stood still like a statue. Blood leaked from his head, soaking into the pavement beneath. The silence returned, and only PX’s heavy breathing could be heard. His eyes are shut.

“It’s done.”

But as his eyes re-opened, Celt was nowhere to be seen. There was no body, no blood, no gun in his hand. PX looked at his hands; empty.

“I should have known.”

PX’s plan remained incomplete. But he had proven one thing to himself; when the time comes, he’ll be able to pull the trigger. PX quickly calmed down, his senses returned to normal, his adrenaline stopped flowing and his breathing returned to normal. He sighed, and sat down on the road.

“One I will know the truth. One day I’ll know who I am. All I have to do is get rid of The Celt. That is my goal. ”

(We see a blank white room. The Big Ugly Guy stands in the middle of this white room.)

Bug: Where am I? What is this place?

Voice: It’s your mind.

Bug: My mind?

Voice: Yes, this is what goes on in your mind. Nothing. It’s just a blank slate.

Bug: That’s not true. I have hopes and dreams. I dream all the time.

Voice: I’ll correct myself then. This was your mind. This was your mind after your accident. This was your mind when you were a monster.

Bug: I was never a monster. Bob Babaganoosh tried to turn me into a monster but that’s not what I am.

Voice: It is what you will become. You are a disfigured person. Nobody loves you. You are hated by all. People want to throw stuff at you and call you names.

Bug: You lie. The fans cheer me on. They don’t think I’m a monster.

Voice: WHY DON’T YOU WANT TO BE A MONSTER?!

Bug: It’s not who I am.

Voice: You wouldn’t feel pain though. You’d have ultimate power.

Bug: That’s not what I want.

Voice: It’s what you need.

Bug: I’d rather die than become something I am not.

Voice: You are already barely human. You were a mangled man who was saved. You shouldn’t even be alive. You are an abomination.

Bug: I was given a second chance to make the world a better place. I was given the opportunity to do something with my life. I will make the most out of what I was given.

Voice: Yes. You will when you become the monster that you need to be.

Bug: Enough with the monster talk already. You can’t make me into a monster.

Voice: We’ll see about that.

(The white room changes around The Big Ugly Guy. The Big Ugly Guy is now strapped to a chair. Two men appear in the room with a little boy.)

Bug: What is this? What is going on?

Boy: Help me, Big Ugly Guy.

(The two men both strike the boy in the face.)

Bug: STOP. What are you guys doing? Wait, I know that boy. I worked with him on a commercial.

Man 1: We know this. We also know you became good friends with this boy. This boy even calls himself your biggest fan.

Man 2: That’s why we have to kill him.

Bug: Kill him? Are you insane?

Man 2: That’s a stupid question. We are threatening a boy. Of course we are insane.

Man 1: Why don’t you try and stop us?

Bug: I would but you two have me strapped to this chair.

Man 1: That is quite that problem isn’t it.

Man 2: Perhaps if you let out your anger and became a monster, then you might be able to stop us.

Bug: I won’t become a monster.

Man 1: That’s too bad.

(The first man shoots the little boy in the leg. The boys screams and cries can be heard throughout the room.)

Bug: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

Man 2: Is that good language to use around a little boy? Especially your biggest fan. Perhaps you could stop us from shooting him again if you let out your anger.

Bug: No, I won’t.

Man 1: You’d rather let this boy die than letting out your anger and stopping us.

Bug: I know this isn’t real. This is a dream or something. It has to be. How else could the room change around me?

Man 2: Aren’t you a smart one? I guess you better hope this is a dream then.

(The second man shoots the boy in the head instantly killing him.)

Man 2: The blood is on your hands.

Bug: No. That boy isn’t real. You guys aren’t real. None of this is real.

Man 1: Let’s see.

(The first man shoots Big Ugly Guy in the head. Everything goes black and the Big Ugly Guy awakens in front of a mirror.)

Bug: What the hell is going on? A mirror? Where’s my reflection?

Mirror: Here.

Bug: That’s not me. That looks nothing like me.

Mirror: It’s who you were.

Bug: I looked like that.

Mirror: Yes. You had a normal face. A normal body. You were normal. You weren’t a freak.

Bug: I never saw myself as a freak.

Mirror: I see you as a freak. I look at you and wonder what the hell happened to me. I somehow became a monster.

Bug: I’M NOT A MONSTER!

Mirror: Yes. You are a monster. An big, ugly MONSTER. I hate what I became. I could have had it all if I would have just listened.

Bug: Listened to who?

Mirror: Our brother. Our brother always thought we were a failure. We never did what he wanted. We could have had it all and we threw it away. Instead we went and watched wrestling. A sport that our brother despised. A sport our brother thinks should be destroyed. All we ever thought about was wrestling and it killed whatever big career we could have had.

Bug: Wrestling gave us a big career though. We became a star in wrestling and TV.

Mirror: We could have had so much more though if we listened to our brother. We could have had enough money to get us through life. Wrestling got you nowhere. Just like your rapping career. Another failure of your life.

Bug: I admit that rapping was a mistake but all I’ve ever wanted to be was a wrestler.

Mirror: Then why did you consider quitting not too long ago?

Bug: I had lost my edge. It wasn’t fun to me anymore. Bob Babaganoosh annoyed me to the point where I hated wrestling. Bob Babaganoosh? Is he our brother?

Mirror: So you finally figured it out.

Bug: Just like Empire.

Mirror: Our brother hated Star Wars too.

Bug: He hates everything.

Mirror: But he was right about everything.

Bug: No, he wasn’t right about anything.

Mirror: How can you say that? He always tried to do what was best for you.

Bug: That’s his own twisted opinion. He is the real monster. Not me.

Mirror: You’re wrong. You are a fuckup and a failure.

Bug: I am not.

Mirror: You are. You are an abomination. A MONSTER.

Bug: NOOOO!!!!!

(The room changes again. The room is white again. The Big Ugly Guy is now faced with Bob Babaganoosh standing in front of him.)

Bob: Hello, little brother. It’s time you finally figured out the truth. I figured this was the best way to bring out the monster in you.

Bug: By showing me what a truly evil man you are?

Bob: I’m not an evil man. I’m just a guy that knows what it takes to get to the top.

Bug: Really?

Bob: Yes. I’m one of the richest people in the world. The one man I can thank is myself. Now, why don’t you release your anger already and become a monster. Take a shot at me if you have to.

Bug: No.

Bob: Yes. You must. You owe me. You wouldn’t even be alive if it wasn’t for me. I knew you were a failure when you were younger but I thought I could finally change you. The only problem was that I fixed you up too much. You became too smart again. I should have just kept you a mindless idiot. Instead, I let you talk and you once again became a failure. I probably should have just let you die.

Bug: Like you let our father die.

Bob: What? What are you talking about?

Bug: Ever sense I saw my old self, my memories came back. I now recall a scene where you accidentally shot our father. Instead of doing anything though, you just let him die.

Bob: So that’s why you really ran away to pursue a rap career. You knew what had happened. The real reason we got our inheritance.

Bug: Yes, I remember it all.

Bob: Lucky for me, I had the power to make it look like someone else had did it.

Bug: You monster.

Bob: Perhaps. Oh, it wasn’t an accident either. I shot our bastard of a father and watched him die. All for the money.

Bug: You son of a bitch.

Bob: That’s how you gain power in this world. You through it all away though. I wanted us to rule together but you ran out. You used your inheritance on nothing. Now I will make sure you use it for good finally. You will help me destroy the professional wrestling industry once and for all.

Bug: What is your beef with pro wrestling? Why do you want it dead so much?

Bob: You finally want the real reason. It’s because of our father. Our father actually lined up a professional wrestling tryout for you before I killed him.

Bug: He did?

Bob: Yes. He never did anything like that for me. He always hated me. That’s why he got what he deserved.

Bug: Our dad loved you. He saw you as an heir to his throne. He figured you could handle that job. He knew I wasn’t cut for this business so he probably wanted me to do what he knew I loved.

Bob: Maybe I didn’t want this life though. Maybe I didn’t want to live my life in our father’s shadow. I wanted to make my own name for myself. That’s exactly what I did too. No longer was I looked upon as our father’s son. I was looked at as Bob Babaganoosh. President of my own business. One of the wealthiest men in the world. That’s why I hate pro wrestling. That’s why I hate you. Now I will turn you into a monster myself.

Bug: I won’t let that happen.

(The Big Ugly Guy wakes. He’s restrained to a table with doctors five or six doctors hovering around him. Bob Babaganoosh is also tied to a table but is being released.)

Bob: That was all real. Just in your head. Now, I will finally turn you into a monster. Doctors, do your thing.

Bug: I won’t be turned into a monster. I WILL STOP YOU THOUGH.

(The Big Ugly Guy breaks from his restraints. He immediately knocks out the two nearest doctors.)

Bob: SECURITY.

(About ten guards run into the room. They grab The Big Ugly Guy but he breaks free. He grabs a gun from the nearest security guard. He starts shooting all guards dead.)

Bob: Good. That’s the monster I want. I’ve killed some people in my day but never like that. Join me and we can kill FMW.

Bug: I’ll never kill for you. I will kill you however.

(The Big Ugly Guy points the gun at Bob and pulls the trigger. He’s out of bullets though.)

Bob: That’s a tough break. My gun however is fully loaded. Join me or die.

Bug: Kill me.

Bob: Fine.

(Bob points his gun at The Big Ugly Guy, but The Big Ugly Guy grabs the gun. A few shots are fired into the air. The Big Ugly Guy gets a hold of Bob’s head and he breaks his neck. Bob Babaganoosh is dead.)

Bug: I’m sorry, Bob. It had to happen. I won’t become a monster. Well, I have no way to cover this up. I guess I’ll just do what I have to do. I’ll wrestle my last match and then turn myself in. I’d rather be in jail then become what Bob wanted me to become.

(End Scene.)

Once, when I was two years old, my father told me a story about vampires. He told me about how Dracula would turn into a bat and find an unsuspecting victim and then turn back into a humanoid and then strike- biting them on the neck and draining their blood. He told me about how he had an enormous castle in Transylvania, and how it was on a cliff. He told me of many different ways Dracula would take care of his victims. Sometimes he used stealth. Sometimes he didn’t. It was said that Dracula would go to great lengths to draw blood, and while I may not be a vampire it would seem we have at least one thing in common. Lust for blood is a very beautiful thing.

When I was five, my father…left the family. Not just how any normal father would leave his family, oh no, he died. My mother shot him three times in the chest, right in front of me, with a .9mm pistol. After all the stories my Father had told me, my imagination took over and I could think only one thing, my Mother was a vampire. Knowing what to do from the stories I had been told I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and, well, poked my Mother. As small as I was it was no surprise that I couldn't even stab through denim. Mother just looked at me, gave me a sideways little smile and struck me with the gun. I woke up in the hospital, and to this day I still don’t know how I ended up there. I do know however, that my mother never came to see me. What kind of mother does that to their child?

I guess it turned out that she was running from the cops after murdering my dad.

So, when I was fifteen they finally got her. She was holed up in some house in Arkansas.
While they were searching for her, I was living with a different family. Nice people. The entire family was comprised of two parents, three kids, and then me.
More on this tale will be delved into another day.

The media these days has become little more than a matter of contention for the public. They always start the evening news with a hearty “Good evening!” and then explain in great detail as to why it isn’t so great. As I watched the news with my childhood friends Lisa-Marie Jenkins and Donovan Horne, we discussed the very thing that I was never fully interested in; Vampires. While the anchorman was busy reporting, we were busy talking as if we didn’t care about the murder on 4th Street.


Donovan: Dude, so I hear that you finally got signed to FMW? Is this right?

Sean: Yes.

Lisa-Marie: That’s great to hear. Just gotta stay away from the drugs and such, and you’ll be alright.

Donovan: Lisa….c’mon girl, that’s a low blow for a guy like me.

Lisa-Marie: Sorry Don-Don, but you know how I feel about that stuff.

Sean: Guys. Let’s stay on the subject of my opponent.

Donovan and Lisa looked at each other and sighed. I could tell that they weren’t interested in talking about vampires. Donovan was a pot junkie, and after his parents died in a car crash he had no one to depend on. So he turned to drugs, and that’s when Lisa and I took him into our lives. Lisa is straight-edge. They would much rather bicker with each other about that topic than help me study something as trivial as vampires. Great friends though, but they let themselves at each other when the moment is not opportune.

Donovan: Right. Um…so Edward Cullen and that werewolf guy…

Lisa-Marie: I don’t think that’s what he meant…

Donovan: Yeah, I've totally never seen Twilight...

Donovan twiddled his thumbs nervously, clearly hiding his love for The Twilight Saga.

Sean: Alistair Wolfe.

Donovan: What about him?

Sean: He’s my opponent and the reason why we’re attempting to have a discussion about vampires. He’s the reason why I’m stressing over this while you two are battling each other about meaningless things. He’s the reason why I called you guys together to get some advice. Since you guys are just berating yourselves, I see that I may have made the wrong choice. Get a grip on yourselves or I’ll do this alone.

They looked at each other as if they just heard an explosion. They knew that I was dead serious.[/b]

Donovan: I’m sorry bro.

Lisa-Marie: As am I, hun. We let ourselves get out of hand.

Sean: Thanks, but seriously have either of you seen this guy, y'know, any of his matches?

Lisa-Marie: No.

Donovan: Nah...I was probably too stoned to figure it out.

[i]Donovan pulled a joint from his pocket, exhibiting more of his nervous reactions.

Sean: Clearly.

I got up and walked to the window and I opened it as a gentle breeze caressed my face, and the bright sun shone into my face causing me to squint. Donovan was startled by the light, Lisa embraced it. That’s one of the many things I like about these guys. We’re all so different, but we’ve also got each other’s backs. I hate everyone, except for Lisa and Donovan. They’ve saved my life and have showed me the way to treat people that aren’t family or friends, or in this case; human.

Lisa-Marie: Why don’t you just bring a silver cross, or a wooden stake?

Sean: It won’t be that easy, Lisa.

Lisa-Marie: And why not?

Sean: He’s not that kind of vampire. Or so he says.

Lisa-Marie: Meaning?

Sean: He’s not the typical vampire that transforms into a bat. He’s not Dracula.

Donovan: SO HE SPARKLES IN THE SUNLIGHT?

Right about there, I wanted to smack Donovan for being such a dumbass. But I couldn’t, not with his problems. So I instead just ignored him as Lisa buried her face in her hand.

Lisa-Marie: What am I going to do with you Don-Don?

Sean: Just ignore him for now. If he’s going to be spacing out during a serious conversation, let him do it.

Donovan slumped his shoulders and hung his head.

Donovan: Aw man…

Sean: Lisa, will you and Donovan come down to the ring with me? I may use some underhanded tactics if I can’t find Alistair’s weakness.

Lisa-Marie: Sean, you know I don’t like cheating in anything.

Donovan: Hold it. That’s not what-

Lisa-Marie: Can it, Donovan. I don’t want nor need to relive that situation.

Sean: You guys are driving me nuts. I have to prepare for a match and you guys keep battling each other over nothing. I love you two to death, you’re my family, but this isn’t what I need now. I need to know, are you guys going to come with me to the ring and help me? Or do I have to go through this alone?

They both thought about it while I began to walk to the front door.

Donovan: I’m in. What about you Lisa?

Lisa-Marie: I don’t know Donovan. Sean, I think it’s better if I just watch from home.

She folded her arms and looked out the window and took a deep breath. I could already see what her answer was, it was in her eyes.

Lisa-Marie: I don’t want to get involved with your wrestling career. So…no.

I rolled my eyes, then looked to Donovan.

Sean: I knew I could count on you Donovan.

Donovan looked torn between his two best friends, it was clearly obvious. I opened the door and walked out before I slammed it shut.

I spread the fuel with fire
Desire
To incinerate all
Behold I rise
Phoenix, phoenix

Ascend above the ashes
Ascend above it all
Ascend above the ashes
Ascend above it all

I was walking the city at night. The cool air around me, the quiet streets oddly calming my senses, the businesses closing as the owners go home to enjoy the rest of the night. There was no one on the street I was on besides me. Or so I thought. I felt a presence behind me, I saw shadows and I kept hearing another person breathing. Then the footsteps…I heard footsteps behind me. I just kept calm, as there was no reason to be alarmed. I could hold my own in a street fight. I figured it was just an animal or something. Perhaps a raccoon, but I couldn’t be too sure. I’m used to people jumping me. I’m used to it all.

Still, I with my match coming up, I couldn’t help but wonder.

Sean: Alistair, stop trying to be silent. I can hear you, and you are not a very good vampire. Show yourself or I’ll just come find you.

I stood there and waited. I kept hearing things. It couldn’t have been my brain playing tricks on me, could it? I thought I was just too focused on the match, but he could’ve been there.

Sean: Do you honestly think that I’m afraid? You’re pulling the same thing they do in the movies. Stalking someone in the darkness, it’s unoriginal. If you want a fight, Alistair, I won’t hesitate to start one right now. Show yourself, Wolfe! You’re little more than a year long Halloween prop, and interest in you will wear off quickly. All you can do is drink blood, and lurk in shadows. Show me something that I’ve never seen before. Until then, you’re just another poser.

I began becoming infuriated with the shadow not revealing itself. I began throwing things around. I took a garbage can and threw it against the wall, hoping to entice the shadow to meet me face to face, still nothing. I was enraged.

Sean: I’m getting sick of you already, Wolfe. You must take me as one of those guys who joined wrestling just to hurt people. The fact is, Wolfe, that I’m here on more important matters. However, I would absolutely love to kill you in the ring. I’d love to make it look like an accident, and I know you’d love to do the same to me. You’d love to drink the blood that flows through these veins. If you really are a vampire, you’d make your move right now. You’d come strike me down, and bury your fangs into my neck.

I waited for about another five minutes, still no one.

Sean: You’re done now, Wolfe.

I punched through a window and an alarm went off, but I didn’t just high-tail it to safety. I just walked casually past the store. I had other things on my mind, and being worried about a court appearance wasn’t one of them. This is the Carter Era, and this is my time. Alistair Wolfe, I will send you back to whatever “castle” you came from. I will stab a stake through your chest. I will use a cross against you. I’ll take your fucking head. I will back up all these statements in the ring, and I will leave you in the middle with your eyes staring at the ceiling and the fans will acknowledge that you are a fake. True vampires should never have competition, and I will prove what a fraud you are. You are not the vampire my father spoke of years ago. You are nothing.