FMW 10.2 VOTING & PROMO THREAD

The coat blew and twisted in the wind flowing slowly in the breeze of the man’s pace. His steps fell erratically switching his pacing from fast to slow, changing with every rise and fall of his feet. Words mumbled from his lips falling deaf upon the ears of all those around him as he meandered down the street. Side to side he moved, not necessarily dodging oncoming pedestrians, just too encapsulated in his own thoughts to maintain consistent movement.

How could it turn out like this?

His eyes darted around often meeting the eyes of others before quickly pulling away and returning to the scrambled thoughts pouring through his mind. The turmoil that permeated his mind began seeping into his body. He could feel it coursing through his body like a poison unable to be purged. All around him the conversations existed. As though they stemmed from the very air itself and assaulted his ear drums relentlessly/

They don’t know what they’ve done. They don’t know how far past the lines they are.

In his head he could hear the brief voices of all those he passed. Some talking on their phones, some commenting to those they walked with, others merely commenting on the man that had just walked into them. It was her voice that caught him though. It rang through his head dispersing the other voices and his own as well. Silence suddenly overcame him save for her small voice ringing in his ears.

Where is that coming from?

He glanced around searching for the root of the voice still unable to find the girl the small noise was emanating from. In his frantic search he felt instinct kick in and the voice of the small girl rise suddenly before falling silent. Looking down he saw the knife in his hand, the tip covered and dripping in blood. On the ground lay a small girl, no older than ten years old, blood flowing from an open wound in her chest. The sea of flowing red stained the yellow shirt the small girl wore as she lay dead against the cold cement sidewalk.

Shit. Shit. Shit...

The man shot up in bed, the words barely escaping his lips between deep heaving breaths. The air sucked in deep between his teeth breezing across his cracked lips. His dry lips pulled apart with the wetness of his tongue as it danced across a mouth still fighting to bring air into his lungs.

“The nightmare again?”

A warm hand albeit tiny, caressed the man’s back. The fingertips slowly drew circles around the skin, dancing and tracing around each vertebrae up towards the base of the man’s neck. The mere touch of the woman’s hand slowed the man’s breathing, his heart rate resuming a normal beat after several seconds of laboured breaths.

It’s always the same. Every night. I see it over and over again what must be a hundred times a night. I would love to never have to feel that knife slipping into her chest. I would love to never hear her voice fading away ever again.

“I know babe. I wish I could make the pain all go away.”

Me too Kath.

...

...

...me too.

The man collapsed back down into bed. He had been clenching his jaw in his sleep, the throbbing pain in his temples told him that much. For a second he debated whether or not to move before finally pulling himself out of bed. It was best to move as much as he could before Katherine got too comfortable, he didn’t want to wake her anymore than he normally did.

Fumbling in the darkness the man flicked on the lights in the Master Bathroom sliding the door shut allowing only a tiny glimmer of the faint yellow light to escape. Unwinding the top of the Advil bottle the man gently shook two into his palm before turning the faucet on. Allowing the water to get cold the man dipped his head down to the tap taking a drink before popping an Advil into his liquid filled mouth. With water dripping from his chin the man got a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His brown hair hung in front of his face, the tips wet from water from the tap. His eyes, a piercing shade of green appeared racked with torment as he brushed the hair from his face, pulling it back across the top of his head.

With a heaving sigh the man emerged from the bathroom, his fingers hesitated on the light switch as he watched the woman peacefully sleeping in his bed. In their bed.

...Kath...

It had seemed like months since Katherine and Charlie had moved into the house. It had been longer since Thomas had died. Hookton had been his closest friend and neighbour for so long, and in turn Katherine and Charlie Hookton had become large parts of this man’s life. When Thomas was taken from the world Katherine turned to him for comfort, for stability, for Charlie. It was from there that their relationship blossomed. He had loved her from the very day he met her, from the very day he befriended her husband. And in time she had come to express that love in return.

He had been the first to offer help when finances got troubling. But that was in the past.

He had been the first to welcome them into his home. But that was in the past.

He had been the first to avenge her rape. But that was in the past.

Now he had her. He loved her. He loved her son as his own. But she would always be Katherine Hookton. The love of his life and the representation of everything he had lost, and all he had gained.

Flicking off the lights in the bathroom he drew a hand up tracing it across his sternum while meandering back to his bed. It felt like his whole body collapsed into sleep the moment his feet left the ground as consciousness faded quickly with the light breathing from the woman beside him.

In his absence from his old life he had become many things. He had returned to the world of Academia as a Professor. He had taken the Religious world by storm with his latest piece of “Fiction” and in turn branded a Heretic by the Catholic Church. Beyond that the nightmares still plagued him as an insomniac was added the list of things he had become. It was this inability to sleep at night that led him to the places he travelled. It took him to new places and drew him close to new people. It drew him to people he disliked and people that certainly hated him. But it drew him close to humanity, a closeness he had missed for such a long time. To be able to hear the people rushing by, conversing in their own worlds, he had finally begun to enjoy what humanity offered again.

Most of all, what he had become was a father. He had legally adopted Charlie as his son after Thomas was murdered and while Charlie was little more than two he was old enough to remember his father. A memory this man had no intention of doing anything but honouring.

For too long he had done harm to the world. He had taken and given nothing in return. Now was his chance to give every facet of himself and take nothing, to devote himself to even attempting to atone for what he had done. He knew he never could, but that was a burden only he would bear.

...Fuck

The man rose up from bed, no more than 15 minutes after falling asleep, whispering curses under his breath. Involuntarily he drew up his left hand across his face massaging both his temples while his mind raced.

This isn’t happening, not tonight. I just want to sleep.

Removing his hand from the side of his head the man looked up towards the ceiling drawing his eyes tightly closed before opening them to focus his vision.

Please, just one night’s sleep, that’s all I’m asking.

Tossing the sheets off of his body and heaping them on top of the sleeping Katherine, the man rose out of the bed. With feet touching the cold hardwood floor below he quietly crept out of his room. In the darkness he carefully moved down the hall, cautiously stepping over the sprawled Duck Toller known as Hektor at the base of the stairs. Entering the room just beyond he listened carefully to the slow breathing from the bed.

The moon’s light shone dimly into the room illuminating the brown haired child soundly sleeping in the bed. Often when he couldn’t sleep the man would come in and sit with the child. The slow, carefree breathing of the young Charlie Hookton seemed to ease the beat of the man’s heart.

It’s a shame you will never know him personally Charlie, you’re father was a great man. Without question or hesitation he could put his own life on the line to protect others. It didn’t matter how others perceived him, so long as he was doing the right thing he didn’t care.

A small noise squeaked out of the child’s lips as he rolled over, his back turning to the man sitting in the chair at the edge of his room.

There were many times when Thomas came to me looking for advice, for guidance and I always did what I could. And...fuck...I wish he were here now, I need him more than I ever allowed myself to express. I wish I could have been even half the man that Thom was, for you, for your mother and for myself. He exuded greatness from every facet of his being and me, well I’m just an empty carapace. A husk, a shell of what a man could...of what a man should be.

The man’s head fell to his shoulders, his chin digging deep into his chest. The bottom of his jaw dug into the “H” carved into the very bones of the man’s chest. A heavy sigh escaped his lips between the rise and fall of his burdened shoulders.

In a reaction that would have startled most, save for those who had lived through hell, the wind burst against the bedroom window. It rapped against the glass panes shaking them violently before falling still, gently pushing one side of the window open.

Yeah, yeah...I get it.

Rising from the rocking chair in the corner the man made his way to the open window to shut it. Resting one palm against the edge of the frame the man leaned forward grasping the open window before noticing something out of the corner of his eye. The street was pitch black. All the lamp posts had been turned off save for one flashing bulb about 10 posts down the street. The flash was slow and methodical before flashing quickly then resuming it’s slow pace. The man watched from his window, staring at the flashing light before finally shutting the window, returning to this room.

Alone he stood, silently in the darkness contemplating his next move. Many things had changed in his life. Everything had changed in his life. But he knew when to take a hint. Quietly he snuck back into his bedroom and slipped on his dress pants from earlier in the day, buttoned up his shirt and exited the bedroom. Grabbing a woollen pea coat from the hall closet the man swung open the oaken front doors, stepping out into the cold winters night.

Silently he walked the street toward the flashing light as memories flashed through his mind. A thousand times he had walked the streets at this hour. A thousand times he had done it with malevolence and malice. A thousand times he had taken a life this late at night. Finally he walked the street at peace.

For the record, this isn’t very subtle. I thought you were sticking with the whole “Do something well enough and no one will know you’ve done anything at all routine?”

The light above the man ceased flashing, casting the remainder of the street into darkness. As his eyes rolled back and forth looking for any sign of life it was his ears that made first contact. It was distant and barely audible but it was there. In the distance it was there, a faint scream.[ /i]

Just when you think you’re done with it all eh?

[i]It was almost instinctive. His legs began propelling him down the street, his arms pumping in rhythm with his legs, while his heart separated itself, maintaining a low steady beat. It was instinct that carried him around corners, over bushes, through yards and over fences. It was instinct that brought him standing at the mouth of the alley. It was instinct that saw him lower his head casting a shadow across his eyes. And it was instinct that brought a very familiar smile to his face.

Hello Boys.

In front of him stood four men. While two stood guard staring directly at the man at the mouth of the alley, the other two were on the ground behind them. With a knife, a Sharpfinger to be exact, placed at the base of one of the men’s neck, the other attempted to have his way with him. The man at the mouth of the alley didn’t know the cause, but he did know the solution.

I’d stop what you’re doing.

“Or what?”

“These street are ours, dontcha watch the news bub.”

They were right. Crime had been on the rise in the City. There was no one to keep people fearful, no one to keep the larger players at bay. It had all been at the hands of a single madman before, but he was gone...now a thousand other players had stepped up to the plate. Now the City was in ruins, the police were useless against the amount of crime waving through the streets.

That I do. But for every hundred of you, there’s one of me. And that’s all it takes.

With a widening smile the man at the mouth of the alley pulled the woollen pea coat off of his arms. As the two men guarding the rapist moved closer he slowly folded the jacket placing it on the ground. As he rose he began to unbutton the sleeves of his shirt, tediously rolling them up to cause minimal winkles, the smile never fading from his lips.

“Oh yeah bubs, what does that make you?”

I thought you’d never ask. It’s simple really.

“Oh yah smartass?”

But I’d rather you find out another way.

The man deftly dodged the first thrown punch quickly placing one hand on the man’s forearm and the other pressing upwards on the elbow quickly and cleanly popping it out of its joint.

Though I’ll give you a hint. You and your group are nothing more than a disease, a plague on this city. A plague brought on by a void I created.

Writhing in pain the first of the attackers collapsed to the ground as the second was already on the move towards the man. As the fallen attacker rolled on the ground the man from the mouth of the alley caught a glimpse of a tattoo wrapping around his neck. A giant worm with its mouth agape resting on the man’s Adam’s apple. The next attacker was steps away and once again the worm tattoo was visible on the second man.

The first fist connected with the shoulder of the man from the mouth of the alley turning him slightly as he continued to measure his opponent. The pain shot through his shoulder yet his facial expression remained stoic, refusing to show the signs of pain.

Your entire purpose it to conquer and tear apart the very foundation that is beginning to re-establish itself. Nothing more than an infection, a contaminant in My City.

Instinct took over as the next punch glanced off a forearm tearing and cauterizing the skin instantly while the man at the mouth of the alley ducked under the third thrown punch.

Moving in close underneath the extended arm the man brought his knee into the solar plexus of the attacker keeling him over.

The man’s rising elbow caught the attacker squarely in the bottom of the jaw rolling him backwards onto the frozen ground behind. With a simple soccer kick to the chest the man from the mouth of the alley surveyed the two fallen attackers at his feet before turning his attention to the man who had been raping the other, who was now rising to this feet and buttoning his pants.

“You made a big fuckin’ mistake douchebag. This City is ours now! Whoever you think you are you haven’t been payin’ no attention to nothin’. That laughin’ Psycho is gone and the cops are nothing more than useless twats with their Billy clubs up their asses. All that leaves is us, the groundwork has already been laid we’re just picking up the piece. Like I said, the City is ours!”

Wrong.

With a strike to the forearm the man knocked the knife out of the hand of the rapist sending it sprawling across the concrete earth. The next punch thrown by the man caught the rapist in the neck squarely in the fanged mouth of the worm tattoo, a poorly aimed face shot.

“You think you can stop this? You think you can end it all with this fuckin’ vigilante justice?!”

This.

The man from the mouth of the alley brought his left fist crashing into the face of the rapist. The skin burned on his knuckles as it grazed across the cheekbone before pulling sharply back into a fighting stance.

City.

The right elbow rose driving directly into the nose of the attacker shattering it instantly. The spray of crimson blood spattered across the shirt of the man from the mouth of the alley.

Is.

The attacker stumbled backwards, his vision blurring against the shattered bones consisting of what was once his nose. The attack that followed sent him crumpling to the ground as the man from the mouth of the alley’s foot buried itself into the kneecap of the rapist. The pressure against his knee brought him crashing to the ground beneath as the suited man caught the rapist once again with a knee in the jaw splaying him out against the cold ground.

Mine!

“Who are...you...?”

From cracked teeth the man spoke struggling against the foot placed upon his throat. He could feel the vomit rising in his chest as he squirmed and fought to keep it down while simultaneously bringing air into his lungs.

Hold that thought.

The fist of the man from the alley caught the rapist again in the nose, eliciting a scream and a desperate but vain attempt to remain conscious. Reaching into his pocket the man from the mouth of the alley drew a cell phone into the night air. With a reminiscent flick of the wrist the cell phone slid open as the numbers 9-1-1 were punched into the phone.

“911, What’s your emergency?”

The voice crackled to life through the phone rushing over the heavy breathing noises of the man on the ground.

I’ve witnessed an attempted rape and a physical assault at the corner of Barlow and 32nd.

The man could hear the voice on the phone asking for more information, the word “Sir?” being repeated over and over. Sliding the back of the phone free from its encasing the man popped the SIM card into his pocket before tossing the phone into the alley, the screen cracking as it hit the icy ground below.

Now, back to you.

A swift kick to the ribs with his free leg brought about a muffled cough from the rapist below. While his attempted victim had long since fled, a lesson still had to be taught.

The old me would have slit your stomach and hung you with your lower intestines. Be thankful I’ve had a slight change of heart. Instead I’ll turn you over to our inept Police Force. If they release you, I’ll just sent you back, over and over until you realize I am in the shadows and I will always be haunting you. My appearance may have changed, but my methods remain. I will be everywhere you go, hunting you every step of the way. The people of this City need to be protected from the parasites that you are.

The man took a step back away from the battered man on the ground. Cautiously he lifted his leg and placed it with increasing pressure down upon the solar plexus of the rapist.

You’re going to live. Your life is never entirely in danger and that is for one simple reason.

The pressure against the man chest brought about a heaving cough which echoed against the brick walls of the alley. The man from the mouth of the alley once again lifted his leg away from the chest of the rapist before placing it once again against his larynx.

I want you to pass on a simple little message. This. City. Is. Mine.

I will knock off every petty thug, every gangbanger, every fuck who thinks he’s worth the world until I rid the streets of you. I will stop at nothing and will not be stopped by you.

Tell all your little friends that the streets aren’t safe anymore.

Taking his foot away from the throat of the fallen attacker the man from the mouth of the alley made his way back to his folded coat. In what seemed like one swift movement the coat swung on around his shoulders, his arms flying through the sleeves as he popped the collar. Stopping in the light at the mouth of the alley he turned back to the shadowed shape of his attacker writhing on the ground.

I will never be a Saint.

But I am broken.

Spread the word...


Turning from the mouth of the alley Quint disappeared from the light leaving no trace he had ever been there. Though what happened next would haunt his attacker more than any acts of violence ever could. The noise tore through his ear drums, his eyes widening in pure fear. The beat of his heart raced as the lump in his throat grew to an overwhelming size.

One...

“That...sound...”

Two...

“...how?”

Skip A Few...

“But...I thought...”

Quint’s Comin’ To Get You...

Once upon a time just over a rolling hill of green, there was a lush, mostly heavenly village in Italy called Fulmetal. The sheer size of the village was a sight to behold, but nothing could compare to its magnificent, if eccentric, beauty. The large land was seemingly divided into three sections, each very distinct to and expressive of its inhabitants. One land, everything was adorned with hanging blue velvet and silk, as most of its residents walked with their heads held high and lavish robes adorning their bodies. The craftsmanship of each home, workplace and pub was unlike anything that even the most pure of artists could create. This land was known as Ammunita, and it was the land of the upper class. As your eyes gazed into this inviting land of peace, opportunity and privilege, you could see one man, noticeably bearded, trailed by a group as he knelt down to assist a fallen maiden. Another man was shown, his eyes colder than even the harshest of winter as he surveyed that which he once ruled over before the bearded one bested him in front of the entire section. He looked down upon this land of perfection, plotting his next move.

As the view changed, we come across the second of the three sections, it is known as Distorio. Distorio was the land of the workers, the farmers. As one could tell from the largely bountiful crops, they were quite successful and largely consistent in their output, if not quite understood in life. They were a chief provider of the nourishment which fed Fulmetal, and legend states that the secret behind their success was the royal purple river which flowed throughout the land. As the lifeblood of Fulmetal, that river became the catalyst to what has become one of the great lands of this time. However, it was some time before Distorio had become accepted as a part of Fulmetal, as many viewed it as nothing more than a smaller incarnation of the once plagued land known as Anxia, a land destroyed in the Great War of Fulmetal. But, Distorio has proven its worth.

Beyond the royalty of Ammunita, the steadfastness of Distorio…lived the ghastly underbelly of Fulmetal. A land of criminals, a land of sin…a land of hopelessness; this land was called Corruptia. The streets were plagued with the scurrying of rats and the flow of waste; that was only superseded by the flow of blood from victims. If you look just now, across the sanguine-stained landscape you can see a fire-haired brute of a man chasing after a criminal. The criminal, armed with a large mallet, evilly slices his way through the path of humanity, obliterating one poor soul in his wake. The eyes of the fire-haired one show exhaustion, as if he’s running this same race seemingly everyday, a race which was to be easier after he finally saved Corruptia from the wrath of Harquin. But he isn’t our story’s focus.

Inside of Corruptia lived a village boy. No more than 12 years of age, his name was Rome. The young boy, while naïve to a certain point, was quite loved and respected by the villagers, particularly for his steadfast dedication to his work as a shepherd. The wheat-colored skin showed signs of weathering; he had taken many a lump in his defense of his sheep and his now deceased friends, Michaelus and Roberto. He also had a restless mind which resorted to conjuring up flawless artistry for the fellow children of the village. But, he had one fatal flaw: He needed adulation more and more with each passing day. Well, one sparkling day, the boy’s mind wandered as his dedication and upstanding nature of his work left him mindless, like a drone…like the sheep he tended. He had an attitude of boredom evident in his expression and as he was off in his own world, he muttered to himself:

Rome: I should’ve let Skywalker's daughter Jada have this job.

Skywalker, the governor of Distorio, had lost his way and lost sight of his responsibilities and thus young Jada went to care for her father as his second in command Leonardo Da Price was forced into emergency duties of overseeing Distorio. As it were, as the young boy looked out over the sheep that did nothing but wait for someone to show them the way, his mischievous gaze locked onto a wolf. This lean yet muscular creation, unlike other wolves, was not here for trouble, despite what his mix of dark gray and white fur, crusted with the blood of intruders, would have you to believe. In fact, the majestic yet savage animal, borne of Anxia, managed to escape that foul land, struggling to hold on to life in what was then called Anarcho, the current site of Corruptia. The wolf then escaped to the current site of Ammunita, at the time called Alchemia. The wolf developed a positive if unwanted reputation as he was occasionally seen defending some of the villagers’ crops from scavenging lowly animals which had nothing else they could do to survive, and stood no chance of besting the savage in a primal confrontation. But, as the boy’s eyes locked onto the clear blue eyes of the wolf, an idea hit him. Rome began to brainstorm as the wolf bared his jagged, pearly fangs. But he didn’t bear them in an attempt to intimidate, no…it was his own way of showing approval to Rome. Rome didn’t care, he too was naive.

Rome: I’ve got it! I’ll have the villagers chase away the wolf. Maybe then they’ll pay attention to me.

The boy never knew that he was one of the more important people of the village, but what had drawn so many people to him was his graciousness in remaining in the shadows despite his good deeds. Even the wolf had taken a liking to the boy, secretly hoping that he could live his life as low-key as the boy did. As the wolf’s fur bristled up in hopes of receiving warmth, the boy stood up and left his shade, stealthily making his way to the wolf. The wolf saw the boy coming and froze in confusion. Had he done something wrong? Well, that didn’t matter now as one sharp blow to the back from Rome’s staff brought about a shrill whimper. It is here Rome made his move.

Rome: HELP! HELP! A WOLF IS EATING MY SHEEP!

The wolf grimaced, the pain darting through his entire torso. But as he willed himself to his feet, his ears were overcome by the sound of angered desperation. The villagers had heard the boy’s cry and come to his aid but as they arrived within seeing distance of the boy, the field and the animals, they saw no danger. They merely saw the boy standing over the wolf, which remained frozen in fear, completely innocent and dumbfounded as to what heinous acts he had perpetrated.

Villager 1: Rome, we see no signs of danger, and that wolf there has never given any of us trouble. Please don’t continue this unless something is truly wrong, we all have our own tasks to do.

As the villagers walked away, back to their jobs and responsibilities, Rome burst into a hearty laugh as the Wolf sulked away. A hint of relief was spread throughout the beast’s carcass, as he had still had the faith of the village within him. Rome discontinued his laugh, having realized that the village did not lose their faith in the wolf as he had hoped. Jealousy began to fill the heart of Rome. Envy shone brighter in his face than even the most luminous sun.

Rome: It’s no fair! He’s only being nice to trick you all! Then he’ll attack, I know he will! They’ve got to stop him now!

See what jealousy can do to an otherwise sane, respectful human? It makes him believe his own lies. As it were, Rome stepped up his efforts as soon as the wolf returned to feed on the berry shrubs. The wolf, a bit more cautious than before, kept a wary eye on the now delusional boy as the boy stared a hole into the animal. The boy tip toed around the giant tree and re-emerged with a small cart, weighed down with various creations of nature. The boy got an evil gleam in his eye as the wolf was oblivious as to what is going on. Rome pushed the cart towards the wolf with a groan, allowing gravity to bring the wolf closer to his likely death. Luckily for the wolf, he heard the squeak of the wheels as the art neared, and with widened, fear-filled eyes and adrenaline flowing through his veins the wolf leaped out of harm’s way, or so he thought. The wolf landed in a thorn bush, as loud yelps pierced the clear blue sky. Rome ran down to the wolf, and bashed him over the head with a small rock around the size of a handle, just enough to hurt him, not kill him. As he struck the wolf, he yelled to the heavens…to anyone that could hear him…

Rome: HELP! HELP! A WOLF IS EATING MY SHEEP!

The ground began to rumble with support as the yelps seemed to signify the wolf had been caught red handed. The wolf heard this coming as Rome savagely continued his torture. In a very uncharacteristic move, the wolf growled then lunged at Rome. Rome, taken aback, ran about 10 yards from the wolf, allowing the animal to quickly scramble away to free himself and run away, just as the villagers had arrived.

Rome: Get him! He tried to kill my sheep, and he’ll destroy the crops too!

Villager 1: Are you mad, Cristobal has given nothing but honorable servitude to us in the past!

Rome: But he attacked me and my sheep, that wolf is bad! Make him stop!

Villager 1: Don’t call us down here again, we will not come! There not be trouble save for inside your head, boy!

As the villagers trudged away, a select few looked back towards the youth. As they stared on into his eyes, which grew soulless by the second, they saw…hope. They saw…a child that needed saving. The round face of the ‘innocent’ remained in a hurt frown, a frown misinterpreted by both parties. The select few saw anguish, Rome felt inner anger at Cristobal’s (the wolf) popularity. As the two locked eyes, one of the sympathetic stepped forward, his judgment clouded by past traumas and one particularly violent thrashing at the hands of Harquin and his men. This man’s name, was Saint Andrew.

St. Andrew: I do not know what it is, but there is something special about young Rome. I am starting to believe that maybe the poor fellow is being harassed by that wolf, Cristobal.

Another began to speak, a blind follower of Andrew's teachings, if only for the approval it brought from the village. His name was Sethen.

Apostle Sethen: Haven’t you dealt with Cristobal before?

St. Andrew: I have. This is what troubles me so about this entire situation. Cristobal is one of the more honorable creatures I have ever come across. Despite his impulsive mind and tendency to try and satisfy everyone, I believe that the LORD has a place for him when he is finally laid to rest. But that young child must be on to something, I feel it in my heart.

Andrew motioned for his men to leave, and he was soon to follow. Rome slouched down underneath his tree, a bit dejected as to where to continue next. His mind began to tinker with malicious thoughts towards the wolf, as he recognized that someone had truly believed that he was in trouble. Sadly, this was never an intention of Rome. Fearing being forgotten, not wanting to waste away in his mind, he merely wanted to amuse himself. He didn’t want the wolf to suffer as he had, yet as these games went on, his true feelings had come to light. He no longer cared about amusement. Rome had set it in his mind that the wolf must be destroyed, at all costs. Meanwhile as the Cristobal licked his wounds, he was unsure as to what had happened to warrant such treatment. He had always admired Rome, but he could see that something about him had changed…

Yet, the problem with Cristobal was that his animal instincts began to strengthen. They wished to be unleashed, and Rome had certainly warranted a mauling with his behavior. But Cristobal decided to control it…

Later on, as the sun splashed against the sky to create a citrus explosion, peppered with violent lashes, above the land…Cristobal was out on his hunt. He had not eaten that well in days, and seemingly with Rome bothering him at every turn, it had grown harder and harder to stand. As he stalked his prey, a fattened rooster with golden feathers adorning it, four other wolves jumped from their stakeouts. A massive pile ensued, loud whimpers and yelps of aggression echoed through the air. This garnered the attention of Rome, who grabbed his stick at the ready, in order to defend his flock. But, none of the wolves would dare attack. In fact the fight itself began to outweigh the prize for the victor. Eventually, Cristobal stood tall after managing to buck off his last obstacle, a blond-haired wolf acknowledged as one of the craftiest in the forest. Cristobal then cornered the rooster, ready to pounce. The jagged fangs longed for the tender flesh of the bird, and as he pounced, seemingly from nowhere Rome intervened. He bludgeoned Cristobal with his staff, all the while yelling:

Rome: HELP! HELP! A WOLF IS EATING MY SHEEP!

But, as warned, none of the villagers came. Rome ceased his abuse and ran to the top of the hill, yelling for the villagers. They wouldn’t pay him any mind as they worked. Rome began to have a fit, unbecoming of his gender as he made his way back to his field. He yelled to the heavens:

Rome: WHY WON’T ANYBODY BELIEVE ME?!?!?

The answer was merely because he was lying, but his beliefs, his delusions had finally overtaken him. As Rome cried out in fury, Cristobal recovered and willed himself to a standing position. He stalked Rome, his back arched and his teeth bared as blood trickled from his mouth. A rough, intimidating growl interrupted Rome’s falling out, and he turned around with fear in his eyes. He could see that Cristobal had taken all that he could take from the insolent boy. Rome took a step back, his life seemingly in danger. Unfortunately, Cristobal exploded from his stance as Rome yelled out in terror. Rome, to his credit did not back down, but the only purpose his staff could serve was to prolong the inevitable. Rome tried to run as he realized that he could not win, but Cristobal's deadly fangs gripped around Rome’s Achilles tightly.

Rome: HELP! HELP! THE WOLF IS TRYING TO EAT ME!!!

With salty tears streaming down his smooth face, Rome grabbed at the ground, at anything to stop Cristobal, but it was futile. Cristobal’s neck thrashed violently as the air became splattered with crimson suffering. Rome yelled out in agony, drowning out Cristobal’s vengeful grunts and growls as none of the villagers came to his aid. None even paid his cries any mind except for Saint Andrew and his men.

St. Andrew: The boy is in trouble! We must help him!

Saint Andrew rounded up Apostle Grayson and Apostle Sethen and off they went, armed with bows and arrows. Rome’s cries grew sharper as Cristobal began to rip his flesh from his bones. With the fury of a hellhound, fury he did not want to unleash upon the lad, he ripped into Rome’s neck. He shook violently as Rome’s limp form flopped around akin to a fish out of water. As Saint Andrew came within sight of this ghastly instance of revenge, his eyes grew wide as he yelled to the heavens:

St. Andrew: NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

This shook Cristobal from his primal destruction and he released Rome. Andrew and his men threw rocks at the beast, who was unsure as to what he had done. The bloody beast scampered away as Seth and Grayson chased after the wolf, who was only guilty of reacting as a normal individual would. Andrew lifted the remains of Rome, who was barely recognizable to sight. It brought back dark memories of Andrew’s own harrowing experience. Rome coughed up a glob of blood, mucus and pieces of his lung as he stammered out his last words:

Rome: H-h...H-h-hh-help…m-m-m-me…

And then he took his last breath as Seth and Grayson knelt down to console Andrew. Later on, the three saintly men made the unenviable trek to the residence of Rome. His older brother, Romulo, a man who had his own aspirations of controlling all of Fulmetal, answered the door.

St. Andrew: Romulo, I have unsettling news.

Romulo: What’s wrong?

St. Andrew: It’s about Rome.

Romulo: What do you mean, I know he’s a little late from the field, but he’s ok, yes?

St. Andrew: Romulo…Rome has died.

As those grave words rolled away from the lips of Andrew, Romulo’s eyes grew wide, he stood slack-jawed in impotent sadness. Romulo cried out in anguish collapsed into the arms of Saint Andrew, as Sethen and Grayson watched on somberly. As Andrew and Romulo turned in each others’ arms, Romulo’s face became hidden from view of the three men. As the tears flowed freely, Romulo cracked a sickeningly uncaring grin as he choked out:

Romulo: Who did this to my own flesh and blood? What monster took my brother from this earth?!?!?!?

St. Andrew: It was Cristobal.

Romulo: The wolf of Fulmetal, born of Anxia? What would possess him to do such a thing?

St. Andrew: I am not sure. I do believe he may have been influenced by unworldly beings…his mind may have been corrupted.

Romulo released Andrew and began to pace. He sat on his younger brother’s bed as his grief began to be overtaken by rage, and he saw an opening to exploit. But despite the selfish thoughts running through his mind, he placed a façade of lost, confused despair. He dropped to a knee, he begged those three men…

Romulo: Brothers, I am in no shape to avenge my brother’s slaying. I wish I could but, my grief is too much to overcome. Promise me, that the dastardly savage beast that did this…Promise me he will not get away with this.

Saint Andrew knelt down, grabbing the back of Romulo’s head and touching his own forehead against Romulo’s.

St. Andrew: You have my word as a Saint and servant of the LORD.

And off Andrew, Sethen and Grayson went to hunt down Cristobal. Romulo rose to his feet slowly, as his grief for his brother weighed on him. Yet, his mind began to turn. He made a vow to himself that he would use this tragedy to fuel him. He would use this tragedy as a foundation to his renaissance, and thusly a better life.

Romulo: My brother has not died in vain…

No, he didn’t. He died in stupidity. But that’s neither here nor there. As time went on, the search for the wolf continued. The saintly men even added Apostle Stacy to their fold in order to aid for the hunt of Cristobal. As the saints hunted, scavenged and searched…Cristobal kept running; he ran from the honor of facing his punishment…but he ran from the truth that the saints knew, that in a sense Rome knew…Cristobal could be as honorable as he chose, but when the chips were down, Cristobal would show all of Fulmetal what he really is…he’s nothing more than a savage beast that to this point was able to control his urges for the greater good…which has now forsaken him.

As the search dragged on, as the days became nights, as the nights became weeks and weeks became months, Romulo used the sympathy rained down upon his deceitful form by Fulmetal’s inhabitants to gain more power, gain more influence. Romulo grew more ruthless in his quest for success and eventually he began to have dreams of owning Fulmetal and he was close to pilfering the control from President Hostylius, but in a stunning move, the formerly exiled William McKenzie won the election. McKenzie then admitted that the candidate who he replaced, Faithus, was nothing more than a figurehead designed to garner sympathy due to her physical limitations. Not long after Hostylius’ departure, he was found mangled in the outskirts of the forest, in a manner eerily similar to the fate suffered by Rome. Former Vice-President Kelsonidas has since sworn revenge.

Romulo however did win the Vice-President role, but his greed couldn’t be contained. He felt as he was unfairly cheated by McKenzie and as a result, McKenzie shouldn’t be president. Romulo would have to take matters into his own hands, and with the saints in his back pocket of sorts, the people of Fulmetal supported his overthrowing of McKenzie, who they had nicknamed the Tyrantio for his cut-throat style of dictatorship. Romulo was given the spear of Pandora, as St. Andrew was pre-disposed with governance of Ammunita and his hunt of Cristobal, Skywalker had fallen ill and Leonardo Da Price was forced to fill in as interim governor of Distorio and the only other candidate, Celtio, passed up the honor in order to finally rid Corruptia of Jaron the Ultraviolent. Romulo thrust the spear into the air, boastfully proclaiming that:

Romulo: With you all as my witness, the insufferable McKenzie will meet his long overdue end, as I inject this spear into his heart with unforgiving lethality, and you will all proclaim Romulo as your president, as your king! ALL HAIL ROMULO!

Villagers: ALL HAIL ROMULO! ALL HAIL ROMULO!

With that, the entire village dispersed to their homes, anxious for a new dawn, an age of prosperity. Romulo proceeded into his lavish living quarters, his plan almost to fruition. Romulo lied down to rest, a satisfied smile on his face as he said to himself before drifting off to slumber:

Romulo: This is a new beginning…for the Age, the Renaissance of Romulo is upon Fulmetal.

But just then, a shadow moved into his home, through an open window…it was Cristobal! Battle-scared, weary and exhausted…he happened upon this home as temporary refuge from the restless saints. Yet as he inspected this new territory, he happened upon the bed of Romulo. He climbed into it, and saw the resting Romulo…the catalyst of everything he had endured for these long months…the reason why Romulo had reached importance in Fulmetal…he could smell the lies, the corruption all over Romulo’s chiseled body…it smelled like his brother, who spent his last moments trying to ruin Cristobal. Cristobal howled to the heavens, stirring Romulo from his sleep and bringing him face to face with the most dangerous threat he had ever seen…the eyes were no longer an inviting blue, but rather blood red…Romulo opened his mouth to scream, to alert the townspeople, but Cristobal clamped his blood-stained jaws around Romulo’s slanderous mouth, and proceeded to rip his jaw from his body. The crackling of broken bone specked the air as Cristobal began to lay waste to the poor soul, not stopping until nothing remained worth praising of Romulo…

The next morning, the saints went to check on their next leader, and in his place they found a mauled soul; a cavernous hole where his throat used to be, without a jaw to speak from, ripped flesh everywhere, and most noticeably, the chest cavity had been ripped open and his heart had been taken from him…a heart he never really had. And thus ends the tale of the Boy Who Cried Corruption…the moral of the story is not that ‘A liar is never believed even when he speaks the truth’ because as we know, Rome’s proclamations did indeed turn out to be true. The moral here is:



RCA: And just like they soon will be in reality.

"I like this place. You can actually see the sunshine",said Crystal, a childish grin plastered across her face. "Are we going to Busch Gardens like you promised?"

Gabriel could only smile and nod, an unfamiliar feeling to the young wrestler. "We can't be too physical now. I'm still sore from that tag match with the Saints."

"But that was two days ago", complained the teenage girl, her usually tender voice turning into a slight screech at that moment. "What if we did what we talked about back home?"

Gabriel pawed at his chin, feeling his skin without the ubiquitous makeup he wore to the ring for the first time in quite awhile. "Are you sure, Crystal? What we talked about isn't something to take too lightly. You've only had a couple of days to think about it."

Her smile gave the impression of innocence but her dark eyes waylaid that illusion quickly. Gabriel could see that what part of her was still a child was slipping away with each passing moment.

She'll become something...detestable if we don't go through with the process, he remarked to himself. Looking deep into Crystal's dark brown eyes, for a moment Gabriel couldn't bring himself to speak. Finally, he found the words."If we do this Crystal, there's no going back. You don't get to go back to being normal."

"I'm not normal anymore, she said coldly, the warmth she'd displayed mere minutes ago evaporating under the glare of her recent ordeal. "You said you'd make the nightmares end. I want them gone now."

Crystal's words carried such weight and vitriol that they almost slapped what was left of Gabriel's resolve. She had given him a condemnation, the first of many to come. Gabriel opened the package he'd mailed to the hotel before leaving, his guns stuffed safely in a protective metal case. Crystal instinctively flinched at the sight of the weapons but she did her best to cover up her reaction. Grabbing some black pants, a gray sweatshirt, his boots, and some socks, Gabriel headed to the bathroom.

"If we're going to do this, then you'd better get properly dressed. Change into clothes you won't mind getting dirty"

"Where are we going?"

"A graveyard."

The car ride from Tampa was a sullen affair. Crystal sat in the passenger seat, her black hair pulled back into a comfortable ponytail. She wore no makeup but she didn't need it, as far as Gabriel was concerned. Her soft features and delicate cheeks had taken on a harder edge these last two weeks. Her clothing was non-descript, consisting of black cargo pants and a plain brown t-shirt. The pair of boots she wore seemed oddly familiar to Gabriel.

"Where'd you get the boots?"

"Jess gave them to me. Said I might need something more...industrial if I'm going to learn from you."

"Smart girl, that Jess. She been treating you alright?"

"Jess's been awesome. She's like a big sister but she nags me a lot. My mother didn't do that."

"What were they like? Your parents?"

Crystal's expression became sullen again, bereft of life. As the color drained from her skin, she started to look more like Gabriel when he stands in the ring.

"I...don't want to talk about it. What about you? You lost your parents too, didn't you? What were they like?"

"I don't remember much of them. I was five when they were murdered. My mother had long strawberry blond hair. My father's voice was deep. It could carry throughout the house. That's...that's all I really remember."

Crystal turned her gaze from the passing tree line alongside Interstate 4 and back to her new friend.

"We're a pair, aren't we? Neither of us completely whole."

"I'm whole now. Filled with something that I told you about. There is...a presence in me."

Gabriel's eyes never left the road but his mind's eye was searching, trying to find a place where she could find her peace. But he didn't like having to do this. He drove most of the morning out towards Winter Haven. Central Florida is covered lakes of varying sizes, all within a relatively small geographic area compared to the rest of the state. About thirty minutes out of the city of Winter Haven, Crystal's eyes perked up at a sign nearby: Dunwood, Next Exit.

"Is that where we're going", she inquired tentatively. Where her voice had held a strong resolve earlier, uncertainty began to color her words, giving them a strange aural flavor."What kind of a name's Dunwood for a town anyways?"

"It used to be called Eastwood, FL but the town made a decision to change it. Never really understood the reason for that."

"You've been here before?"

"I've passed through these parts before, when I was first starting out in my career. Florida used to have some of the best independent wrestling promotions. Not to mention many pros live down here."

"So we're going to Dunwood Cemetary?"

Gabriel nodded, his face hard as a gravestone. Pulling into the graveyard, Gabriel was thankful to find that the gate was unlocked and open. After parking the car near the funeral home on site, Gabriel wandered around to the loading area of the building. A simple gesture over the door handle clicked the lock out of place, allowing him to open the door.

"Stay here. I'll be back in a sec."

Crystal nodded as Gabriel entered the building. She nervously shuffled her feet, even going so far as to lean against the wall near the door. She impatiently gazed at her watch, revealing that Gabriel had already been gone ten minutes. Another five minutes went by before she heard the door click open and a metal cart slowly coming through. Atop the cart was a pristine silver metal coffin. Crystal guessed it would have been very expensive. As Gabriel walked past, he motioned for her to follow into the cemetery proper. Crystal noticed a small water bottle jutting obscenely out of Gabe's back pocket. She figured she'd ask about that once they reached wherever the hell they were going.

"Alright, we're here."

Before the pair laid a freshly-dug grave, the dirt rectangle ringed with clipped grass. With great effort, Gabriel placed the new coffin atop the grave, doing his best not to disturb the mound of dirt laying next to gravesite. Once the coffin was situated, Gabriel opened the box, revealing plush white linen and a very soft pillow/headrest.

"Before you ask any questions Crystal, I want you to understand something. I went through this as well. It's different for everyone. You want the nightmares to end?"

"Yes."

"Then know this: You may not come back from this. The nightmares will end one way or another. I can't promise that your mind will survive the ordeal."

"You're scaring me Gabe. What's in the bottle?"

"Crystal, do you trust me?"

After a moment's hesitation while staring at the coffin, Crystal looked into Gabriel's coal black eyes and nodded.

"Then you're going to drink this", Gabriel said as he handed her the bottle of water from his back pocket.

Crystal knew that if she hesitated any further, she'd never have the courage to go through with this.

"I'll never be a victim again", Crystal said boldly before she began chugging the contents of the bottle. After stopping to take a breath, she stopped to realize that nothing felt different. The water tasked a bit strong but she figured that the filters down here weren't that good. It wasn't until her fingers involuntarily released the bottle that she knew something was amiss.

"You're not going to like what happens next", said Gabriel regretfully as he caught the young woman. With the care one would show an injured lover or family member, Gabriel lowered her into the coffin, placing her hands over her chest."The compound in the water is going to paralyze you. It'll be a painless death Crystal. You're going to meet my Master in the Abyss. If he approves of you, he'll take away the nightmares. You'll be like me. If he doesn't approve of you...at least you won't endure another sleepless night. I'll be here when you get out."

And with those words, Gabriel shut the coffin door. The locks were left in the off position, giving her the ability to push it open if she awoke. From inside what she assumed was her final resting place, the last thing Crystal heard was the sound of dirt being piled on top of her. Three tears escaped her left eye before they closed of their own volition.

"I hope you come out of there. I really do."


The cemetery stood on a incline overlooking Dundee Road or as the local cops called it State Highway 542. Gabriel had spent much of the afternoon wandering the graveyard, allowing his extra-ordinary senses to roam freely. He'd finally settle on the grave of Harry Frost, a man who had passed just over a month before. The ground was still a little bare but the grass was already beginning to grow again. Upon touching a locket left near the stone, Gabriel's mind's eye filled with visions of a lonely man whose only true companion had abandoned him to begin a new life with someone else. The locket was a gift that had been returned by this former lover, a token showing the depth of her loss with regards to him.

A sudden sharp pain slammed throughout Gabriel's mind, ripping him away from H. Frost's painful memories. It was similar to his experiences with Dorian but this was something altogether too familiar. His gaze returned to the grave where Crystal was buried. The sight that greeted him would have been chilling to any normal human. Standing in thoroughly ruined clothes, Crystal wandered forward towards him, almost like a zombie in a movie would move. Her fingers were covered in blood, obviously from the instinctual desire to escape the confines of the coffin. When her eyes focused finally, Gabriel saw the same look in them that he saw in the mirror every morning: a nothingness found only in death mixed with the self-awareness of life.

"You...never...told me it was like this", she choked out, her lungs still recovering from being unused for hours. "I understand now. You didn't want to do that, did you?"

"No, I didn't. But you wanted to leave behind what you experienced. This was the only way I knew how to do that. I wouldn't recommend touching anything around here. Your system will be a little sensitive to psychic leftovers for a day or two."

Brushing the dirt off her body, Crystal inexplicably grasped her head and screamed like her veins were on fire. Before Gabriel could even ask, she pointed to the highway south of their position. Gabriel grabbed her hands, doing his best to shield her from the horrors he'd witnessed in life. Slowly Crystal came back to him, her face slackening from the lack of pain. Together they rose and went to the car. A few minutes later, they stopped right in front of the cemetery. A two car accident had occurred. Crystal launched herself out of the car like a caged fox seeing its first morsel of food in days, darting forth to the wreck with great alacrity.

Gabriel shut down the rental car, moving across the grass median to the turn lane where the wreck had happened. A pair of men were in the car heading west, clearly gravely injured. The other driver who'd been waiting in the turn lane was beyond saving. Crystal stood next to the driver of the westbound car. She could see his black hair had a slight curl at the top, but it was matted down with blood now. His hawkish nose had been broken cleanly. A bottle of prescription drugs and an open case of beer lay in the backseat where they'd landed after impact. When she touched his forehead, a rush of memories flooded her mind, almost causing her to lose her balance. Circling in the dying man's thoughts was one constant, the family he'd abandoned. A wife and child, beautiful in their own right, wearing expressions of deep sadness and pain as they watched their husband and father, respectively, walk out on them because of his addictions.

"How could...he leave them", she asked as she pulled her hand away slowly. "He left his family for the drugs. How could he do that?"

"Some people don't know what they're giving up until they look back with regret. Be careful how you judge, Crystal. We have the benefit of being outside his life and observing. It gives us a different perspective."

The other man, younger than his buddy, was blonde with streaks of black and a poof of purple up front. His face was planted in the front window of the car, viscous crimson spurting from an open wound in his forehead. Gabriel made his way around to Crystal, his hands gliding across the still-breathing bodies to get a sense of their place. Crystal had moved to the front of the car, staring intently at a something that Gabriel hadn't made out just yet.

"Do you see him?"

Gabriel stood next to her and stared ahead. Surely as the car was in front of them, an unnatural shadow had fallen across the car, blocking the moonlight that would have naturally fallen on the car on a cloudless night. The shadow was known to Gabriel and now to Crystal as well.

"We can't save them can we?"

"No we can't. They made their choices. We've made ours. The Abyss will take them now. They won't feel pain for awhile."

"What do you 'for awhile'?"

"Everything ends Crystal. But that's only half the story. Where one thing ends, another begins. Their souls will be returned to the living world someday but not before they experience the nothingness of Death."

"So Heaven is a lie?"

"I can't say for certain. I just know I've never seen it. And I've died more times than I care to admit."

"Should we call the cops about this crash scene?"

"I'd prefer to not have to answer questions about your current state. We're leaving these two to their fate. In the end, that's all we can do."

The pair walked back to the car. As they strode away from the scene, Crystal wrapped her arm around Gabriel's waist. The gesture shocked Gabriel for a moment before he understood its intent. She wasn't touching him because there were romantic feelings involved, which had been his greatest fear. Crystal simply needed something to hold onto at the moment. She'd seen something similar to what he had experienced during his trial.

"After this week, you and I'll begin training."

"Will it be difficult?"

"Ever fallen off a twenty foot ladder onto concrete?"

She shook her head vigorously.

"Good. That means you aren't crazy enough to be in my profession. But you'll need to learn how to fight and more importantly...how to kill. The rest is up to you."

"Does this mean that I'm the same as you are?"

"Yeah, I guess it does. Just because our Master favors you doesn't mean that your story can't end just as easily as theirs did."

"What does the Master want?"

"To feed, more or less. All souls go through the Abyss at some point. Even those who believe in Heaven, like I did once. Our Master is that force of decay made manifest. Where it came from and what it really is, that's a mystery even I don't know the answer to. I'll find out some day though. That's why we have such a connection to death and memory. All that's left after you die is the memories left behind. Good or bad doesn't factor in."

"Will that been when the Master calls for you?"

"Yes. And you'll be the one to send me to him."

Around the seated man stood the burnt husk of a building. Alone amongst the whipping wind and snow the man sat. The charred black pillars stood around him, reaching up towards the heavens like a hand from hell.

The finger traced across his face. Down the ridge between his eyes, over his nose and back. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. A smile began to curl across his lips as he fingers continued to trace down his nose. His eyes followed the tips of his index and middle fingers as a quiet chuckle escaped under his breath.

Virus: It’s interesting isn’t it?

Virus: Closer my hand is to my face and I see right through it. I get a perfect, unobstructed view of the world around me.

Dancing off his nose the fingers began to pull further from Virus’ face allowing his eyes to uncross as they followed their target.

Virus: Yet as I move them further away my view becomes distorted. My perfect vision becomes corrupted. My fingers obstruct the images around me yet I can remedy this problem with a simple movement of my hand and restore perfection.

The hand of the Virus quickly darted from view slicing through the cold winter air.

Virus: But I propose this, can you so easily cure the imperfection that is now in front of you. Or has the corruption spread too far? Has the damage been done and has the Virus taken control?


The cold winter’s air brought with it the seasonal flurries that so often came hand in hand with the season. And as any wise man knows the winters air and seasonal flurries bring children out from the warmth and hibernation of their homes into the snow.

With laughter they run and play, forgetting all their cares in the world. They built snowmen and throw snowballs. In their carefree nature they dodge the return fire from their play mates ducking in and out of their large snow forts.

Johnny: Here it comes Billy, you better be ready.

Billy: You’ll never get me, you throw like Cindy Johnson.

Johnny: I’ll show you who throws like a girl you big jerkface.

The snowball launched through the air as young Billy Franklin dove to get back behind his fort. Moving a little slower than the flying ball of ice Billy got caught in the cheek, the skin instantly turning a bright shade of red. Tears began to well in the young boys eyes as his hat tumbled down the hill towards the bridge and running path below.

Grabbing his hat off the ground Billy Franklin turned around back towards his friends, waving the garment before a black gloved hand wrapped around his mouth and pulled him backwards.

The muffled scream of the 12 year old child made it nowhere close to the hearing radius of the other children as the larger man who held him dragged him backwards under the bridge.

With muffled screams the small legs of Billy Franklin kicked in the air fighting for their freedom and failing miserably. With a simply crack on the head from the larger, much older man Billy was rendered unconscious. The darkness blurring the light as his eyes fluttered shut.


Virus: Wakey wakey Starshine.

Billy: Daddy?

Virus: Not quite cupcake. Your Daddy isn’t here.

The scream from young Billy tore into Virus’ eardrums creating a throbbing ache in his head.

Virus: Shut up your worthless snot!

Billy: I want my Mommy!

Virus: Shut your fucking mou-

The raised hand of Virus halted mid swing as though a light bulb went on over his head.

Virus: Ahh Billy that’s brilliant. Why don’t we call your Mommy and get her involved in this.

The gloved hand of Virus rose up grabbing the old rotary phone off of the wall as the sweet sound of the dial tone clicked into play.

Virus: Now Billy, what’s your phone number?

Billy: 470.....343...2291.

Virus: Good luck mini-human. Now sit there and keep your mouth closed.

The phone rang in Virus’ ear. One ring. Two rings. In the middle of the third ring her voice echoed into his ear.

Mrs. Franklin: Hello?

Virus: Hello Billy’s Mom.

Mrs. Franklin: Who is this?

Virus: I guess you could say, I’m a friend of Billy’s

The deep voice of Virus rumbled across the phone sending a shiver down the spine of Dr. Tammy Franklin.

Mrs. Franklin: Who the fuck is this, what have done with my son.

Virus: Oh Billy is safe. Say hi to your mom Billy.

Billy: MOMMY HE—

The vicious backhand of Virus’ split the lips of Billy Franklin drawing forth a tiny whimper.

Virus: Little Billy is going to be fine for now. However. And this is a big however. I have injected him with a poison. He will die, I guarantee that, but you can save him.

Mrs. Franklin: You bastard! He’s just a boy!

Virus: So that means he’s safe? It means he’s pure and innocent? I think not. So we’re going to play a little game. I have the antidote, and you have three hours.

Mrs. Franklin: Please. Please no.

Virus: Funny, I never mentioned this was negotiable. On the 32nd floor of King’s Tower there is a package taped inside the third stall of the women bathroom. Go there. Take the package and go to the viewing deck. It will be closed for construction but the workers will be out on lunch. At exactly 12:35 a man will walk out of the Nexen building to the South of the Tower. He will be wearing a Navy Blue overcoat and gray slacks. A bullet needs to be placed in his head. Once you do this. You call me at the number that appears on your phone. I inject Billy with the antidote and send him on his merry way.

Mrs. Franklin: I can’t kill someone. I can’t.

Virus: You will. You now have 2 hours and 45 minutes. Goodbye Tammy.

The rotary phone slammed down onto the receiver followed quickly by a slightly chuckle from the lips of Virus.


The hike from the 32nd floor of King’s Tower to the Observation Desk atop of the Tower seemed to take forever. Tammy Franklin spent two hours in the gym per day and could rupture a testicle with a well placed kick but this walk was different. Each stair that she climbed was towards a murder. Each contraction and expansion of her muscles was to save her child.

The hand that held the large black briefcase trembled uncontrollably. Her fingers twitched, dancing across the faux leather trying her hardest to focus her attention elsewhere. Trying, but deeply in vain.

With her shoulder she leaned against the service door to the roof. Normal entrance to the Observation Deck was closed due to construction, the man on the phone had warned her already. Just as he mentioned the rooftop was abandoned, not a single living soul, save for one about to be blackened.

Facing South, Tammy Franklin focused her sight towards ground level at the base of the Nexen building. From the height she was at she couldn’t discern anything, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. She had read enough books, seen enough movies to know how this ended. Inside the package was a gun. On top of the gun was a hunting scope so she could easily determine her target.

She knew she was right. The opened case revealed exactly what she thought. A large weapon and a scope.

Pulling her BlackBerry from her pocket Dr. Tammy Franklin, a family paediatrician for 15 years checked the time.

12:29

Closing her eyes she could feel her heart begin to race deep within her chest. Her hands quaked violently as they gripped the metal of the weapon. She has seen the movies, she knew she had to steady her breath.

Aiming the gun down towards the revolving entrance door to the Nexen Oil building she took large deep breaths, never letting the smile of her son out of her mind’s eye.

Gray Slacks.

She saw him exit the building.

Navy Blue overcoat.

She had her target.

Mrs. Franklin: Dear Lord, forgive what I’m about to do. Know this is only for the safety of my child.[/b]

Inexperienced with the recoil of a rifle the weapon crashed back into her shoulder knocking her to the ground. The pain in her shoulder overwhelmed her for a brief second before she scrambled to her feet, bringing the rifle’s scope to her eye.

She scanned the ground below.

The man in the gray slack lay dead. A bullet in his forehead.

Leaving the weapon on the roof Dr. Tammy Franklin began her descent down the Tower. Calmly she pulled her phone from her pocket once again. Scanning quickly through the menus she hit dial, calling the last number to call her.

Virus: Is it done?

Mrs. Franklin: It is. I saw it myself. Directly in the forehead. Now please, leave my son alone.

Virus: I don’t think I can do that.

Mrs. Franklin: What?! You promised.

Virus: You’re right I did, but first let me ask you a question. What color pants was your husband wearing today?

Tammy Franklin froze in her steps. She had gone to work early today, she didn’t know.

Virus: Nothing hm? What color jacket does he normally wear.

Tammy Franklin’s heart missed a beat.

Virus: From your silence I guess you know. Now knowing what I know, how could I willing release a child into your custody. You just shot a man in cold blood. And on top of that, you shot your husband in cold blood. Murdered him on the side of the street. Doesn’t seem very loving to me now does it?

Virus: And I thought you were a morally upstanding person. A person who wanted the best for her son. It would appear that isn’t the case now is it? No, Billy doesn’t need to live in a world where his mother murders his father to protect him. A man that did nothing but love Billy. No. I’m going to spare Billy from this life.

The silence on the other side of the phone was enough to bring a sense of Joy to the blackened heart of Virus as he slammed down the receiver and turned to face the child in front of him.

Virus: No little Billy, it’s time to make you see the world for what it really is.

Cut back in time, to before Trey even went to rehab. “The Dude” Trey Spruance is in a rundown apartment room, there is broken bottle glass and drug paraphernalia everywhere, littering the room. There are other people in the room, presumably Trey’s “friends”. Led Zeppelin’s “No Quarter” is playing for the scene.

Trey is heating up a mixture of cocaine and heroin known as “speedball” on a spoon with a lighter.

“They choose a path where no one goes...”

Trey tightens a belt over his arm.

“They ask no quarter.”

He digs the needle into the vein.

“They want no quarter.”

...and plunges the syringe down, the camera shows a close up of the chemicals draining from it. Trey falls back.

“They need no quarter.”

Suddenly there is a loud smashing noise and the music stops.

Trey: Ergh?

Trey tries to get up but falls over and starts laughing. A man in trench coat is standing over him, shaking his head with a baseball bat in his hands.

Unknown: Rich wrestler ay? You live like a fucking bum. You don’t need to be rich to do this.

Trey: Motherfucker... I’m high... Who the fuck... MUSIC!

Trey starts laughing again, his eyes dilated with the high.

Unknown: Theres no music because I just smashed your stereo you jackass! This is meant to be a threat to pay your fucking bills to the man, however, you’re too goddamm high to take notice. You better straighten out Spruance, and get back to fighting because otherwise your not going to have a place to even get high in anymore.

With that, the guy in the trench coat leaves, stepping on a high persons hand on the way out and slamming the door. The person whos hand has been stepped on lifts their head to look at their hand only to shrug and go back to sleep.

Trey: Dude... No music. Bummer.

***

Cut to the present future, in the prison where Trey is been held. He is been walked along by security guards towards the visitors area wearing an orange jumpsuit and cuffed by the wrists, not that he has yet made any escape attempts. Trey sees the FMW representative and grins. He is placed in front of the glass and looks at the FMW rep as if to say “yes I am fucking bored, fuck you”. The rep smiles in smug fashion and begins speaking.

FMW Rep: Spruance, you have been given the chance of a lifetime. The chance to get out of here.

For a second Trey lets the shock show but he soon furrows his brow and returns to his usual uncaring demeanour. He responds in a snarling manor.

Trey: How exactly do you propose to do that? FMW doesn’t own this prison, not the government, you can’t change the rules here.

FMW Rep: Ah, but you see Trey, we aren’t changing anything. It’s an agreement. You see the government knows that it wasn’t your heroin. The man you know as Fred has been caught and confessed to not only owning the heroin but also coming up with the plan to deliver it. He also told us something you don’t know, had you been successful, there would have been no payment.

Trey raises an eyebrow.

Trey: Lemme guess... He planned to stab me in the back?

FMW Rep: Literally. He already had henchmen hired to terminate you.

Trey: Why? I wasn’t asking for that much money...

FMW Rep: Because you knew about his operation and he didn’t want anyone to know.

Trey: I see. So, whats the catch? I mean, how do I get out and on what condition?

FMW Rep: To get out you have to win a match Mr. Spruance. That’s it. We, meaning FMW, want to know that you are dedicated to this company.

Trey: That’s it? Well who am I against?

FMW Rep: A man known as Jetstream.

Trey: Him? I can beat him!

FMW Rep: You had better hope so unless you want to spend more time in here, there is one other thing however, when you do win, you will have to go through rehab again.

Trey sighs.

Trey: You know this will be like the third time? It doesn’t work...

FMW Rep: That remains to be seen.

Prison Guard: Spruance, your time is up.

FMW Rep: See you at Distortion Mr. Spruance...

***

Cut to Trey Spruance in the prison courtyard, where he is allowed to walk and due to his contract, promo.

Trey: I know a thing or two about Jetstream. I know he achieved what I never could, playing in a band in Seattle. I was kicked out due to drug abuse and fucking around before my own band got its second show. That’s how I started out elsewhere. I find it interesting that he follows such a similar path to me, and maybe, if he’s willing to listen I will give him a piece of advice about life... That is, once I’m done wiping the mat with his face.

Trey starts rolling a cigarette. One of the few luxuries of prison.

Trey: As much as it pains me to admit it... I know I’m on a track I can’t get off. I’m headed somewhere bad if I’m headed anywhere in life. I could try and reach out to people, to tell them not to do what I have done to myself or I could try and drag as many people down with me as possible. I haven’t decided yet exactly which of the two I’m going to do, but at the moment it’s a little bit of both.

Trey asks a guard for a lighter and starts smoking the cigarette, looking pleased to be settling his craving.

Trey: Weak man, weak mind. That’s me. I honestly don’t care anymore though. Destined to die young everyone says. Well, I’m not going to lie to you, that’s most probably the truth. I doubt rehab will change anything, given I actually win a match. If not I’m stuck in here, in this fucking prison. That’s just how it is and there’s no way out of the situation, just like there’s virtually no way out of a heroin addiction...

However, I do find comfort in one feeling. I know that soon enough I’ll be back in the ring and smacking that kid Jetstream around, and I’m damn well looking forward to it.

Security Guard: Times up Spruance!

Trey: Damn, I’m so sick of hearing that!

Scene fades out...

Two Days Following Distortion 9.2...


The room swirled as colors and sounds blended together. The only sound, the only beacon of hope keeping Frost from unconsciousness once again, was the steady beeping of the heart monitor. The notes slowly began to form a rhythmic pattern, each beat gaining clarity until the sound was almost deafening.

Frost turned over onto his side, the electrodes on his chest threatening to detach in protest, and tried to swing his feet out. Shock, unabated and visceral, coursed through his veins when nothing happened. Frost tried again, but to no avail.

A vision, tainted slightly by memory loss, crept into the forefront of Frost's mind. Skyler Striker, taking hold of him, and delivering the Exile to Oblivion. If memory served Frost correctly, the snap in his neck was so loud he was deafened momentarily. Either by fear or wicked pain, it didn't matter by now.

I wish I could hate him for it. I did this to myself, though.

Another forceful try for leg movement yielded no results, leaving Frost immobile on the hospital bed. His vision had begun to clear, which, ironically, didn't help. Bland wallpaper and unfinished cafeteria food didn't lend much to the emotional healing Frost would need to undergo.

All those people...

Frost couldn't hate Striker, but he found it quite easy to hate himself. He hadn't had the strength, the drive, to push the demon out in time. Sinius, the wicked demon presence that enslaved him, slaughtered scores of people. Some deserved it, but most of them were innocent. The innocent ones had families, people that cherished them. Kayla... Jennifer...

Frost tightened his fist so hard nails began to dig into flesh, but no amount of grief stricken anger would fix what had been done. His lover would never see the light of day again, nor would his adopted daughter. Frost's only solace would come with the fact that they were together, in a much better place than this hell hole. The same could hopefully be said for the others.

"Don't let his actions destroy your life..."

Frost heard the voice, penetrating the madness like a dagger, and twisted towards the door.

"I can see it happening. Your eyes betray you."

The voice, intellectual and masculine, bounced about the room. A man, knowledgeable beyond his years, stood in the doorway. All polished suit and tie, Frost immediately found a distrust for him growing in the back of his mind.

"Visiting hours are over," Frost felt the words drag from his throat, scratchy and dry. A smile tugged at the edge's of the suit's lip, but no matter how big that smile got, Frost knew there'd be no good news to bare. "What'd you want?"

The suit started forward and Frost, one last time, tried to move his legs. Nothing... With no way to truly defend himself, Frost prepared for the worst as the man reached into his jacket. A slim, white envelope appeared after a moment and had Frost breathing a sigh of relief.

"I'm only here to help, Mr. Frost," The suit's intonation carried a warm, comforting tone, threatening to lure Frost into an eased sense of security. The suit stretched his hand forward, the one clutching the envelope, and silently urged Frost to take it.

"You act like you know me," Frost couldn't help but to try and drag the peculiar nature of the situation out into the open. Any fool could see that this sort of thing didn't happen too often.

"The person who wrote this letter," The suit shifted his eyes towards the envelope,"knows you very well."

With nothing else to go on, Frost opened the envelope and withdrew a single, folded sheet of paper. A few typed sentences met his gaze.

Frost,

I've managed to secure the means to get your legs functioning again. I procured the services of one of the top surgeons in the country -well, any country- and have thus given him access to certain technologies unobtainable to the general medical public. This part is a given, as I feel your past actions don't warrant your being paralyzed for the rest of the foreseeable future.

The next part is entirely your choice...

The man standing before you will make an offer once this letter has been discarded. Be warned that it does involve a rather life changing decision and a return to Full Metal Wrestling. Keep in mind, I never said that this proposal would offer anything less than hardship.

It does, though, offer atonement.

And, by God, you will need all you can get.

Your Guardian Angel,
Jade

Frost closed his eyes against a backdrop of swirling thoughts and emotion. Slowly, he folded the letter and set it atop the uneaten cafeteria food next to him. A chance to atone for everything he'd done was too good to be true, but FMW wasn't exactly a place he wanted to visit again. He'd burned too many bridges, pissed off too many people.

"I'm sure you know what was written in there," Frost implied, nodding his head towards the letter. "Any truth to it?"

The suit nodded, no hint of deception anywhere on his features, and extended his hand,"Allow me to check you out of here and everything will fall into place, Mr. Frost."

Frost turned his head away from the suit's outstretched hand, determined to find the trap in this. But, after what seemed like an eternity of thinking, Frost couldn't seem to find anything other than a chance for redemption. So he met gazes with the suit, and finally took his hand in return.

"It better."


One Week Before Distortion 10.2


The Dusk Cavern was a well known bar in this part of town. Unfortunately, not many people knew about this part of town. Nick edged open the front door and immediately regretted it as a wave of cigarette smoke and whiskey breath fell upon him. Still, Nick stepped in and looked the place over in a passing glance. Dim lights and a cast of motley characters filled most of his vision. The bar to his right was mildly occupied, with two patrons at the front and a solemn bartender behind the counter. The jukebox on the opposite side of the room glowed a mirage of colors while softly playing a country song.

Nick smoothed out his North Face jacket, an odd choice of clothing considering the establishment, and took a seat at the bar. The bartender, a balding man better fit for a job as a bouncer, looked him up and down before pulling a chilled glass out from behind the counter.

"I'll take a-" Nick swallowed the last bit of his request as the bartender filled the chilled glass to the top with an amber colored liquid. "You read my mind."

"That's all we got," The bartender answered, sliding the glass over to him. "Four fifty."

Nick reached into his back pocket and withdrew a brown, aging wallet. He flipped it open and pulled out a five, "A little steep considering the selection. Am I right?" Nick nudged the patron next him with his elbow, but no one had seemed to catch on to the joke. Nick swallowed the lump of worry building up in his throat and pulled his beer over to the right hand side.

The bartender, who hadn't taken his eyes off Nick since serving the beer, settled his elbows onto the counter and smiled, "You don't come here often, do ya'?"

Nick smiled and raised his hand in nervous sarcasm. "Caught me. Guilty as charged," Nick tried to sound calm, but decided that it hadn't worked when the bartender snarled. Slowly, Nick began to back away, until a smile brightened up the bartender's features.

"You'll love it here. Friendly faces, great service," The bartender said with that same smile. Nick eyed the patron to his left, the one who could've been mistaken for Charles Manson, and decided that his version of a friendly face was a tad different. Nick finally nodded to the bartender and took a sip of the beer at his right, making sure to place it back there afterwards.

"So, are you the guy that owns this place?" Nick asked the bartender. Seeing as how the man wasn't all too busy, a conversation didn't seem too much to ask.

"That'd be me. Why?" Nick couldn't find any real malice in the bartender's return question, so he pressed on.

"Twenty minutes up the road, the bar there got hit pretty hard," Nick couldn't even get to the details before the bartender, and the two patrons to his left, were spitting profanity.

"Everyone's heard. Every patron in there that night disappeared. Save for scattered ashes and blood on the walls..." The bartender gave a Nick a weary eye, "Where'd you hear about it?"

Nick motioned for the bartender, and his two new gossip guys, to lean in, "Man, I was fuckin' there." The men gave Nick wild looks as he smiled with pride.

A few seconds go by without a word, until the man next to Nick bumps his shoulder, "Well, what happened? No one's gotten the full story."

Nick smoothed out his jacket once again, a nervous habit by now, and propped his elbows on the bar; he had an affinity for talking with his hands. "I was at a table in the back when the guy came in. He must've been seven, eight feet tall. Brown duster draped over his shoulders, the shadow from a cowboy hat hiding his face, and boots that never quit making a point," Nick popped his fist onto the table, "Heel... toe... heel... toe... heel-"

The bartender clamped his hands over Nick's, "You're, uh, freakin' the customers out, man. Get on with it."

Nick caught the worried glance from the bartender and had to suppress a smile, "Sorry. Anyway, without warning, this guy drops the duster and reveals the fucking armory strapped to his body. In seconds, I'm half deaf from the rounds being pumped into the patrons and the bar itself. People, unarmed and armed alike, hit the floor like bricks." Nick shook his head and took another sip from the beer at his side.

The bartender, repeatedly cleaning an already spotless glass, nodded to Nick, "So how'd you make it out with your ass intact?"

Overly dramatic, Nick shrugged his shoulders, "I wish I knew. The bartender and I were the only ones alive after thirty seconds of gunfire from this guy." The bartender smiled as Nick finished the sentence. "Then the bartender looks, just looks, at the guy wrong... and gets his entire head plastered to the mirror behind him," Nick said, looking straight at the bartender. With the man's smile wiped from his face, Nick finally got to the last leg of the story. "So, as the bodies were turning to ash all around me the guy-"

The bartender held up a commanding hand, effectively cutting Nick's sentence short of the closer. "You talk about the ash as if it's normal for a body to do that," The bartender had a skeptical eye trained on Nick.

"Well, I mean, it's common in many African forests for a sick man to suddenly... crumble into ash's. It's all over the Discovery Channel," Nick couldn't keep the nervous laughter out of his voice as he backed off the barstool. The bartender set down the glass he was holding and cracked his neck to the side with a sickening series of snaps.

Nick turned to leave, but found himself rooted in place as a vice like grip clamped down on his shoulder. "Did we interrupt, or were you pretty much finished?" The man all but growled the question.

"The latter, I think," Nick managed to sputter before being planted back onto his barstool.

The man sat down to his right, hand still clamped on his shoulder. Nick, surrounded now, could barely manage to conceal his shaking hands. The bartender leaned in close, "Finish the story."

"Uh- I, um, had heard that he was heading this way," Nick said as he prepared for a horrible fate at the hands of these beastly gentlemen.

Almost too perfectly, the front door to the bar opened once more. Each man surrounding Nick glanced over to it and, after a moment, the hand on his shoulder fell away. Nick swiveled around to the door as well and almost sobbed in relieve when the central character of his previous story swaggered in.

The height might've been an embellishment, but everything else rang true. The cowboy, more or less, took a few steps into the building before slowing to a halt. Tension, thick and amiable, filled the air between the patrons of the bar and this lone stranger. Nick gulped back a knot of worry forming in his throat and tensed himself.

The bartender motioned for the jukebox to be silenced and was quickly obliged. With no noise, except for the drag of a cigarette somewhere amongst the tables, the bartender called out to the stranger, "Last call, buddy. Bar's about to close."

"Read my mind."

As the stranger's words echoed throughout the bar, Nick ducked. Hands over his ears, he tensed against the gunfire that quickly devoured the silence that seemed to dominate the room just seconds before. A few quick glances yielded evidence of a one sided shoot out. Either the patrons here weren't armed or they were too caught off guard to stage a defense.

Dull thumps permeated the gunfire as bodies dropped to the floor, one after another, and ignited against the wood. Nick almost cried out in fear as the three patrons around him were ripped from their seats and into the air. He followed their trail, watching as they burst into flame and ash before they even hit the ground.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only a few minutes, silence fell upon Nick's ears. He looked up from the floor to find the bartender still standing, fangs bared and eyes wide.

"What do you want from us?" It seemed to Nick that the bartender could barely sputter the sentence. Fear was always the worst speech impediment.

"Just wanted to ask a question," The man replied, slowly stalking his way over to the only men in the bar left alive. The bartender, arms outstretched, cleared the counter in an attempt to take the stoic figure in front of him. The plan backfired, though, as every bit of that momentum was reversed. A pained hiss escaped the bartender as his back snapped against the counter, gloved hands pinning him down. "Ever thought it'd end this way?"

"What'd you-

The sharp crack of gunfire ripped through the bar, and upon closer inspection, forever silenced the bartender. Nick watched as the vampire crumbled to ashes, the inside of his body igniting with the hellfire that came to steal away the damned.

Nick then watched as the man, the only one left standing besides himself, took a seat. The man grabbed the beer Nick had ordered earlier and nearly drained it in seconds. "You know, I'm done playing the boy that cries wolf."

The man laughed and cast his aviator shaded eyes Nick's way, "I thought you had a good thing goin'."

"Fuck you, Frost," Nick tossed the barb his way, but with no more force than a ten year old. Truth was, they'd been at this for a couple of months now and Nick wouldn't have it any other way. The group they operated with had partnered them up as soon as Frost got his edge back. His story was legend among the darker, deeper circles and now that his alignment had shifted, things were getting all the more interesting. Frost had a lot of pain and suffering to make up for, and Nick wanted to make sure he made up for it ten fold.

"Gotta' love the friendly banter. What's the story on this place, anyway?" Frost only seemed pseudo interested, but Nick felt obliged to fill him in anyway.

"Newbies bar and grill, so to speak. A hang out for the newly turned. Easy prey, I guess," Nick briefed him with the little information that actually mattered. No master vampires or the like, just yet. Frost was still getting his feet wet in the supernatural assassin business.

"Of course it is. No need in things getting challenging is there?" Nick could hear the pop and sizzle of the acidic sarcasm dripping from Frost's question. The man just didn't understand that he would only get one chance at this. Of course, there was always the off chance that he was dying, so to speak, to end his crusade early.

"No need in getting ripped to shreds before you make it back to FMW. What, exactly, is your problem as of late?" Nick felt like that question needed to be addressed sooner rather than later.

Frost slid the empty glass off the counter and snapped in perfect rhythm with its shattering demise on the other side. "In FMW, I feel like I need to set things straight with the people I turned my back on and I need to compete for those that I can't bury the hatchet with face to face," Frost looked around, motioning to the surroundings, "As for out here, I need to live for those who can't."

Nick delved deep past the surface and into the subtext of Frost's words. What he found was a bit unsettling. "So you're a fucking adrenaline junky? You think that's how you'll atone for what the demon-

Frost slammed his hands onto the counter of the bar, effectively cutting Nick off. "This is what you get for going all sentimental on me, Nick. None of those people deserved to die and, if they're watching me right now, they do deserve one helluva show," Frost said with a few more grunts and growls than he probably meant to.

Nick sincerely tried to understand where the man was coming from, especially since he was drunk. The "beer after" as Frost liked to call it, had just been one in the long line of many tonight. "That they do," Nick finally managed to say. He didn't necessarily believe it, but this was about Frost coming to terms with his past. Their group, so few in number as they were, desperately needed him.


A Frozen Soul...


If Frost had picked up anything from the torturous demon that had enslaved his body, it was that rooftops provided quite an advantageous spot for visuals. So, Frost stood prone atop a rooftop adjacent to the Dusk Cavern, and watched as the bar burnt to the ground. The last place he'd hit had been too close to suburbia. This one, luckily, was not.

The flames began to kiss the sky with brilliant color as embers drifted off above him. The orange glow speckle of debris danced with the stars and, for a moment, created a spectacular visual. Watching the lights mingle with each other helped Frost forget, but only for a time.

The last couple of months had been refreshing, strangely enough, but Frost knew better than to dismiss the road ahead. Everything would get tough from here. Everything would either fall into place, or fall apart.

"Frost..."

The mention of his name pulled Frost away from the fire and his jumbled thoughts. Frost glanced over and found Nick pointing into the distance. Following Nick's line of sight, he found the blinking lights of squad cars and firetrucks heading towards the remains of the Dusk Cavern.

"We've got a car waiting for us two streets over. I think it's time we go," Nick spoke quietly, even though Frost was sure no one was around to hear.

It was only a few minutes, a fire escape ladder, and a brisk walk later that the tandem was sliding into the backseat of a silver Mercedes. The driver, Neal, whisked them away as soon as the doors shut.

"There's a phone call for you, Frost," Neal spoke with a naturally gruff voice that always gave Frost the impression that he was pissed off. In any case, he took the cell phone that was quickly handed to him.

"Frost here..." The voice that answered Frost had become all too familiar in the past months. It was that of the same man that confronted him in while he was at his weakest, and offered him redemption.

"Denisoff here." Frost could hear the urgency tainting his usually calm voice.

"I'm guessing this isn't going to involve a pat on the back and a job well done..."

"Unfortunately, it does not. Do you remember your old, vampire cohort?"

Claire...

Frost remembered back to the days when he was on the opposite side of this crusade. The girl, beautiful as she was deadly, had managed to plunge Frost back into the depths of hell, after he'd managed to gain some stability over the demon that had him possessed. She'd seduced him and, finally, resorted to brute force in order to tear away his soul.

After Frost found the strength to retake his body, he staked her and left her to ash at his feet. "I remember."

Denisoff quickly continued after Frost's confirmation, "Well, her father is Anupu."

"A new what?"

"He's a five thousand year old vampire. It was believed that the god Anubis had taken corporeal form to exact punishment on the people of Egypt. He killed many people before the Egyptians managed to seal him inside one of the pyramids. They thought that since Anubis was the god who weighed your soul after death, if he were to be locked away with the embalmed and mummified, he'd be pleased with their worship to him and abandon his mission," Denisoff explained without pause.

"What happened to him?" Frost asked, finding himself intrigued. Denisoff always found it necessary to keep his staff informed and, while Frost didn't care for it in the beginning, he found himself quite partial to it now.

"No records indicate how, but he escaped. He later reappeared in 1865 A.D. and became the first vampire to procreate. Science has proven this to be true as we get closer to believing that he is the original vampire."

"So I somehow managed to murder the vampire princess. And here I thought this was going to be bad news," Frost commented, switching the cell phone to his other ear. Pinning it to his shoulder, Frost began taking account of his remaining ammunition.

"It gets worse. I've prompted Neal to take you to a secondary, secure location. It would appear that Anupu is on your trail," Denisoff's voice shook with concern for just a syllable and this, more than anything, frightened Frost. "Several Hunters will be waiting for you upon arrival. They will assist as much as possible."

"Going out in a blaze of glory sounds good to me. I'll contact you once I'm there," Frost canceled the call and let the cell phone slip from his shoulder. In light of recent news, it looked as if his crusade for atonement would end before it really even got started.

Frost glanced over to Nick and found him loading clips into every pistol he could find. Nick met Frost's gaze just a moment later and nodded, "I heard. You think FMW will excuse you for missing your return? You know, with you being dead and all?"

Frost pulled a flask from his duster's inside pocket and unscrewed the top, all while baring a smile. "I doubt it. The ring leader there is a fuckin' ball buster," Frost said with a laugh, before draining the contents of the flask in a single swig. Setting the flask aside, Frost caught Nick's disapproving glare.

"Drinking on the job again?"

"Just another day at the office."

Screeching tires against worn asphalt permeated the tension inside the Mercedes. Frost closed his eyes, trying to determine where the bat out of Hell had made its presence known, when a powerful impact shook the right side of the car. Frost watched as Nick's side window shattered, spewing shards of glass against the poor man's face, before the right side tires came up off the ground. Bracing himself, Frost counted two revolutions as chaos warped his field of vision.

The crash transpired in seconds, but Frost still felt like it was an eternity before the car settled against the asphalt, upside down. Spitting blood from a busted lip, he attempted to move, but found the dull pain consuming his body as little too much to take.

Hoping he wasn't alone, Frost called out to Nick, "You alright over there?"

"...Yep."

Frost sighed a bit of relief and called out to the driver, Neal, "You alright up there?" Frost waited, counting off pained breaths before he realized Neal wasn't going to answer. "And... shit."

"My thoughts exactly. Where are we?" Nick asked, not attempting to move just yet.

Frost glanced over to Nick, trying to see out of his window, and noticed the crimson staining his face. Frost had no doubt that he looked the same, but Nick wasn't as suited to handle it. "Looks like the middle of the street. We need to get damage control out here and-

Frost was cut off as the car began to groan under pressure. Frost's equilibrium was then thrown off, for a second time, as the car was flipped back onto its tires. As the rocking, and the pain in his ribs, began to subside, Frost glanced over to Nick, "A few worried citizens?"

Nick slowly shook as head; his eyes getting wider with each shift. Frost suddenly felt his body being ripped from the car as strong, cool hands tore him from his belted in position. Only moments later, Frost found himself sliding across the asphalt. "I'm getting really tired of being man handled..." Frost groaned, pushing himself onto wobbly legs.

But only when Frost's eyes found his attacker did he wish he'd kept his mouth shut. A tall, bronze toned man stood in his presence. Dressed head to toe in modern day elegance, the man radiated a regal calm, as well as tremendous power. His eyes, old and wise, scanned Frost with a hint of expectancy.

So Frost swung, lazily and lacking power, only to catch a fist full of air. The regal stranger laughed; at first it was amusement, but as his fists curled, the laugh transformed into a mournful yell. Frost buckled as the oxygen in his lungs was stolen from him with a single punch. Knees hitting the asphalt, Frost cringed as coppery bile slid up his throat.

Well, I'm sure Eastwood will understand if I don't make it. He sounds like an understanding kinda' guy.

Frost reeled as a stiff knee cracked against his forehead, eviscerating his perception as his head snapped back from the force of the strike. A sharp, unrelenting pain wrapped its icy tendrils around his forehead as awareness began to take shape.

I mean, I'll be dead. All for the greater fucking good.

Frost tried to get to his feet, but the alcohol in his system forced him back down. He settled, his back against the brick wall behind him, and glanced up at the figure standing before him. "Anupu, I take it?"

The regal figure sighed, a heavy and powerful noise, "I've grown so tired of that name. Please, call me Anubis." The voice that replied was golden, but cold. An accent tinted the color of his words; an accent born of many different cultures.

Frost laughed, unintentional and ill placed. "The Weigher of Souls..."

Anubis's eyes lit up, a smile broadening his lips. "You've heard of me. And here I was afraid I'd be forever known as the faceless killer of Hannibal Frost."

"Nope. You'll get full credit."

"Indeed."

Frost, weight against the wall behind him, slid up until his legs were keeping him upright. Strangely, Anubis did nothing to stop him. There was no fear in his eyes. Of course, why would the original vampire fear anything?

Anubis took a step back, stretching his arms for what Frost could only guess as round two. "I'd be delighted to try this again, Hannibal."

Frost held up a hand, trying to buy a moment to work the pain out of his body. Almost a minute passed before the pain began to dull. Finally, he stretched his body out, trying his best to stand upright. "Ready when you are."

Anubis smiled, before launching forward with a wide sweep of a punch. Frost ducked it, put all of his strength into his next move, and rammed a curled fist into Anubis's ribcage. The impact almost shattered Frost's hand, widening his eyes in protest to the agony. A swift hand curled around Frost's throat and slammed him against the brick wall he had been backed up against.

"I now find myself in a peculiar situation. I have my daughter's murderer within my grasp, but I'm confused. Her murderer was suppose to be a champion..." Frost found Anubis staring off into the distance, talking to himself, "But this man, this mortal, is no champion."

"A... uh, champion?"

Anubis brought his golden ringed eyes back to Frost and snarled. Any common competitive ground they once had was now all but gone. "It was prophesied, even before my time, that a champion would emerge and challenge my grip on this world."

"Me?"

"All accounts indicate, yes. Naturally, I awaited this challenge."

Frost nodded with whimsical sarcasm, "Naturally."

"You are no champion, though. At least, not yet..."

"So this meeting might've been a little... premature?"

Anubis tightened his grip on Frost's neck, lifting him an inch off the ground. Frost began to struggle for air, but the alcohol working its way through his system was dulling his senses. Anubis squinted, trying to seek out Frost's motive. "You mock me."

Frost did his best to shrug in his current position, "I only mock when I drink."

Anubis sighed, with what sounded like annoyance, and whipped Frost to the ground. Frost clenched his teeth as his shoulder dragged against the unforgiving asphalt, sending slivers of pain coursing through his skin. Darkness began to lick at the edges of his vision, threatening with malice, to send him into a deep sleep.

Frost, trying to keep himself awake, watched as Anubis began to pace back and forth, a furor rising to the surface of his skin. The vampire exuded an ascendancy Frost had never seen before; waves of unmitigated, intransigent power crashed against the shores of his skin. This being truly was the original vampire.

"Why would they lie to me? What do they think to gain by stringing me along like some naive marionette?" Anubis wasn't asking Frost, or anyone in particular. The vampire had a habit of speculating out loud.

"Who could possibly be pulling your strings?" Frost asked, actually amazed at the fact that this powerful being called someone else 'master'.

Anubis slowly came to a halt, his feet resting against the asphalt. His eyes found Frost, an understanding gleam bringing a new light to them. "This is about my daughter, which I will never forgive you for. They are using that to fulfill their own charges," Anubis spoke slowly, his pain latching on to every word.

Frost could see it in his eyes; the pain of loss. Even with death looming over his head, Frost found it hard to ignore the despondent sensation of longing. It would seem the vampire and the hunter had something in common. "I've lost just as much as you have."

"And for that I shall let you live. Time will pass as it always does, and in that time, we will meet again," Anubis looked to the sky with shut eyes. The power that had been leaking into the air around him was then sucked into a singular focal point, ripping Anubis from Frost's eye sight. The vampire, as dominating and real as he was, now appeared to be just as gone.

Frost, finally tearing his eyes away from where Anubis had disappeared, turned towards the car and found Nick pointing a pistol out of the shattered side window. A smile crept onto Frost's lips as he slowly made his way over to the car. Nick had actually survived, and was about to put a bullet in the world's first vampire. Probably would have just gotten them both killed, but valiance wasn't necessarily Nick's strong suit. It was nice to finally see him step up to the plate.

Collapsing against the car door just a little to the side of Nick, Frost let out a heavy sigh of relief. He felt the comforting feeling flood his veins with a sense of life. "You alright?"

"I'm bleeding from places I didn't even know I had," Nick said, pausing for a moment to catch his breath, "What about you?"

"Could be better," Frost replied, not feeling it in him for a longer response. Every part of his body screamed in protest to every movement he tried to make. Not exactly the best way to get prepared for his return to Full Metal Wrestling. "Why is it always me getting my ass kicked?"

Frost could hear Nick laugh, before shuffling to find a more comfortable position. "No clue, but you do have that lovable underdog quality about you."

"I do have a penchant for getting in over my head, don't I?"

"That actually sounded like a sober statement."

Speaking of which, Frost could feel the subtle beginnings of a headache coming on. Each dull, pressured thud against his forehead brought him closer to lucidity. "What the hell is that noise?" Frost asked, hearing a jingle escaping from the inside of the car. Maybe it was too soon to be speaking of lucidity...

"Well damn, the phone survived," Nick replied with Frost trademarked sarcasm. Frost glanced up at the mention of the phone and managed to snatch it out of the air before it hit the ground.

"Frost here."

"Is this going to be a ongoing theme with you? Near death experiences?" Frost recognized Denisoff's voice coming through the haze of bad reception and booze.

"Not at all."

"Good, because we've got something for you. A very powerful artifact, the Trinus Oculus, has been narrowed down to a small town on the state line of Georgia-

"Which is conveniently where I'll be heading after the show."

"Precisely. The cleansing of your soul hinges on your finding this artifact."

Frost began to reply, but caught himself mid-breath as the earlier words of a certain vampire began to bleed through the turmoil that had overtaken his mind. "Anubis said something about me being a champion..."

Frost could hear a light sigh come from the other end of the phone. Denisoff only sighed before the delivery of less than good news. " The artifact will lead us to the prophecy. It would appear... your future has gotten a might more interesting."

Frost glanced around the backstreet this chaotic mess resided in. With a slight, self serving chuckle, Frost agreed.

"It would appear that it has."

The scene immediately opens up to Donny and Mayra, of the special self-funded group, back to back in the near pitch black of the night. Both of them are carrying semi-automatic guns and look rather nervous as they shake uncontrollably.

Mayra: I’m about to take a step back.

Donny: When, now?

Mayra: On three.

The two of them beat their head to the silent count and take a step, backward for Mayra, and forward for Donny. They continue to look around anxiously as nothing but dust blowing in the wind can be seen for as long as the eye can see. Donny swallows a lump in his throat right as the creature from before appears from what you would imagine nowhere.

Mayra: Donny, it’s here! Shoot it, shoot it, shoot the fuckin’ thing!

Donny goes to shoot it but a cube slides in front of it and flashes brightly. Donny and Mayra shield their eyes until the brightness subsides and they see nothing but the cube, now with a flashing red light on top, and Rodney.

Rodney: We’ve got it.

Mayra: Let us go now since you’ve got it.

The cube starts to shake, causing Rodney to slide it, with his foot, to where Mayra and Donny are standing.

Rodney: Keep your foot on the box until Nikko tells me what happened in his match tonight. He won last week, think he can win again? You two better hope so.

Mayra puts her foot on the box in bitter disgust as Rodney walks off and lifts up a blanket that was manufactured to blend in with the dessert around them. He jumps into a hole and closes the entrance from the inside.

Donny: Get the pin out now…

CUT:

TAMPA, FLORIDA- DAY

FADE IN:

It’s afternoon in Florida as NNN is lying in a chair facing what appears to be a therapist.

Yeah, that’s me sitting in front of a psychiatrist. You know what they never tell you about wrestling? When you win one match, you feel the immediate desire to tell everyone about it and promise said people to win the next match. The issue is I had no one to really tell. I could tell Rodney but he’s like the step-father you could never impress. The therapist name is Rick Johnson by the way.

Rick Johnson: So how does the fact that you’re the sole income earner in your family make you feel, Nikko? Does it make you feel responsible for the fact that you’re funding this…dog catching business?

NNN: I guess I can honestly say I don’t really give a damn, doc. I don’t know if there is a name for it but I have this repressed desire to win at things I know I’m capable of winning, which is cool and all, but that kind of makes the whole dog collecting business a bit of an afterthought.

Rick Johnson: I’d say you have found a way to avoid the problems you could potentially be facing at him, Nikko. Is there a problem or two that troubles you when you are out, as you say, wrestling? Do any coworkers bring out this thoughts or stresses?

This made me asking if he actually knew how the profession of wrestling worked a bit of an unnecessary question. Conversely, I should’ve told him the truth about the fact that one job funds another, and the family members I speak of are actually my coworkers at the job I wish I could quit.

NNN: If I had to work with the same people all the time when I wrestled, Doc, I’d blow a hole in my head. I wrestle different people each week or the place would shut down after they realized Romeo was squashing the same guy over and over.

Rick Johnson: So that’d be no to a tag team.

The guy knows what a tag team is?

Rick Johnson: Probably no stable either…I’d assume…

NNN: Yeah, no stable for me, Doc, I doubt anyone trust rookies enough to back them backstage.

Rick Johnson: If I did my research correctly, which I usually do, a win in a triple threat match is a bit of an accomplishment? More prestigious than a singles win and less than what I think is called a fatal four-way.

That in-depth assumption kind of made me feel better about my win. Conversely, it kind of made me feel bad that it wasn’t a four-way. Could I have won?

Rick Johnson: No doubt that you would’ve won the four-way, I assume. Rookies just have to learn to be accepted in the sport of Wrestling, much like any other sport, and that is precisely what you’re doing. Do you travel with a set group of wrestlers?

NNN: I think I once rode on the same plane as Eric Scorpio if that accounts for anything. Didn’t get to talk to him though since a load of fans were flocking to him and looking at the shiny thing around his waist.

I want fans to flock around me and want to admire me. I sound jealous…well I think jealous…can’t sound it if you don’t say it…should I say something about wanting fans?

Rick Johnson: You want fans to flock towards you, judging by the tone of your voice when you said that.

I’d guess not.

Rick Johnson: I think the problem at home is that you don’t get the recognition you feel you deserve. Because of that, you wrestle and hope that the fans will start to recognize whatever skill you have and will reward you with their cheers, affection, or simple admiration.

NNN: Well I’ll believe you and say goodbye at-

Rick Johnson: You won’t return to see me, Nathans. You travel all over the country and the fact that you paid for six months of my services is a sign that you need someone to talk to. Someone for you to be appreciated by, Nikko.

Nikko gets up off of the couch and goes to walk out but stops at the door. His hand resting on the handle, he turns his head to look back to Rick Johnson.

I’ll see you again.

NNN: Guess you’ll enjoy the free money, Rick.

FADE OUT:

INT. CITY BUS- DAY

FADE IN:

Nikko is sitting in the very back of a bus, again. A laptop sits in his lap as he seems to be whispering into a mini-microphone.

NNN: Keep it down, Rodney; I’m going to get you the money.

Rodney (Voice): I’m not playing when I say that they both have to stand around and keep their feet on the box. What’s with the blocked charges in every fuckin’ city you pass through? You breaking?

No, I’m just trying to understand why I listen to you anymore when you are an ocean away. I don’t even know why I listened to you in the first place.

NNN: I’m buying supplements to raise my muscle, and workout gear. I’m making money at a quicker rate than I’m losing it so what’s the problem? I mean, I sent you half of what I got for winning the triple threat and you’re still bitching at me, man.

Okay, I admit that I only sent like twenty percent but it was either that or risk running away from wrestling. Given the fact that no bank would loan me money until I won a match, I had to wrestle that first match.

Rodney (Voice): Whoop the fuckin’ doo, Nikko. You won a fuckin’ match and you think that’s going to keep on rolling. You got fuckin’ lucky and you know it. Keep wrestling until you lose and then cut your losses and take out the biggest loan you can get. I promise you that it’ll be paid back…not that it’ll have to be…

NNN: I’ll get the money to you. Stop worrying about it.

Rodney (Voice): I’m not the one worrying, Nikko. You should be though if you’re not going to get me the money. Bye.

Nikko slams the back of his head against the AC unit usually placed toward the back of a Metro Bus. He closes his eyes and rests.

Eric Scorpio has lost plenty of matches in his career and the dude’s probably loaded with money…and fans…he definitely has his share of fans…isn’t he a bad guy? Who cares when you’re doing something most regular people can't do; they admire you.

Rodney claims my win in the match was a fluke but I do disagree. Kaoru and Axel both lost their first matches. Kaoru…that’s a dumb name…no, I’m just being biased because I have to face him in a couple of hours and Rodney put me in a bad mood.

Who did I pin in the match? I think it was Axel, but I’m not quite so sure. Kaoru tried to stop the pin, I think…he didn’t because I won. Round Robin I think is the name of the tournament where you go against everyone once. I technically beat Axel already and beating Kaoru means I’m better than at least two people in FMW. Even if I lose afterward, I can tell Rodney I’m better than at least two.

The bus screeches to a halt and almost sends Nikko face first into the person getting up in front of him. Luckily a well placed pole catches him by the shoulder. Nikko looks out the window and sees a building by the name “First City Bank of Tampa”.

Can’t hurt to try.

Nikko gets out of the seat and exits the bus.

CUT:

INT. FIRST CITY BANK OF TAMPA- DAY

CUT TO:

Nikko is sitting at a desk as a Teller enters information into her computer. Nikko looks at her nameplate and sees that her name is “Wanda Sisco”.

NNN: I got to admit that Tampa, Florida has some rather interesting names for its professionals. Just earlier I was being counseled by a Rick Johnson.

Wanda awkwardly lets out a smile but doesn’t even look in Nikko’s direction.

I hope she doesn’t take counseled the wrong way. I’m not crazy I don’t think. I talk to myself a lot but that’s because I hate blogging. She has pretty lips, and eyes, and I can't see her hips but those are probably close to perfect. She kind of reminds me of Mayra…no, I can't start thinking about Mayra again.

Wow, I almost forgot that one of the reasons I came back to the US so willingly was because of Mayra. Broke my heart and then drew against me to get me sent away from the group. Unfair, but I guess I got to respect her tenacity. I wonder if this Wanda Sisco has the same features.

Wanda turns her chair so that she is facing Nikko.

Wanda Sisco: You’re still not going to get any higher than your last requested loan in Houston, Texas.

NNN: What?!

Wanda Sisco: You are MR. Nikko Nathans, correct? Wrestler of FMW, lived much of the last couple of years out of the country, and now requesting loans.

She kind of had a spicy flavor to her tongue when she said all that.

NNN: No, I mean that’s me and all, but how did you know I tried for a loan in Houston?

Wanda Sisco: It’s part of your credit report, Sir. Your sole claims are that you won a match in FMW, of course that was better than your last claim, I’d guess.

NNN: What makes you so sure?

Wanda Sisco: Females enjoy wrestling as well, Sir. Enjoyed your match and your subsequent win.

This should probably count as a fan seeing as she remembers who I was. What’s the definition of a fan anyway? I know it’s oddly similar to stalker. Whatever it is, I doubt it’s going to help my loan chances.

NNN: So no to the loan amount I asked for?

Wanda Sisco: No.

Worth a shot.

NNN: How about this, Mrs. Sisco-

Wanda Sisco: It’s Ms. Sisco, Mr. Nathans.

She’s flirting with me, I know it. That or I’m as conceited as the average wrestler. I kind of fear it’s both of the above. I’ll see right now.

NNN: As I was saying…Ms. Sisco…since you are an avid follower of FMW and you know the trends of wrestling quite well, including winners purses among other golden objects, why don’t I make you the one teller in all the US I have to impress to get a loan.

Wanda Sisco: I’m flattered that you’d have my services be the sole hope in your life, Mr. Nathans.

I got her reeled in! I have to capitalize it somehow…but how…I got it!

NNN: And since I don’t want this little relationship of ours to benefit only you, my match that I’ll be participating in on the next Ammunition is against Kaoru. The same guy who lost in the triple-threat match, but wasn’t pinned.

Wanda Sisco: Oh, so now I get backstage information on FMW, Mr. Nathans? I suppose it is fair since you’ll be going out and trying to impress me directly, for the loan and all.

Nikko notices the clock on the desk.

NNN: Speaking of which, I have got to get going to get ready at the stadium for the match.

Nikko gets out of his seat to leave but stops and turns to look at Wanda one more time.

NNN: You know, Ms. Sisco, wrestlers get free tickets to hand out to their friends and family. I have no family in town, nor friends.

Wanda Sisco: I do suppose I’ll be more impressed if I see you win in person.

NNN: Tickets will be at the box office!

Nikko runs out of the bank.

FADE OUT:

INT. METRO BUS- DAY

FADE IN:

Nikko is once again sitting at the very back of the bus. He doesn’t have his laptop out this time and he actually seems pretty happy to be alive.

If I had a friend to talk to I’d tell them about the mass amount of game I just threw out. I do have friends…none in the country. Rodney definitely doesn’t count as a friend on the account he makes my life hell. Mayra can't be a friend since she’s my ex and has single handedly kicked me out of a country. That leaves Donny.

Donny is like the older brother who you never tell on so he feels the need to be cool with you in return. More to save his ass than out of genuine desire of your acceptance. Shady past, unsure future, and the only thing I know deeply about him is that he hates hot sauce.

Tall:You seem much more excited about your match than you did last time. Which is the reason? Knowing that Rick Johnson is dedicated enough to follow your career even though you claim you won't go back, Rodney because you can't stand hearing his whining, or is it the new interest of Wanda Sisco?

Nikko smiles as Tall talks.

NNN: You know I noticed that it is redundant for me to think to myself when you’re around. You just respond to my thoughts instead of my words. Oh, and I am exited for this match because it’s full of so much potential.

Tall:Assuming you win. If you lose then most of the reasons for you to win will simply forget about you. I suppose Rick Johnson will still be there for you, but mainly out of feeling bad that you paid for six months of service.

NNN: You’re a buzzkill, man. If I do lose, they won't forget about me. I’ll just have to impress them twice as much the next match. Though my dreams of being for sure better than at least two people in FMW will be in ashes…or would it be a tie between me and Kaoru?

Tall:It won't matter to you. You’ll react all the same.

NNN: Then I won’t lose at all.

Nikko never took his head from looking out of the window but in the reflection he could see that Tall disappeared.

I kind of wish I knew what exactly that thing was but I’d probably have to talk to Rodney to figure out and it isn’t worth it at this moment.

He’s right though. If I lose I’ll react in the worst way possible. Not only that but Rodney will be there to jump on my back and add fuel to the flame. Solution, don’t lose. Kaoru was damn impressive in the match but I won it. Which by statistic means I was more impressive.

If it was that simple I’d probably not think about it so much. I guess at least I’m true to myself in admitting that it’s going to be close. It’s going to be damn close but that just adds to the drama of my career. Fans love to know that their favorite hero had some close calls.

I kind of feel bad for being the bump in the road that Kaoru can't get past but it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Sometimes there are too good people trying to get to the same place and there is only room for one.

I don’t know Kaoru personally but I can't lose this match. I’ve got a new layer of reason here in the US for me to succeed. That new layer has almost overshadowed Donny, Rodney, and Mayra but I know it’s for the best. Their doing better without me and I think I’m doing better without them.

The bus pulls up to the corner near the Stadium in Tampa. Nikko smiles as he gets up to get off of the bus.

It’s time for me to keep this momentum going. Not just in FMW where I have to make a name for myself but in the world. There is now a healthy group of people for me to believe in. They don’t know it yet but I’ll be their number one customer.

Sorry for the impending loss Kaoru, it’s nothing personal.

CUT:

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION- NIGHT

FADE IN:

Donny: Get the pin out!

Mayra and Donny are still back to back as Mayra fidgets around to get a pin out of the back of her pocket.

Donny: Don’t pull the pin off the bomb, Mayra! You’re going to blow us up!

Mayra continues to fidget until a smile spreads across her face and she pulls away from Donny to reveal a flat bomb that was strapped to their backs.

Donny: Don’t take your foot off the box or that’ll be two things we got to deal with.

Mayra: How are we going to get away if I can't take my foot off the box?

Rodney: You’re not going to have to worry about that.

Mayra and Donny look over to see Rodney with a handgun pointed at them.

Donny: You’re crazy, Rodney. You’re out of your fuckin’ mind!

Rodney shoots Donny in the leg, sending him to the ground.

Mayra: What’s your problem!

Rodney: You two could have taken turns holding down the top on the box but now you’ll have to do it all by yourself, Mayra. Seeing as Donny is a bit out of commission. I do suppose this raises the need for Nikko to win that match of his so he can send money for us to develop a proper attachment on top. Speaking of which, his match is on now, I’ll go get the laptop.

Rodney looks over to Donny and then shoots his other leg and only smiles as he walks off to get the laptop.

END!

Sonny: “…and so, from this point on, there will be no more embarrassing losses followed by public displays that will draw unnecessary attention, no more violent outbursts, no more…”

The match was lost. There was no question about that. That meant consequences. And for some reason, consequences meant avoiding Tampa and catching the red-eye flight to LA.

Los Angeles nursed the western coast like a giant iron womb. It was a growth. Something strange and unnatural. Flying in you would see the mountains, the surf, and that all-pervasive green one always notices when one is high enough from the ground. Surrounded by all of that beauty, Los Angeles was like a tumor, or perhaps an invading iron colossus straddling the beach with both legs.

The driver was a rail thin, middle aged man from Nagasaki who insisted on being called Sonny. He also insisted on reciting verbatim the fax that had come in on the previous day. Word of the press conference incident had reached Tokyo. Uncle’s response was less than enthusiastic.

In fact, it directly resulted in the hiring of Sonny, who would serve as personal chauffer and watchdog from now on.

Sonny: “…and furthermore…”

Kaoru: “We both got the same fax. I understand, already.”

Sonny: “Boss told me to repeat it a few more times, even if you got snarky.”

No amount of exasperated sighing would stop Sonny from his annoying mission. It was far more interesting to look out at Little Tokyo, framed by the tinted windows and leather interior of the car, which gave it an unreal and faraway look.

As a guesstimate, it appeared to be roughly four city blocks bordered by the Los Angeles River to the east, downtown Los Angeles to the west, LA City Hall and the Parker Center to the north, and the newly named Arts District (made up of warehouses converted into live-work lofts) to the south.

It was angering in a way. To be from a foreign land, and have to suckle on the tits of migrants who were clearly outsiders themselves. To arrive, and to not be immediately accepted into the mainstream culture. Little Tokyo was a gimmick, a survival technique for those who could not otherwise survive. Any Japanese native bore a special, quiet enmity for “Gaijin” or immigrants, in their home country. To arrive somewhere else and therefore become a gaijin yourself…to be forced to huddle with the same kind of half breeds you had professed hatred for only a short time ago…

One had to leave. One had to get out to make something of himself. There was more to Los Angeles than this abomination. So much more…

Sonny interrupted the fantasy.

Sonny:“…anyway, Boss told me to mention one more thing. It wasn’t in the fax for the specific reason that he did not want you to complain.”[/color]

Kaoru: “Oh?”

Sonny: “Yes. Boss has determined that your outburst was the result of you still having too much free time, and not enough physical outlets and responsibilities. Therefore, when you are not training, competing, or doing promotional activities for Full Metal Wrestling, you will be here in Los Angeles on assignment.”

Eventually, there comes a point where, after too many unpleasant surprises all at once, one becomes numb
to any more.

Kaoru:“You don’t say? And what exactly is the assignment?”

Sonny smiled a leathery, wet-lipped smile that he made sure could be seen in the rear view mirror. His moustache was so wispy, that the smile seemed to make it almost ethereal. It was the sort of smile that men with small shoulders and even smaller pride gave when they knew they had the upper hand against someone of superior power.

Sonny: “Don’t worry too much about that part. Boss said that it was nothing you couldn’t handle. In fact, he said you had done it before.”

Even when it was in aggravation, throwing your back into the leather seats was comfortable. It was that kind of car. Dark and gleaming like a richly lacquered table, it was intended to let anyone on the street know that the person inside was much too important to be seen.

Several slightly dingy blocks passed by. Some were dominated by cheesy little ethnic restaurants that boasted ethnic Japanese cuisine, and may or may not have actually had it. Others boasted various trinket shops that sold good luck charms, Buddha statues, incense sticks, and anything else that would have been found a novelty by someone out of town or out of touch. Seeing your culture reduced to street corner shops is always somewhat insulting. Some would look at it and declare the triumph of a hard working and industrious people in a foreign land. Those who knew better would call it mockery.

Sonny:“Here we are.”

Sonny had pulled off the main road and into a narrow alleyway, which was so small that anyone passing by may have mistaken it for an inaccessible gutter created accidentally by the close proximity of the buildings. But the car did indeed fit, and slowly pulled up to a dingy side door with fizzling neon and some Japanese characters over it.

Kaoru: “Na-ka-su…a whore house. So what am I, the new bouncer?”
Sonny gave another self important smile. He was clearly enjoying his role as the source of information.

Sonny: Of sorts, yes. Little Nakasu is one of the premier brothels run here in little Tokyo, and a very lucrative overseas property for your uncle. We dominate the market for several miles out. But Nakasu is much more than just a place to get your dick wet. Thanks to its centralized location and few points of entry, it is often used as a flashpoint. Important business meetings are held here. Weapons and drugs are stockpiled here. Recently, a game room has been installed on the first floor to facilitate a gambling operation that has proved to be quite the stable source of income. And of course…new girls that we acquire as collateral for debts are trafficked here. Control of Nakasu is vital to our operations through the city.

Things did not add up.

Kaoru: “If this place is such a fortress, why do you need the big bad wolf to guard it?”

Sonny put on an exaggerated look of grave importance. He furrowed his eyebrows and lowered his voice several octaves more than necessary to get his point across.

Sonny: “There have been some ‘problems’ as of late. Rival yakuza have begun to intrude on the territory. The week before you flew in, there was a firebombing attempted. Their raids have been getting bolder and bolder over the past few months. Given your talent for…as they say in America, “going to the mattresses,” you’re going to tip the scales back in our favor. You are not only to guard Nakasu, but chase away any attackers back to the place they came from, and ensure that this place ceases to exist. Think of yourself as an ogre, guarding treasure and princesses! Just like in the legends! Hehehehehe!”

It was a sickening nasal laugh. Sonny got out of the car and onto the damp, cracked asphalt. The alley was so narrow, that the limousine would have obscured both passengers had one not been so big. Nakasu’s door swung open with a strong creek, as daylight flooded into the purposely dimmed enclosure.
Inside was the familiar spell of smoke and sweat that usually accompanied a gambling den. Even in the poor light, you could see men hunched intently over tables, focused on various games of Shogi and dominoes. Somewhere in the far corner, a man let out a shriek of victory, which was followed by the pleasant clattering of chips that no doubt came his way.

Kaoru: “I don’t understand. If this is a whorehouse, where are the whores?”

Sonny: “Like I said, first floor is for gambling. Follow me.”

Sonny ascended up creaky stairs, with plating made to resemble real hardwood. One could immediately tell the plating was a fake because there were certain bad steps where it didn’t quite stick, and if you put enough weight down on your foot, it would almost slide out from under you.

The second floor was structured like an inn. Essentially it was a long hallway with several doors lining the side, presumably bedrooms. In the center of the hall was a kind of lounge outfitted with some chairs and ratty sofa. It was in this lounge where fifteen or so prim bodies were lined up in two rows.

Sonny: I called ahead so they would be ready. This isn’t all of them. Some of the floors above have more rooms, but these are the top fifteen sellers, and the hooking floors all pretty much look like this one.

The girls were all wearing silk kimonos in various embroidered patterns. Peach blossoms, cranes, the ocean…all were represented in different colors on the gowns. Most all of them had a naïve, pretty expression, which was probably well practiced by this time.

The majority had dark hair, although a fair number had their streaked to keep up with the times. All in all, a good crop, barring any disease.

Sonny: This is your new protector, girls. His name is Kaoru. Say hello.
A sweet, high-pitched “Herrro Kauro-sama!” rang out in unison.

Sonny: Anyway…now that you’re all caught up…it’s time for your first homework assignment. Boss tells me that your next match is against the man who beat you in the triple threat? One, Nikko Nulthy Nathans, yes?

Kaoru: “People talk too much.”

Sonny: Hoho…the big man’s pride is hurt, I see! Well, never mind that. The boss wants you to be in the proper mind set come match-time. So with that in mind…I want you to pick one of the pretty girls we have here…and make her not so pretty. None of the ones here, naturally. They all make too much money. Room 308 on the next floor should have what you need.

Kaoru: Hmm. Tell Uncle that he doesn’t have to assign me things I would have eventually gotten around to myself.

Sonny: “Is that sooooo? He was right about you. A stone cold killer. You’ll do well here. Now go do your homework, little man.”

It was at this moment that the decision was made. Sonny would die when all was said and done. And he would die in a manner befitting a rat.

It was a lucrative day on the first floor. The profit marked an annual high, even for the summer season. Everywhere, men were yelling and cursing, and occasionally cheering only to find themselves cursing again minutes later.

No one heard any noise from the third floor. Not even when the screams penetrated the stairwell and echoed down to anyone making the climb. Not even when the grating of fingernails could be heard outside of room 308, accompanied by pleas of mercy followed by praying. Not even when a pool of blood casually dripped out from beneath the door and settled on the fake hardwood plating.

The greatest fantasies our minds can conjure always involve unwilling subjects. And as she, that anonymous she, bled from wounds both combative and sexual, her prayers were answered with one whispered phrase.

Kaoru: You’re practice, baby. You’re practice.


KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Sonny: Hey! Hey open the door, you big fat gorilla! There’s a situation downstairs!

He stood there in the hallway for an uncomfortable second. His legs squirmed like a man who had too much to drink and was ready to make room for more. His oversized track suit muffled his sweat, cold with panic. Then the door to room 308 opened ever so slowly.

Kaoru: Talk.

But Sonny was already reaching out for the porky frame hiding in the slit of the door. With all the weight his body could muster he gave the beefy arm a tug. It wouldn’t budge.

Sonny whipped his head around and did his best to be expressive. His eyebrows curled up around the center of his brow, and his eyes widened so that you could just barely see the whites over the rim of his sunglasses. He thought it made him look more sympathetic.

Sonny: I said come on, come on! There’s no time to waste! He’s down there wrecking the tables!

He gave another pull, this time turning his body completely in the opposite direction with the extra arm draped over his shoulder like a heavy sack. Still nothing. It was a Sisyphean task.

Kaoru: Talk first. Then I go. What is the situation?

Sonny: I—y—you---

Sonny’s face turned a lush color of red. His mouth made a kind of noise between stuttering and gasping. Either way, he held his breath for what seemed like too long before realizing that it was useless. He exhaled deeply, as the color of his complexion went back to normal. Resignation.

Sonny:Fine…okay. There’s this dumb fuck, see? The bartender had been feeding him drinks all night, so he already had some courage in him, you know what I mean? Anyway, he said he needed to make some money. I suggested the tables. Before I know it, he’s deep in the hole and snorting like a bull, talking about how the game is rigged. I mean…the game IS rigged. But that’s not the point. He’s wrecking the bar. So for the LAST time, will you get your fat ass down these stairs and ---and---say…what’s there in that room behind you?

Almost before he finished his question, the door slammed shut and the behemoth that once stood on the fault-line of the doorframe was completely outside of the hallway.

Kaoru: Let’s go downstairs.

Sonny: Thought you’d never ask, sugar pie.

With that, Sonny ran up ahead. The floor rang out in a curious melody of a smaller man’s feet followed by a larger man’s.

Ba-BAM-ba-BAM-ba-BAM

He may have been chubby-thighed but he was a quick runner. Sonny’s hand careened down the safety rail of the stairs, as he leapt over the last few steps to make a cat-like landing back on the first floor.

A strange kind of baying made itself known. At first it was muted by the stairwell, but rang out in full crescendo once you got down the stairs. The dregs who had been sitting at the gambling tables were now suddenly alive. They were standing in a kind of loose circle with a periphery of several broken chairs and the occasional pool of glass.

They were circling something. Or someone. But their legs were doubtful. Off to the side, the bartender was peeking out timidly from behind his bar. In the corners of the bar, four big thick-necked men in suits were skulking.

Each of their right hands was buried inside of their jackets.

Kaoru: Those men over there. They’re armed, aren’t they?

Sonny took a break from wiping the sweat off his forehead with a stylized handkerchief.

Sonny: What’s your point?

Kaoru: Why don’t they take care of it?

Sonny took time out from panting to shoot a look of disgust. He may as well have been asked the most ignorant question in the world.

Sonny: Why? Why?? Because they’re gunmen, that’s why! I don’t plan to sic trained foot-soldiers on a goddamn public disturbance! That’s like killing a fly with a nuclear bomb! Their job is to keep a low profile until we need to take a big-time fight out into the streets. YOUR job is to be a bouncer and take care of random shit like this. NOW GET OUT THERE A---

Before the sentence had finished escaping his lips, the brutish silhouette next to him was already moving towards the circle.

Getting closer to the mass, one could almost make out the thrashing figure in the middle. A dark green windbreaker. A gray ski-cap. Both looked like they had been violated by cold wind and cigarette ashes. There was a beard too. A long bushy mess that looked like a torn and stretched-out cotton ball. It matched his hat.

One by one, the people in the crowd noticed that there was something very large making its way towards them. Some of them willingly made a path, wanting to see if this would maybe evolve into a full blown riot.
Others had to be shoved out of the way, not wanting to give up their view.

The four men in the corners were as still and silent as lampposts.

Kaoru: Hey. You.

Those people who had been pushed aside to make a path now crowded back to their original position, forming a bullring.

The creature in the middle whipped his head around like a startled cat. He had tough, salted skin stretched over a pair of milky eyeballs. His scraggly torso was mounted on what at first glance almost looked like blue jeans. But they too many worn spots and holes to be called jeans, and the color had long ago ceased to resemble a true shade of blue.

There were several patches sewn into his windbreaker. The American flag was one of them.
He spoke with a throat-full of phlegm.

???: *Cough, Cough*…well, ain’t you a big fat gook? Hehehe…yes, sir. I don’t think I ever seen one as big as you, boy.

The voice was constantly off balance, because his feet kept bobbing underneath him. It almost looked like there was a wind blowing only him in a loopy figure-eight around the bullring. Or maybe he was just too drunk to speak in one tone.

Kaoru: What’s your name?

His eyelids closed around the milky eyeballs. A few of the men in the bullring chuckled because, for a moment, it looked like he had forgotten the answer.

???: *Cough, Cough*… Well now…I don’t think anyone’s asked me that point blank in a good long time. But you did, didn’t you? Hee hee….you can call me Lee. I’d like being called Lee.

His arms waved around absentmindedly, conjuring the answer from the air. The eyelids snapped back open, staring dreamily at the wall of flesh in front of him.

Kaoru: You’re wrecking the bar.

His eyebrows shot high up into his hairline, like fuses waiting for the right spark to set them off.

Lee: Well now hoooooold on there just a minute, boy. *Cough, Cough*…I—You---this goddamn place is cheat—uh---cheating me out of my money! I be playing that game like any other person fair and square and they just be taking and taking like ‘this funny letter means you lose this much, and this funny letter means you lose that much.’ So I says ‘where’s the funny looking letter that says I win any damn thing, huh?’ and we procee--*Cough, Cough*--procee--*Cough, Cough* proceeded to have us a conversation. A real civil one. Though uh…it may have gotten just a little bit passionate. But I tell ya…this is some horse shit, ain’t it? I come back from the south pacific, only to end up getting screwed over by the same zipperheads I was killing over there in the first place. Ain’t that a…a---aa

In a quick, snapping motion, his head shot down between his knees and he threw up all over the floor. An undercurrent of disgust came from the crowd. Several “Ewws” and “Ughs”. The vomit was clear and fluid. There had been no food in his stomach. All he could heave was pure alcohol.

Kaoru: If you lost the money to the house, you’re going to have to leave. Walk out, before I have to help you.

The wretch looked up from the contents of his gut and wiped a few stray drops of throw-up off his beard with the sleeve of his windbreaker.

Lee: Well now, son…hold on there. I’m afraid I can’t do that. See---*Cough, Cough* I need that money, right? What y’all stupid gooks don’t know is that ol’ Lee is a hot commodity. Yessir, the government wants ol’ Lee back! All the boys are already back there in the jungle, whooping and hollering and having a good ol’ time. And I needs that money for their mission.

Kaoru: …Oh? What mission.

A dart of color almost broke through the creamy eyes.

Lee: Hoo hoo….i can’t tell you that. It’s a secret mission. And it wouldn’t be a secret mission if I were to j—just tell anyone. In fact, Imma probably have to kill all y’all now that I done told you. Aw…hell I can’t do that. How’d y’all like to become employees of the government instead? Agents on behalf of ol’ Lee, y’a---OOFFFFFF

A knee planted firmly under his sternum put a period in the middle of his sentence. His head went back down to his knees. The crowd let out a couple of approving “ooohs”.

His head was back between his knees. He started vomiting again, this time with tinges of red. But before he could finish, there was firm hand grasping the lapel of his windbreaker. It yanked him upwards onto his feet, and up over a brutish shoulder.

He left a thin trail of beery spew, missing the back of the massive figure that was towing him by inches. The crowd parted once more, as the two headed towards the back door.

Before they left, the behemoth turned slowly around at Sonny, who was still at the head of the stairs. Sonny gave a sharp-toothed grin and tugged at his chin.

Sonny: Well don’t look at me, big man. Go outside and finish the job.

It didn’t matter that to Sonny the old codger had been paid off. It didn’t matter that a wad of bills had been stuffed into his jacket to come in, get drunk, tell that cockamamie story about the secret mission, and pretend to be a caricature of some dumb wrestler. And it definitely didn’t matter that the giant pig had figured it all out. After all, the orders came from higher up.

He would be thankful later.

Sonny: Like I said…the boss wanted you to be in the right mindset.

Kaoru: And like I said…I would have eventually gotten around to myself.

They were out the door.

The answer: Because he’s a liar. Because he’s deluded. Because he wants to make a quick buck. Because he's a fake.

And at Ammunition….you will all learn that.

Decisiveness

Sometime before 10.1, Apostasy arrives at the arena alone. In the locker room area, Drew Michaels is waiting for him.

Drew: Hello young lad

Apostasy: Drew, what are you doing here? You’re not on Distortion?

Drew: I am only here for a little bit. I wanted to talk to you.

Apostasy: That’s awfully nice of you.

The two sit down in an otherwise empty locker room.

Drew: I’m going to give you 2 guesses as to why I’m here.

Apostasy: Broken Saints?

Drew: Correct on the first try. Congrats.

Apostasy: Are you recruiting me?

Drew: Trying

Apostasy: I… I don’t know. I mean, you know I respect you Drew. I was always a huge fan of the Misfits. I just… I don’t think I fit you guys that well?

Drew: How do you mean?

Apostasy: I mean, your group goes on and on about saving this, and all this crap about religion. I don’t usually judge, and I’m an atheist. I mean, I can’t be a Broken Saint if I don’t believe in saints, right?

There is a pause, as Drew prepares to say what he needs to say

Drew: My faith is no issue to you. I speak of my faith because it speaks to me. It is what makes sense to me. The purpose of the Broken Saints can be separated from the purposes of the Lord.

Apostasy: What are you looking for then?

Drew: FMW’s salvation

Apostasy: Salvation?

Drew: Apostasy… look around you. This week, on this very show… you will see murderers compete for honor. You will see an intolerant fascist get his well-trumpeted return. You will see a man who neglects his own family attempt to retain his title… further glorifying his own bad habits.

Apostasy: Skyler?

Drew: Yes

Apostasy: I…

Apostasy looks on, confused

Drew: There is so much wrong in FMW. Even if you don’t believe in God, even if you don’t believe in Evil, even if you don’t believe in the almighty judgement… you can see this. You can see that FMW is sick… and that you would like it to change.

Apostasy: I’m only one person, I can’t change a culture. I’m not even sure what I’d want to change it to…

Drew: You are only one man now. What I’m offering you is a chance to be something more than just a lone ranger. I’m offering you a side to fight on.

Apostasy: A side?

Drew: Yes. You will be one of the men that will bring about a new era in Full Metal Wrestling. You will be partnered with quite a few other men, each with unique and interesting ideals. Each of us… united to change FMW for the better.

Apostasy nods in agreement. He smiles and offers a hand to Drew. The two shake.

Apostasy: Count me in. What can I do for you?

Drew pulls a razor blade out of his pocket, and hands it to Apostasy.

Drew: I have one task for you tonight. You will be helping out another new recruit.

Apostasy: Who is it?

Drew: Romeo. You will ensure that he wins his first blood match against Skyler

Apostasy: Romeo? Really?

Drew: Yes. I know he seems… untrustworthy. His goals are the same as ours. He wants to change FMW, in the most ambitious ways possible. He is a key member of the Broken Saints.

Apostasy examines the razor

Apostasy: What about Skyler?

Drew: He is yet another example of what is wrong in FMW. He neglects his family in favor of drugs. Each day he wears the Abandoned Title, he tarnishes its name. Romeo must succeed.

Apostasy: I can’t just go in and blade him. I’ll need some help… I’ll need a diversion.

Drew: There is yet another Broken Saint on Distortion.

Apostasy thinks for a second, and then realizes.

Apostasy: Seth…

Drew: Indeed. I must be going. Take care, Apostasy… and welcome to the Broken Saints. Your t-shirt will be in the mail, I promise.

Apostasy chuckles as Drew leaves. Apostasy examines the razor blade, before tucking it away in his bag.

-----------------------------

You know, I never really decided how I felt about Seth Omega. On one hand, he made his debut in FMW by sandwiching my head between a chair. He also made me quit, in a match to determine which of us would get a shot at the TV title. For awhile, I wanted my revenge on him. I wanted to destroy him and win the TV Title. It’s funny how things can pop up to distract you. I began marking my targets. War Machine would pay first. He and Dennis Williamson had helped destroy Ignition, the brand that was my home. And then it was going to be Seth Omega, but a funny thing happened.

Revenge had left me feeling… hollow. I thought that destroying War Machine and Dennis Williamson would enact a small measure of redemption. I thought that proving that War Machine didn’t scare me would invoke some fire in my heart. I thought that wiping the damn smirk off of the face of Dennis Williamson would bring me joy. But I felt… nothing. My own revenge left me feeling nothing but apathy. As I walked to meet Seth Omega, I realized that petty revenge against him… for simply showing me my weaknesses… would mean nothing. Drew had spoken to me, and I knew that Seth wasn’t too bad of a person. My own pride and jealousy was fucking with me, but I am above such emotions. I am no slave to impulse, I am not ruled by vague principles. I am, above all else, a logical person. If Seth and I had similar goals, there was no reason why I shouldn’t want to work with him.

It was at his locker that we devised our plan. He would officially recruit me into the Broken Saints after my match with Jack Eastwood. Using the guise of recruiter, he would come to ringside during the main-event. He would grab the attention of the referee on my signal – given from the crowd. I would run in and slash open the forehead of an unsuspecting… and likely exhausted… Skyler Striker. I would escape the ring, and the ref would see Skyler bleeding profusely. Romeo would be the victor. He would gain his shot at the FMW World Title. He would continue fighting against the powers-that-be in FMW.

Skyler would be discredited as champion. He would have lost twice, and still retained his belt. Now, it would normally be against my nature to judge a man like Skyler Striker. I am usually a fan of the philosophy of “live and let live”. I couldn’t care less about what other people choose to do with their lives, as long as it doesn’t affect myself or those I care about. It may seem strange to you that a man who doesn’t believe in divinity would be passing judgement. While I am not a fan of vague notions of justice, righteousness, equality and evil; I am not incapable of opinion. Furthermore, I am quite capable of acting on my opinions, if I believe they may better a cause.

I usually don’t act on my opinions, and for two reasons. The first is skepticism. I maintain that I am human, and prone to error. My duty in life, as it is the duty of every person, is to promote the happiness of myself and others. Since I am skeptical even of my own conclusions and reasoning, I often default to allowing others to do as they please. The second reason is that I often don’t have a cause to better. The apathy that I can sometimes embody applies to so many things. It’s hard to motivate myself to fight for anything when I am almost always skeptical of it in some way. However, now that I was a Broken Saint… I have such a cause.

So curious it might be to someone that I would act against Skyler Striker, a man who has never done me harm. What bad could I see in him? Let me illustrate for you…

-----------------------------

At a small dinner table, a 16-year old Heath Yates (Apostasy) eats meatloaf with his adoptive father, Pastor Rick Yates. Rick has a newspaper in front of him.

Pastor Yates: Says here there was a student at that public high school caught with cocaine… and a lot of it. Thank god you’re at St. Ed’s.

Heath rolls his eyes

Heath Yates: What is the world coming to?

The pastor, reading his paper, doesn’t detect this sarcasm

Pastor Yates: I know. You’d think, all the way up here in Northeast Ohio… where’d they get cocaine? That’s got to get all the way up from Latin America.

Heath Yates: Who knows.

Pastor Yates: I tell you kiddo, there’s plenty of stuff out there that you’re going to be exposed to. And I can’t help you. You’ve got to know how to say no, and why.

Heath Yates: And why should I say no?

Pastor Yates: Because it just isn’t right. Your life is a gift from god. It’s no good throwing it away like that. You wouldn’t throw away a gift from me like that, would you?

Heath wipes his mouth, showing a little dismay at yet another “because god says so” argument from the pastor

Heath Yates: Isn’t choice a gift from god as well?

Pastor Yates: Why, of course it is. And you’ve got to make the right choices to go places in life… and after.

Heath Yates: Well, if people like the feeling of getting high… why is that a bad choice?

Pastor Yates: Listen, I’m in favor of legalizing some stuff, like pot. But Cocaine is no good.

Heath Yates: Why? It’s only a mid-level drug. People can do it recreationally without getting addicted. It’s not as bad as heroin or meth.

Pastor Yates: Any time you try that stuff, you can kill yourself. And that’s a sin.

Heath Yates: Alright, discretion is a must. So? Why can’t somebody choose to do it once or twice. Say they know what they’re doing. They take it once or twice, they know they won’t die. Where’s the harm? What’s wrong with getting high? Where’s the objection on god’s part?

Pastor Yates: Being high isn’t the problem. I’m sure it’s a nice feeling, and I don’t see why god wouldn’t want you to be happy. But, even taking away the issue of death… there’s the issue of addiction. Maybe cocaine doesn’t get everyone addicted… but it hooks some people.

Heath Yates: What’s so bad about addiction?

Pastor Yates: Have you ever met an addict?

Heath Yates: I think my mom was addicted to coffee

Pastor Yates: That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about people who are addicted to things that get them high… like cocaine, alcohol, opium and meth.

Heath Yates: Not to my knowledge

Pastor Yates: The church has a rehab program, and I meet with these people all the time. And when they’re high, or just starting to quit… it’s like nothing’s there. The lights are on, but they aren’t home.

Heath Yates: Yeah?

Pastor Yates: It’s as if they’re just bodies without a soul. They live their lives just to get more drugs. They’re just… drug consuming machines. Their kids, their jobs, their family… it all means less to them than getting high.

Heath ponders for a second, as both men take a bite of meatloaf.

Heath Yates: So… they’ve made a choice to live like that. Why can’t they make that choice.

Pastor Yates: For the same reason you can’t choose to be a slave.

Heath gives a puzzled look to the Pastor

Heath Yates: I don’t follow

Pastor Yates: Man has certain rights. Rights that you were born with, given to you by god. The founding fathers believed this, and it says so in the declaration of independence. God gives you these rights. They exist within you whether you are aware of them or not. To deny a man these rights is a sin.

Heath Yates: So, slaveholders were sinners in the eyes of god?

Pastor Yates: Yes

Heath Yates: Well then, how’d the church allow slavery for so long?

Pastor Yates: The church is fallible. You know this. They believed either that slaves were not people, or that they weren’t denying them their rights. But that’s not the point. The point is, that it would be a sin to enslave another person, just as it would be a sin to kill them. To enslave them is to deny them their life. That applies even to yourself.

Heath Yates: Wait… what?

Pastor Yates: Even if you think that people should be allowed to do as they please, you cannot argue that you can’t make yourself a slave. To become a slave is to forfeit all say in future decisions. If you have the unalienable rights that our Constitution says you do, it is impossible to exist as a slave.

Heath Yates: And this has to do with cocaine… how?

Pastor Yates: Addiction is a form of self-enslavement. To allow a substance to have that kind of power over you is to enslave yourself. That drug will influence your decisions for as long as you are addicted. It’s no longer you that is making the decisions, it’s the drug.

Heath Yates: I see…

Pastor Yates: Just as I said, it is wrong to throw away a gift. God has given us the gift of choice. To throw away that gift would be a great insult to god, don’t you think?

Heath Yates: I suppose so…

-----------------------------

It’s no secret that I wasn’t a big fan of the pastor, but he had a point. Even if you remove god from his argument, it holds up. If we are beings making conscious decisions, than to allow something else to make decisions for you is to make yourself less of a person. It is self-destruction at its finest. In Skyler Striker’s case, it wasn’t just that he was destroying himself. It wasn’t just that he was in need of rescue… it was who his destruction was affecting.

I often speak of inspiration, because it is valuable to me. I have so little of it, and I’m always fascinated by it where it exists. Skyler is, whether by his choice or not, a role model to those watching FMW at home. His choices in life will be duplicated by others if they aren’t brought into a negative light. In this regard, his self-imposed demise affects all sorts of people. Self-destruction does not happen in a vacuum, and this has been argued time and time again. His neglect of family, likely resulting from his growing drug habits, is yet another example of how his drug use is not acceptable. It is not right for me to stand aside and watch him fall, just because I don’t want to be judgemental.

To make Sklyer suffer was a tough decision. Decisions like these never are, especially for me. My skepticism of myself resisted this decision like no other. In the end, however, no great things can be done without decisiveness. Decisiveness means risking that you may be wrong, but I do not live my life in fear. Not when there are great things to be had.

I know that part of my newfound resolve came from Drew. He is an inspirational figure, to say the least. He models himself after the fictional Christ, and he certainly does attract his share of followers. He certainly does speak plainly about his principles. Something in the way he spoke to me… it provoked something in me. I spent my day on Distortion wondering what might have done it, and then I realized. Drew spoke as if we were revolutionaries, as if this was a war. I’ve known FMW long enough to know that Drew knows a thing or two about war. Since FMW is about to get tangled up in this power struggle, I should want to be on a side that represents the way I want FMW to be after it is all said and done.

Yes, I don’t want the murderers, thieves, rapists and junkies to go about their days in FMW without notice. The things that they do are not okay, and we should not turn a blind eye to them. I know that FMW is sick, and I promise you that I’ll do my best to cure her. And if I am wrong? Then so be it. I can live with past mistakes as long as I know I couldn’t have seen more clearly at the time. This situation isn’t clear-cut, but the murky picture I see is evidence enough. It is time for action.

I am a Broken Saint. Consequences be damned…

-----------------------------

Apostasy is at his apartment’s mailbox. Before he can unlock his mail, he spots his mentor, Edible Smith, walking in from the rain.

Edible: Hey there.

Apostasy: Hey. Didn’t see you last night at the bar. I thought we were going to celebrate my win?

Edible: I got tied up with promotional stuff. FMW wants me to do this ad campaign out in the Midwest.

Apostasy: Sounds fun.

Edible: It isn’t. Congrats on beating Eastwood. Good luck against Mass Caesar next time.

Apostasy: Another generic singles match with nothing at stake.

Edible: Yeah

The two stand in silence for a second.

Apostasy: Do you want to hang out here for a minute? Dry off maybe?

Edible: No, I have to be going shortly.

Apostasy: Okay then. What did you think of me joining the Broken Saints?

Edible: You’re a big fan of Drew. I’m surprised he didn’t offer you a spot sooner, given your history with that other Edible… the one that was in the Misfits with him. So curious that two men, both by the rare name Edible, would both end up so involved with your fate.

Apostasy: It gets a chuckle out of me everytime.

Edible: I see that you feel very strongly about this cause of yours.

Apostasy: Yeah. We’re going to speak out against the worst of FMW. In a way, it’s a lot like what you used to do.

Edible: I suppose it is in goal, if dissimilar in method.

Apostasy: Well, I mean… you can’t win a war with a smile.

Edible: Then it isn’t worth winning.

Apostasy recoils, taken off guard by the curtness of Edible’s response.

Apostasy: What does that mean?

Edible: Fighting for a principle doesn’t make any sense if you don’t maintain that principle throughout. The only way to fight for a principle like decency is to be an example of it.

Apostasy: I’m not fighting for a vague principle here. I’m fighting against those I am sure need to be corrected.

Edible: Great. I’m glad you’re motivated. I’m saddened, though, that you’re so willing to become trash to defeat trash.

Apostasy: Is this about the blade thing? Listen, being anti-hardcore was your thing. Not mine.

Edible: Since when is it decent to attack a man that’s never wronged you? To attack him while he’s engaged in another fight? To attack him from behind, in the shadows?

Apostasy: War is hell.

Edible remains calm, refusing to lose his cool.

Edible: Funny you’d say that, since both you and I don’t even believe in hell. Listen, I’m an atheist, the same as you. You know that when I say that you aren’t being decent, it’s not from some nonsensical notion of good and evil. It’s because I have evaluated you, and I have reasonably come to that conclusion. I thought it when you destroyed War Machine, and I’ll say it now: you have lost your head.

Apostasy: I’m sorry you feel that way. But Skyler Striker is a bad example, and you know that.

Edible: I do

Apostasy: To sit by and allow bad things to happen, when it is within my power to stop them… that makes me just as guilty as anyone. This is my chance to make a difference.

Edible: Then make it.

Apostasy: Don’t worry, I will. But all I can wonder is why… why are you against me in this?

Edible: Because you are bastardizing the principles I taught you. And I can’t be a part of that any longer. It pains me to say it, but I cannot stand by you anymore… not if this is the path you’re choosing. I cannot be your mentor.

Edible looks down, trying to collect himself and remain calm. Apostasy looks shocked. There is a long pause, Apostasy shakes his head. He clenches his fist in anger, then releases. After awhile, both men look to each other.

Apostasy: So, instead of taking a stand, you would remain neutral.

Edible: That’s one way of thinking of it.

Apostasy: Then you… are a coward.

Edible: …

Apostasy: You ran away from a career in FMW as a wrestler… and I never knew why. It wasn’t injury, so far as I could tell. I thought maybe it was because being a wrestler never spoke to you. But seeing you live vicariously through me threw a bit of doubt into that theory. Now I know… it’s because you don’t have anything you want to fight for… besides maybe yourself. At the end of the day, you’re too worried about being wrong to risk being right.

Edible puts his hat back on.

Edible: Goodbye then. It has been nice being your mentor, even given our less-than-amiable ending. I wish you good luck in all your endeavors. And I hope, for your sake, that whatever happens as a result of your involvement with Drew Michaels is positive. I hope you guys make FMW wonderful, and I want you to be at the forefront of this revolution. I hope that you are fulfilled, and successful.

Apostasy: And anything bad that happens… that’s not your fault.

Edible: I will always consider you my pupil. Any failings you come across, I will always be partially to blame for. There’s no escaping that.

Apostasy: I guess so.

Edible walks out the front door, back into the rain. Apostasy, turns to his mailbox, pulls out his key and retrieves his mail.

-----------------------------

Consequences be damned, right?

I knew what he was doing. To most people, it might seem odd that Edible would reply so kindly to my attacks. Don’t be fooled, it’s a passive-aggressive trick he does. He would often tell me that it is wise to kill people with kindness. He said it’s easy to hate somebody when they hate you, it’s as if they are less human if they can’t at least be civil. He said it was always best to remind people that you are human. That you make mistakes, that you care for others and that you feel pain.

He was a dick like that. He knew how to fuck with the heads of people in such subtle ways. If I didn’t know that’s what he was doing, I might have felt bad for calling him a coward.

Looking through my mail that day, I came across a curious letter. It was the second such letter I had come across. The letter was composed of clipped out magazine letters, much the way a ransom note might be composed. The letter said, in quotes:

“Take the long road
… and walk it”

It was signed only with a lime green T and a crimson M. I couldn’t imagine who it was from, since only a handful of people even knew my address. The random advice was just what I had needed, though. This road I have chosen is sure to be treacherous. And I will endure, and I will be better for it. If I am successful… all of FMW will be better for it.

Aftermath of Distortion 9.3

An ambulance siren rings throughout the backstage area. “Gasoline” by Audioslave can be heard faintly in the background and Leon Caprice can be seen running past the ambulance, spinning momentarily to look through the window of the med vehicle at his fallen comrade. However, he continues running within moments and is then gone. The ambulance comes to a halt and 31 year old paramedic Jason Keane slides out from the passenger side seat, his movements quick, practised. The back door of the vehicle slides open and Keane reaches in for the stretcher. Cries of pain emanate from the patient but Keane continues anyway. Extending the wheels, Keane - along with his fellow medic - rolls Skyler Striker down a number of hallways towards the medical room made up for the event. Striker thrashes around, one wrist holding the other, his eyes flickering open and shut as if in some sort of residual shock. The two EMTs hoist the stretcher onto the bed and a med cart is rolled nearby, along with a nurse appearing to assist.

Nurse: Condition?

Keane’s mind whirled through the options available. All at once his brain was diagnosing, analysing the best solution to the problem and designing a method of delivering treatment. Breathing in deeply had always helped slow things down, so Jason inhaled slowly, taking in the situation.

Keane: Unstable; I’m presuming there’s a previous injury that’s been re-aggravated. Patient is in shock, I need restraints and a dopamine shot. Send another nurse to bring up his medical history, search under Striker.

Nurse: Yes, sir.

While the second medic fixed straps to Striker’s legs and right wrist, Keane examined the left wrist of the Abandoned Champion. Using his fingers to press lightly, Keane closed his eyes and found the bones. Not where they should be. A sudden flailing of Striker’s untied arm struck Keane in the chest, forcing his hands away. Striker’s wrist slammed into the metal side of the stretcher, eliciting another sharp scream.

Keane: CJ! Get that dopamine shot into him, now! If he struggles and throws that wrist around he’s gonna injure it more!

CJ: On it!

Jason held Striker’s elbow firmly as CJ filled up a syringe with the clear substance. The junior medic carefully placed the syringe into Striker’s arm and within a few seconds the thrashing patient’s muscles relaxed, leaving his arm free for Keane to inspect. After a half minute of careful prodding, Jason determined that the wrist was broken, probably in more places than one. Keane remembered back to when he had been sitting in the ambulance, looking behind him. Striker had thrust his hand out the door in a last ditch effort to stay in the match. VanGuard, however, had displayed no intention whatsoever of losing and had repeatedly slammed the door on Striker’s wrist before throwing his limp arm in and shutting it. The red lines on Striker’s wrist were evidence enough of how hard the blows had been. Keane was thankful at least for the fact that VanGuard had not drawn blood; he had witnessed severed arteries and veins in that area before and they were not easy or fun to deal with.

Keane: NURSE! Do you have that report?

The nurse came running a few seconds after his shout and handed Jason the report, pointing out various parts of the form as she spoke.

Nurse: The patient has had one or two minor injuries on that arm before; a fractured elbow in late 1999 and a fractured wrist in early 2007.

Keane: Alright. Brief diagnosis, patient’s left wrist is broken, possibly in more than one location. No signs of bleeding. Patient’s shock was most likely caused by an aggravation of a previously sustained injury, a fractured wrist from approximately three years ago.

Nurse: Any further treatment orders?

Keane: We’ll have to fix him up in a cast in a few days. For now just bed rest will suffice. It might be wise for someone to administer pain medication, however, as we can’t just keep him doped up. I’ll write up a prescription when he’s moved to a hospital. Nothing big. The show should be wrapping up so I’d give it maybe an hour before we can transfer him to a proper hospital facility.

Nurse: Understood.

There is a groaning from the bed and all three heads turn to see Striker sitting up, using a considerable amount of effort to push himself against the wall behind his bed.

Striker: You... you can’t take me to a... a hospital, I’m not... not allowed to have an injury.

Nurse: Sir, you should remain in your bed, your muscles are-

Striker: I- I know, but I just-

Keane: Mr. Striker, sir. Your wrist is broken, an x-ray will more than likely reveal that there are multiple breaks. The more you move, the more you’ll worsen the injury.

Striker: Just... just don’t... tell Smitten. Don’t tell anyone... I just- Leon, and... Leah, they- I can’t- AHHHHH!

Striker’s words faltered and he fell backwards onto the bed, clutching his wrist again. Keane hesitated, one dopamine shot had not been enough to quell the pain? Quickly, Keane barked orders, holding Striker down again. The previous injury must have been severe. Within seconds Striker became docile thanks to another shot of dopamine injected by CJ. Keane sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead and face, struggling to understand Striker. No doubt the superstar had motives for not wanting to let the company know about the injury. Keane could think of one himself; that being that he would be unable to continue wrestling if the company was informed. Keane knew little about Skyler himself, for despite enjoying the status of being one of FMW’s senior doctors he had not dealt with Striker professionally in the past. However, he knew that Striker was a double champion, he had watched the entrances of both VanGuard and Striker from the ambulance. Perhaps he was afraid he would be forced to forfeit his belts? No, surely he wasn’t as selfish as that, belts could be re-won. But then he’d mentioned Leah and Leon...

Nurse: Well, if that’s all, I’ll start filling out the paperwork, doctor. No need to keep the higher-ups waiting.

Keane: No!

Nurse: Sir?

Shaking his head, Keane breathed out. He had a feeling he would come to regret this.

Keane: No, leave the paperwork to me... I’ll fill out the details. He’s my patient. If this is the last one for the night then you can head home, the other nurses are enough to cover tonight.

Nurse: Sure... thanks, doctor.

Keane: CJ, check the other patients. We’ve got a while before we can clear out.

CJ: Will do.

As the rest of his team departed, Keane sat down next to Striker, furrowing his brow. Something in him compelled Jason to accede to Striker’s request, no matter the professional consequences.

Keane: Listen here, Striker. I need to know just how long your previous injury to your wrist took to heal three years ago.

Having emphasised his words and slowing his sentences, Keane nervously awaits Striker’s answer. The superstar takes a while to think about it, but manages to get his words out slowly.

Striker: Uh... four months?

Keane: Why so long? A fracture shouldn’t have taken so long to heal.

Striker: I... I kept... kept wrestling.

Keane: Geez... you’re not making this any easier, Skyler. I need you to pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you, mmk?

Striker nods, his eyes wide like a child’s.

Keane: I’m going to fill out the paperwork, but it will say that you weren’t injured. You have multiple breaks this time, which is a much more severe injury. We had to inject you twice with full strength dopamine. I’m going to prescribe you some medication, but you absolutely MUST be careful with how much you’re using. My suggestion is that if you are going to go ahead and wrestle anyway, you should settle your affairs at Death Row, then take some time off. That’s two full matches, more than enough to give notice for holidays. Even then, you should aim to end your matches as quickly as possible. I shouldn’t be doing this, it goes against every ethical code in the book, but I get the feeling you wouldn’t listen anyway, and there’s something about you that makes me want to do this. I’m going to make sure I’m keeping a regular check on you; it’s the only way I can do this. Please, I’m begging you. On my honour as a doctor, don’t overdo your medication. If you take too many pills, you begin a long fall down a slippery slope.

Striker smiles, evidently appeased by the news of his injury’s secrecy. Then, however, fatigue, pain and dopamine collide and Striker falls asleep in his bed, this time for good. Keane pulled up the blanket across Striker, his eyes running across the comatose form of the superstar.

Keane: Don’t... do anything stupid, Skyler.

The scene fades out here, a concerned look spread across the face of Jason Keane.

7 days after Distortion 9.3

In a downtown hospital, various nurses and doctors put patients through all sorts of tests and examinations, determining just what sort of problems they are facing and what diagnosis and prescription is necessary. Skyler Striker is one of these patients, but as there is little to describe while he is stuck inside an MRI machine – one of many tests he has already undergone in the past hour or so – we go instead to the discussion taking place between Keane and two other Strikers, Leah and Jade. Keane’s main office in the hospital houses all of his qualifications as well as a somewhat extensive library of medical books. Despite this, however, Leah looks slightly concerned, and is making herself perfectly vocal about it.

Leah: Are you sure it’s safe for him to be wrestling in that condition? He looked like he was in a lot of pain... you’re sure he’s well enough to wrestle like that?

Keane: Positive. Were it a broken leg or arm, or a more serious injury, I’d order time off immediately, but Striker’s got fortitude. He’s fit to compete, even in something like a ladder match. And besides, I’ve watched Slegna wrestle – he’s not a huge threat.

Leah: You’re absolutely positive?

Keane: I’m not employed as senior doctor of Full Metal for nothing. Provided he’s watching his medication, he’ll be fine. Too little and the pain will be extreme come match-time. Too much... well, the short-term effects of overdoing medication are nothing compared to the long-term. Addiction is what gets most doctors concerned about athletes. How’s he been faring?

Leah: I, uh... I couldn’t say, he doesn’t tell me... and I can’t see.

Leah pointed to her eyes and held up her walking stick, Jason immediately felt stupid.

Keane: My apologies.

Keane shifted in his seat uncomfortably, he hadn’t realised Leah was blind. Breathing in, he looked over the family. The beautiful but blind Leah, the quiet and observant eldest daughter Jade and the sleeping twins April and Jonathon. And then there was Skyler himself... he was an anomaly among enigmas. Keane had spoken to Striker before the tests started and could only determine that the man was fiercely devoted to his family – to the point where he would throw away his own well-being for them. Keane had re-advised Striker on the danger of his injury but Skyler had insisted that he be allowed to compete. He had said it was on the grounds that he had to be strong for them, and while this seemed odd, Jason realised he too would feel as if he was letting his family down if he was wearing Skyler’s shoes. Striker still seemed to be a little over-the-top about it, but he could not be dissuaded from taking time away.

Keane: Has anyone been watching over him?

Jade: I have.

Looking at Jade, Jason was unsure of how to react. There was wisdom far beyond her years there, but every instinct wanted him to see her for the child her body portrayed her as.

Jade: For the most part, he’s been careful with his medication, but once or twice if he’s felt heavy pain then he’ll take one or two more pills to counteract it. He told me at one point that he didn’t enjoy having to take the pills but that it was necessary for him to. Typical male pride.

Keane: Did you ever consider he’s doing this for more than the gold he wears?

Jade: Of course I did. Dad has never been one to keep fighting for something as unimportant as a championship belt. He does all of this because he doesn’t know when to stop.

Beside Jade, Leah nodded. The twins beside her in their pram mumbled baby words as if in agreement.

Leah: When Sky was a child, he loved wrestling, and he had always wanted to be a wrestler himself. But when he told his father... his dad told him his dream was ridiculous, that he’d never do it, and that he was ashamed of him. His dad died a few days later of a heart attack. Skyler never got to tell him that he hated him, and events like that, especially at a young age, push the child towards the opposite extreme. In this case, Skyler’s experience manifested into a tendency to go to absurd lengths to prove his love.

Keane: So he fights to provide?

Jade: Not to provide, but to be seen as a provider. Not for pride, but to make us proud. He doesn’t realise, though, that we’d be proud of him no matter what. And no matter how many times we tell him...

Leah: ...he’ll fight anyway.

Keane rested his chin on a fist, taking in all the information Leah and Jade had given him. He wasn’t sure if it was amazing or dangerous that Striker would go to such lengths. He decided on a combination of both.

Keane: This is all beside the point. Skyler NEEDS to watch how many pills he takes; he needs to stick exactly to the dosage no matter how bad the pain. We can always review it if the pain gets worse, but for now he’ll need to endure.

Leah nodded in agreement. The phone on Jason’s desk rang twice before he picked it up, turning back towards his computer in anticipation of Striker’s test results coming through.

Keane: Dr. Keane here. Give me some good news.

Nurse: We’ve completed all the tests, doctor. They should be coming through any minute.

Keane: Thankyou. How is he at the moment?

Nurse: He’s struggling. With your order to delay his medication by a few hours so we could test him, Striker is in considerable pain, although he’s managing.

Keane: Alright. You can let him know it’s okay to take his meds as usual now, although do tell him to keep watch on how many he’s taking. Also, if you would, give him a sleeping tablet, it might quell his exhaustion for a little while.

Nurse: Certainly. Will that be all, Doctor Keane?

Keane: I think so. Thankyou, nurse.

Keane hung up the phone, and opened Striker’s patient file on his computer, not sure what the results of the tests would bring. As sheet by sheet of information appeared on his screen, however, Keane grew less and less certain that he had made the right decision in allowing Striker to compete. The damage to Striker’s body was more severe than even he had thought. Striker’s wrist was certainly broken in multiple places but there had been nerve damage to his left arm as well, spreading up to his shoulder and even along his sternum and upper chest. While the nerves were unlikely to damage further, they would cause Striker residual pains. A stronger course of medication could be ordered, but Keane was worried enough by the news that Striker had been taking more than the necessary dosage.

And so then and there, with one decision, Jason Keane put two careers on the line.

Present Day

Home was a foreign word to Trisha Elliot. She’d been a street-wandering vagrant for as long as she could remember. She’d made her living however she could – when it had come to whoring her own body out for sex, she’d done it without hesitation. She’d dealt in drugs, assisted in small robberies, done whatever it took in the name of one thing and one thing only: survival. The instinct to live on had pushed her this far and she’d be damned if she’d let the fucking weather beat her now. It was freezing cold on the streets, and the grey clouds above her threatened to soak her through – fucking typical. The miserable cunt of a friend of hers; Lara; had been whisked off by some dealer a few weeks back, leaving Trish on her own to forage for food like a lowly crow. Her ragged brown coat blew behind her in the biting wind, revealing a beautiful white dress that went to just below her knees. The dress was her most prized possession. It was not, however, very good for insulation, and as such Trish mumbled to the skies about how she’d enjoy a warm night for once in a damn blue moon.

It was not quite ten o clock as she turned the corner of a house with a white picket fence. She loathed those above her in society, primarily because they had money. Money could buy Trisha a bed for the night or a bottle of alcohol or something she could smoke. Without it, however, life was miserable. She peered inside the lit windows along the streets, catching glimpses of happy families or couples enjoying each other’s company. Fuck she envied them. They were lucky they didn’t have her kind of upbringing; if you could call the pathetic excuse for a childhood she’d had an upbringing. The only thing Trish had going for her was her looks. She didn’t look anything like the undercity whores with skimpy clothes, fishnet stockings and curly black hair. With her long, blonde hair and hourglass figure, she looked more like a weathergirl or at least a high-street secretary than a prostitute. She’d been told as much, too, although that hadn’t exactly changed her situation.

One can imagine Trisha Elliot’s surprise, then, when a stranger sitting on a fold-up chair in his front yard caught her eye and spoke to her.

??: Little late for a lady to be walking the streets, isn’t it?

Trisha’s pace slowed, then stopped. The man had a distinct accent; Australian from the sounds of it. He looked to be somewhere in his late twenties, give or take a few years. But what did he want from her? Probably thought she looked like something he could stick his dick in, like most typical males. Despite this, people payed well for sex, and money was money, so Trish turned his way.

Trish: Is that an invite?

??: I guess it is.

The stranger stood and opened his front gate, motioning for her to enter. Trish walked in and noticing that there were two chairs on the lawn, she sat down on one of them, her hands in her pockets to protect them from the cold. She made sure her white dress was shielded from the elements by her coat, careful to prevent it from any damage. The stranger waited until she had sat and then followed her example, looking up at the stars.

??: I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. My name is Skyler. And you are...?

Trisha hesitated, then quickly decided to revaluate the man. Most people who came looking for ‘services’ didn’t care for names, they just wanted a quick fuck. At least if this guy did want sex, he might be a bit gentle about it. It’d make a nice change from the usual.

Trish: I’m Trisha; Trish for short.

Skyler: Got nowhere to go?

Trish: No home, no friends or family. This jacket keeps me warm, though. From time to time I enjoy other people’s beds, though.

This time it was Skyler’s turn to hesitate. Trish was a little taken aback, was it possible he didn’t even want to fuck her?

Trish: Short answer, no.

Skyler: Huh.

Trish: What’s a guy like you doing just sitting out here? It’s freezing.

Skyler: I’m alone, too... watching the stars is one of the few things I still enjoy.

Trish: Take anything to make them more interesting? I used to have a friend who took E and then did that; she said it made the stars look like fuckin’ lightning.

Skyler seemed to laugh to himself. Looking him once over, Trish decided he wasn’t half bad to look at. He was fit, and had short jet black hair, although he hadn’t shaved in a while from the looks of it. He seemed to wince whenever he moved his left forearm, too.

Skyler: Nah. Panadol doesn’t really change the looks of it. It’s just... peaceful. I like to see if I can find pictures or stories in them. See there?

Skyler began pointing, and Trish shuffled her chair closer so she could see better where he was looking.

Skyler: Like a circle of stars there, all surrounding one in the middle. Like they’re concentrating all their efforts on making him fade.

Trish: You really see that?

Trish moved her chair directly next to Skyler’s, looking up with him. This man was fascinating in every aspect... what a strange night this was turning out to be.

Skyler: Yeah, I do! Look a little to the left... there, see?

Trish: Where?

Skyler: Two stars in the middle, two on either side of them. Like they’re all fighting over something. And one of the two in the middle, he’s becoming dark, like a star about to explode.

Trish could see directly where he was pointing, and there was indeed that same formation of stars that Skyler was speaking about. Then, suddenly, the fading star went out completely.

Trish: It’s gone!

Skyler: Like an exploding star. You can’t see it from here because of depth perception... but a star exploding like that will take the other stars with it. Even his partner star. Because if he goes down, he takes everyone with him, he goes down fighting.

Trish: How can you see all those things? I’d never have seen that just by looking.

Skyler: Because that’s my world, Trish. I live like that. Alone like the first star, surrounded by people trying to destroy me no matter where I go. And destined to fight and fall like the second star, to fight until I’m dead.

Without replying, Trisha used her hand to turn Skyler’s face towards her, and then she kissed him. She wasn’t sure of what else to do after he’d said something like that. Maybe they could find some comfort in each other. Trisha locked her lips on his, using her tongue to press inside of his mouth. Skyler kissed back but Trish sensed something was wrong; he hadn’t pushed to do anything further. Using her experience, Trish moved her hands down to his shirt, undoing his first button. That was, however, as far as she got, because she felt his hands pull hers away. Trish instantly felt ashamed of herself, was he married? She had no idea. Why did she feel shame, anyway? It had never bothered her before when married men had come to her as adulterers.

Skyler: Trisha, I...

Trish: I’m so sorry! Please, I’m sorry, I’ll leave-

Trish stood to leave but Skyler’s hand was still on hers. He pulled her down to sit again, and she did, although she still felt ashamed.

Skyler: Don’t... I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to be alone again tonight. But, still... I’m married, and I can’t... I can’t... even though we- I’m sorry. Just let me get my breath back.

Trish: No, please – it’s not your fault, it’s mine, I didn’t even think- fuck, I-

Skyler: Don’t. Please, I’m asking you... stay.

Trish looked at the man who called himself Skyler, she was perplexed and confused and embarrassed and overwhelmed and yet when he said stay, she felt everything might be a little better.

Trish: Okay.

The night only went on from there. Although she did not try the same thing again; Trish found herself lost in conversation, trading stories with Skyler. Over the last few hours of night and the early hours of the morning, she learned much and inferred even more. She learned that Skyler was a wrestler, and a successful one, although he had endured a considerable amount as his personal life became entwined with his professional one. She learned of his war against other wrestlers calling themselves ‘Original Sin’, the tumultuous months fighting with his eldest daughter Jade, his meeting with Leah and the events of their growing love, their marriage, and eventually the birth of their twin children. He talked about his life since then, struggling to bring a broken family together and find purpose, watching his pupils join the same company he had and most recently his injury and subsequent pain, as well as his fight with Leah and friend Leon over his medication.

It didn’t take much of a leap to see that Skyler was addicted, and that he was clearly in denial, but Trish felt absolutely no desire to criticise – after all, who was she to tell him what he could and couldn’t do? Instead, she had just listened and enjoyed his company. The cold seemed to mean less when Skyler asked for her own story; and she told of how she had been born to a family that didn’t want her, been abused as a child and had run away at a young age to an orphanage, how she had eventually hated even the other orphans and had run from there, too, living her life on the streets as a whore and a small time criminal. She told of her time in prison, her meeting with another homeless teenager called Lara, and the various events of her life until that point. She discovered there were only three years between herself and Skyler, and that the two had probably lived somewhere close a few years ago when Skyler had come back to America.

The two looked at the stars for a long time and painted the story of their lives.

Eventually, however, it became late, and Skyler suggested they move inside. The house was not extravagant, Skyler revealed he had in fact bought it only recently so he could escape the place where he had struck out at his wife. He explained his old house was too big and that it only made his loneliness more apparent. They had a drink in the kitchen as Skyler took a pill for his medication, although he had assured her it was only the standard prescription. There, he spoke of his upcoming fight, and how he had since exchanged more heated words with Leon. He didn’t regret them, either, that much was apparent at the moment, but Trish suspected that was only the medication’s prolonged effect.

He told of the story of Hannibal Frost, how they used to be friends, and then Frost had changed, and when they had clashed last Frost was a changing man again, although by accident Skyler had severely damaged Frost’s neck. He spoke of his fear it had been on purpose, and that he had known eventually Frost would come back looking for the same vengeance VanGuard had.

Skyler told of Jack Eastwood, and how although few took Eastwood seriously because of a recent change in personality, Striker saw in him a Matthew Dunn who had always promised he would hunt Skyler down.

He spoke of Danse Macabre, that they had long been an established tag team and that he was worried in his current state he would not be able to defeat the duo.

He spoke about Leon Caprice, and that he had been proud watching his best student become an exceptional wrestler, then his best friend, then tag team partner, and then fellow Tag Champion. He told her he wished Leon would drop the issue of his medication and let Skyler wrestle so he could prove he was worthy of being a double champion.

Finally, Skyler spoke the name of Leah, but nothing else. Trisha didn’t pursue the subject, it was evident he was torn between anger and regret.

Trisha watched Skyler’s eyes, and she both feared and loved him.

Skyler realised that it was nearly three in the morning, so he suggested that they get some sleep. He walked to the spare bedroom and pointed it out for Trisha, noting that there was an extra set of pyjamas in the closet and that the blanket was electrically heated. He bid her good night and walked to his own room at the end of the hall, undressing completely and sliding underneath the covers. If nothing else, he would sleep well for a few hours, and then deal with life as it came tomorrow. Skyler closed his eyes and laid his head upon the bed’s railing, sitting up as his mind drifted. His eyes re-opened only moments later to see the door to his bedroom open.

The dim blue hallway lights illuminated the naked body of Trisha Elliot from behind. Her legs moved so gracefully across the floor that they appeared to dance. She knelt when she came to the bed, and when she came to Skyler she kissed him. Opening the covers herself, she pressed her nude form against that of his and wrapped her arms around him. Skyler’s mind was ablaze with a thousand different emotions.

He closed his eyes and then wrapped his arms around her body, lost in body, mind and soul.

Calvin X. Carter
Proudly Presents

Laughter


The fall of some of the best cops you could find on the force is a love for the job that goes too far. Of course, there are those that were never cut out to just do good without expecting anything in return, but the universe always takes out its trash. But what really tugs at the heart strings is when cop goes too far and loses his badge just for doing what he thought was right; maybe it’s a weapons discharge, maybe it’s a beating, maybe a cop was so sure that the bastard did it, and just needed that carpet fragment to be found in his jacket, maybe a DNA sample in his car, just so the son of a bitch would get what was coming to him. It’s when a cop attacks his job with more than just a widescope view of justice and strong work ethic, but with personal motives and attachments, that the line becomes blurred. Truth is it happens, and while it’s a sad transgression for the sake of justice or personal vindication, it’s still wrong. We sometimes have to live in that cold grey area.

The toll this case was taking on us wasn’t really clear until the migraines started kicking in. I would wake with my head throbbing, starting with a dull roar building to a brain splitting firestorm. I’m now used to feeling like my eyes are going to jettison from my skull on a nightly basis. Pat says he’s having trouble getting to sleep every night, and Bravka even mentioned having a hard time speaking with his family when he got home. All we’ve got is a growing body count of confidential informants, a departmental leak to blame, and some sicko who has something to do with Calvin X. Carter. We’ve got next to nothing. It’s times like these when you start to wonder the length some of us would go to figure this one out. I’ve got my fingers crossed now, since last night I got a call from Bravka saying he wanted to see me and Pat bright and early, for a bit of good news.


"I talked it over with my buddies in the Bureau, called in a few favors, and this happened to float across my desk."


As if the answers to life itself were folder neatly into the brown dossier the Captain tossed proudly onto his desk, Detective Raul Dominguez and Detective- in-training Patrick McAllister locked their gazes on the orange-brown folder, nearly glowing with privileged information among the sea of disheveled memos and documents that crowded the Captain’s desk. McAllister, whipping out a tiny notebook in the palm of his hand from blue nylon police issue jacket, scribbled every word coming from the Captain, Raul, or his own head. Like a fat juicy worm on a hook, McAllister’s shot at joining the trench coat, badge-on-a-necklace detectives was sitting right in front of him. Dominguez on the other hand, wore his skepticism like a shroud.

"That motorcycle crew, the one out of Virginia?"

"The Roarin 20’s?"

"Gold Star for Mickey, anyway, they’re running a full syndicate over there, chop shops, gambling, smack peddling, you name it. The treasury department gets called up to try and move some marked bills through the system, to try and maybe trace them to the members and build a case, right? Well, the bureau goes out to collect, and what do they find?"

"Marked bills on a bunch of nobodies."

"That’s right, the club put all the marked bills in other peoples’ pockets so when the feds came knockin’, they’d be in the clear. The only way they could have taken their hands off of $25,000 of marked government bills and kept the rest is to have known they were there. Gentlemen, we have our leak."

Law was about providing constructive and respectful opposition, especially on the detective side of things. When working with a partner, a good detective will test and criticize his partner’s theories, hoping to make his partner fight harder to prove the theory in order for it to stand in court, or to cast aside the theory and head back to the drawing room. With both Bravka and McAllister slobbering over the Roarin’ 20’s case file, said opposition would do little, but following his gut, Dominguez spoke up.

"This just tells us the Treasury Department is fucked, I don’t see the killer’s hand in this at all."

"Well, it’s a start. This maniac is hitting all over town, so he has transportation, he has resources, which means he has money. What’s to say he’s not spreading the wealth with this leaked information? Gotta make dollars somehow."


Domiguez agreed to some extent. There was an element of information the bikers had that wasn’t readily available to other criminal syndicates, that was obvious. They would be foolish not to delve into it. But for the sake of not draining themselves on what could develop into an entirely new, and more importantly, unrelated case, Dominguez decided to sit quietly and take orders this round.

"What’s the status on these bikers?"

"I want to bring them in for questioning, but do it subtly; I’m sure the suits in Langley aren’t going to be too keen on us prodding in their kool-aid."

~cXc~

The sun was passing the peak of its arc when Calvin was dragged from the medical ward, handcuffed, still bleeding from multiple wounds, up to the warden’s office. What filled him wasn’t quite fear, but apprehension. According to the Warden, Calvin was in his pocket, keeping tabs on the Maryland Grove. He wasn’t expecting a new Lexus waiting for him after the warden caught wind of his assassination of a prominent Aryan player.

Dirt caked the edges of his eyes, providing an unfamiliar, blurry grit. The bottom half of his shirt was either missing or soaked in blood. He tottered along, and with each step, his knees threatened to unhinged. If it wasn’t for the flanking guardsmen, he’d face flat on his face, out cold. He fought hard to stay awake, even as his legs moved in an automated fashion. His body screamed at him like a wild eyed gypsy, chiding him for staying conscious this long.

As they reached the Warden’s office, dampened shouts sounded through the doors and walls, prompting a fresh wave of unease to drift though Calvin’s mind. If he had wanted, the warden could probably slit Calvin’s throat right then and there, with the guards making sure he hit all of the right arteries. As if, Calvin said to himself, as if I wouldn’t paint the walls with them, stabs wounds or no stab wounds.

When they entered the office, the good Warden Harcourt “Scooter” Allen spun quickly, his normal southern sheriff swagger nowhere to be found. His slick silver hair was now disheveled and manic looking. His eyes were alive with the fire of rage. The hand which held the receiver to his old rotary phone shook with hysteria. As he caught the sight of Calvin and company, he bid the man on the other end adieu.

“Yeah, the nigger’s here right now. I’ll let you go, but you remember, you handle this problem with no restraint, you hear? Everything is hanging in the balance here.”

With a cracking thud he slammed the receiver down in its slot, not quite laying it right to end the call. Heavily agitated, he slammed the receiver over and over, finally opting to stand back and heave the receiver at the base of the phone, knocking it, along with his inbox, down to the floor. Spinning on his heels, he drew an ornate bottle of whiskey from the cabinet behind him, twirling the cap impatiently. Tipping the bottom towards the ceiling, Allen dragged two fist sized gulps down his gullet, clenching his jaw powerfully as liquid splashed from the bottle’s neck, dripping down the Warden’s bolo tie.

He glanced at the pair of seasoned officers, delivering a familiar order with the nod of his head. Two matching baton blows to the back of the knee sent Calvin lurching into submission, his handcuffs disappearing soon after.

“Thank ya, boys, I got this covered. Ain’t nothing the babysitter can’t handle.”

With that, his hand ventured toward his hip, brushing back his ash grey suit jacket to reveal a holstered Custom Les Baer .45 calibur pistol. His cold bony fingers gently rested on the hilt of the Silver Pistol as he raised his eyebrows to convey the point that their presence wasn’t needed. After the pair of guards filed out, the Warden’s furious stare rested on the fallen Bloodhound, his hands fumbling with a pair of ice cubes and the bottle of whiskey.

“You know, boy, there are some dogs bring home from the pound, you scrub ‘em up, get ‘em groomed, get ‘em a collar, spend your afternoons training him to sit, stay, obey.”

The Warden was as mean as a snake, and it often showed through, even when trying to keep a cool head. What troubled Calvin now was that the Warden had no trace of anger in him as he began his slow, calculated tirade. It was as if Calvin had pushed him past the point of detectable rage, a rage that the Warden was unfamiliar with, and frankly, uncomfortable with himself.

“All your buddies tell you, ‘Don’t waste your time, he’s a pound puppy through and through, might as well just lock him down till you got time to play fetch with him.”

The warden slowly wandered around the front his desk, standing tall above the crumpled Carter. The ice in Allen’s glass twinkled and clinked as he spun the drink in its glass, wafting the oaken scent to his long, hooking nose. Calvin’s mind reeled as a sick sort of distress twirled about in his stomach. If rock bottom was worse than whatever led him to his knees in front of an alcoholic racist wielding a pistol, he was far from curious what it could rock bottom truly meant.

“But all in all you keep the faith. You are where you are now because you didn’t listen to anyone, especially the buddies you successfully surpassed years ago. Like hell you’re gonna listen to those rejects. You got more faith in your abilities that you’ve ever had in those idiots.”

He was slurring his words, uneasy on his feet. His eyes, rimmed red with frustration blinked wildly, as if to constantly snap himself back into focus, back to the his code of conduct and creed, to not let himself get swept into the storming currents of emotion that bordered his sensibilities. When they had met, Scooter seemed to have laid all of his cards on the table, hoping to discourage any sort of rebellion. Following the Grove’s orders to attack and assassinate notorious leader of the Aryans wasn’t just a refusal to fall in line, it was a direct challenge to Scooter Allen personally.

“One day you let the mutt go free in the front yard and boom, he bites the little neighbor girl in her tiny lil’ ass. Had you known all that, you probably wouldn’t have spent your hard-to-come-by free time to train him. He’s getting’ put down, and all you can think about is all the time you spent trying to make that an impossibility, coulda just had him locked up in a cage the whole time, no harm, no foul.”

Calvin hadn’t ever been afraid of Allen, but to know that he was reaching the precipice of his wits, fueled by the firewater, and refusing to budge at Carter’s unmistakable resilience, this was as close to fear as Calvin had ever allowed himself to admit.

“Or maybe I should have just put the mutt down.”

Like a branded colt, a black and white leather Sunday mass shoe kicked out from underneath the rambling warden, catching Calvin just under ribs with a sharp, spearing pain. He lurched forward, drawing in a panicked wind, audible from the other side of the wall. Carefully placing his blemish free loafer onto the forehead of Carter, Allen shoved the unshackled prisoner down onto his back. The prisoner forced an unaffected grin, gagging up blood as he tried to retain his composure.

He could probably, no definitely fight his way out of the Allen’s dominion, but brawling with a prison warden wasn’t a good way to keep his skull matter in tact. He simply had to gamble on the idea that he’d make it out of the room without getting shot, because if it wasn’t the warden firing the killing shot, it’d be whatever lucky guard rushing in to stop Calvin from delivering his own. He felt his own locked away reserve of energy spring up like a geyser. He hadn’t even realized he had been shouting.

“Is this it? This is where you snap? You wanna cross the line? G’head, pull the fuckin’ trigger, I got my hand up and everything.”

“Don’t tempt me, boy, that offer’s too sweet to pass up.”

Stomping down onto Calvin’s sternum, the warden drew his weapon, pointing the deathly cold eye of the barrel right at Calvin’s cheekbone. He reeked of liquor, glistening with oily sweat between his unkempt white stubble. Even if he hadn’t planned on shooting Carter dead, right there, underneath his foot, it was a better time than any, should Allen have planned to do it if he could. Even if didn’t even want to kill him, who was to say he’d be able to stop himself.

“G’head, ace, click the fuckin’ hammer, it ain’t as tough as you think. Trust me”

“I could put you in the ground right here and now, you shithead nigger. I could blow a hole in your face and walk away unscathed, just go back to smoking Cigars on my porch in Chattanooga, sweepin’ damsels off their feet. But the shit you’ve done, son, well fuck, I might as well let your own mind get a hold of your ass.”

As he dismounted, the Warden wore a grin of a cowboy who had just roped a prize steer. Calvin had to muster that resilience, both parties knew, but what brought joy to Allen’s face was the falling, sinking fear scribbled across Carter’s face, confirming that he had caught on to the Warden’s allusion.

“If it took you that long to come up with something to say, you might need to put some work into that badass act. You’ll have plenty of time for that. How does three months sound?”

It was hopeless. He couldn’t help it. Calvin was unable to control the open book that his face had morphed into. A wide, slit of a grin hung on the warden’s face as Calvin’s head slowly turned from left to right in shock.

“Three months, Solitary Confinement.”

~cXc~

“How’s it going Jimmy? I thought after that close call you’d be pretty gun shy when it comes to things that get you across this table from me."


The captain's attempt at non-chalant intimidation was deflected by a pair of midnight Ray-ban sunglasses. James Laurent sat with eyes half open, hidden behind his glasses, slowly counting the seconds with frightful anxiety, hoping to charge his way out of the station in any way he could.

"Captain, I know the act, and I’m pretty jaded by it. Tossing around false pleasantries for the folks at home is fine and dandy on your time, but not on mine."

"That’s quite a bit of Eastwood movie attitude you’re putting up there. You really don’t happen to know the amount of shit you’re in, do you?"

"And you don’t happen to know who you’ve brought down here. I’ve spent my time as a worthy opponent of the law, that’s no fact, but I simply don’t have it in me to play this game with you folks anymore. I’m not just saying you have nothing on me, I know you have nothing on me. I also know you are going to prod and poke and bluff as if you do have something on me, and I’ll still know that it’s going nowhere. So you can either stop wasting my time, or I can slowly and brutally begin to waste yours."

He was too genuine, too pissed off to be bluffing. The cops were completely floored. It took all of the Captain’s reserve energy not to storm out of the room and have the uniformed officers drag Laurent away at that moment. Sensing defeat on the horizon, he offered one last empty threat.

"You talk a much bigger game than you’re ready to play, Laurent."

"Like I said, I’m not here to play games, you think I’m bluffing? Well then let’s do this. I’d like to speak to my FUCKING attorney."

And with that, all progress the pair had hoped to make flew out the window.

~cXc~

"Laurent’s playing his cards close. While it’s true we’ve got nothing on him, a cocky asshole riding a harley wouldn’t have been so combative if there was nothing to find."

They had the strides of two men escaping a riot. Two pairs of fine leather shoes clobbered the linoleum floor of Baltimore Police Department, clearing a path of clerks and patrollers as they charged. They had confronted "Uncle Jimmy" James Laurent, but he waved off their siege without the bat of an eyelash. Of course, they had gone in cold, and it showed. While hoping the inconvenience of scooping up Laurent would jar him to say what they wanted just so he could leave, they did gain something they hadn't expected. Uncle Jimmy Laurent was a folk hero around the Beltway, arrogant, cheeky, cool, and collected; They might as well have made shirts of his silhouette and sold them to teens at the mall. But the man they interrogated wasn't arrogant or cheeky; He was angry and tired looking. Not cool or collected, but jumpy and paranoid. There was a weak link in the chain, they just had to find out where it was and when to pull.

"So we’re gonna go hard on Peterson?"

"Damn right, now we should go in with a game plan, maybe try drive a wedge between the two. Laurent got pinched around ’85 for making fake passports, but after most of the crew, especially Peterson, pleaded with the head honcho, they had a fall guy, wiped out the witnesses, and put Laurent up in a Boston town house."

Dominguez was a sponge when it came to retaining orders and details, but when the time came for him to work out a plan for battle, pried and clawed at every concept until he had a firm foundation. Bravka understood and respected these qualities in Dominguez, which were the factors in him choosing the young Mexican detective from the beginning.

Truth is, McAllister wasn’t just good, but great when matched up with most cops on the force, but his fact finding was cursory and his follow through was sloppy. Sure, he had vigor, a bloodthirst for justice, but it had no direction. You might be able to put out a fire with a bucket of water, but it’s best to use a hose.

"Who is this head honcho, shouldn’t we be running him in here too?"


"Well, around ’90, this guy Bugs La Baptiste who ran the club since its inception decided to pass the torch. He was old as shit and it was about time, but it just made things complicated."

"How so?"

"Well, Bugs leaves Peterson and Laurent in charge, then goes and hauls himself up somewhere. Officially, he’s a missing person, but everyone in the department knows he just doesn’t want to spend his last few years in the pen. He’s a complete non-entity following the transition, then Peterson gets busted for getting all tied up in a robbery. Around that time, Laurent begins seeking Bugsy for some counsel. It’s all a giant clusterfuck."

"Well, I say we work a conspiracy angle, make it look like Bugs and Laurent wanted Peterson out of the picture, but didn’t want to kill him out of respect?"

Bravka’s eyes drifted down his nose to Dominguez, whose glare remained from behind expensive European spectacles, fixed on the door to the interrogation room. The Captain was seeing more than just a man thriving in the profession, but one of his own excelling against strict opposition, without letting it phase him in the slightest. It was hard to quell such a rolling torrent of pride, but the Captain just wasn’t the sappiest of men.

"Sounds like we’ve got ourselves a Neustadt with that story. Let’s put the ball in play."

~cXc~

“Says here you did a 7 year stretch that ended in 1999, what was that about?”

The man that sat behind the cold steel table was everything James Laurent wasn’t. Laurent had a sort of handsome grunge appeal, while Sal Peterson appeared to work the late shift at Quizno’s. Laurent’s hungry, athletic physique shone in comparison to the thick leather turtle shell body plopped in front of the two detectives, the buttons of his flannel pulling tight creases in his gelatinous girth.

“Got snipped for being tied to an armed robbery, found plans for stash house tucked in the Shanandoah. But you already knew all that didn’t you?”

“Explain this ‘tied to’ situation to me, I don’t quite follow.”

“We had a corporal working for us for awhile, wanted a pistol, so I gave it to him. Turns out his moronic nephew, twenty in training, well not any more, obviously, borrowed the piece for this little robbery. Prosecutor gets a little greedy, follows the leads, gun gets back to me, that’s your fucking ball game folks. But you already knew all that, didn’t you?”

“I just like to hear scumbags list our achievements instead of theirs for once.”

“Two years after you and Uncle Jimmy take control of the Twenties, you find yourself locked up for a crime you didn’t even have your hands in. It seems like something could have been done, you know? Big ol’ outfit like you guys, a guy like me would bet you could have someone take the fall.”

“That’s a good one, I’m looking forward to telling my lawyer that one.”

“Hey, friend, we read that one out of your joke book. Five years before hand, before you went upstate, before the smooth transition of power, even before ol’ Bugs started getting the tremors and had to start scouting for replacements, it would seem Uncle Jimmy had some problems himself?”

“You can save your breath; I speak on my business and my business alone.”

“Don’t worry, if you can’t recall, that was my case you inbred scumbags derailed. Uncle Jimmy got busted and was about to go down, but his guardian angel reached out and gave him a fall guy, didn’t he?”

“Bugs was still in charge and he loved you boys. So Jimmy gets busted, you’re pleading to get Jimmy out of it, Bugs obliges, hands you an outsider to pin it all on. But you didn't get so lucky did you?”

“Wasn’t my call to make…”

“Oh, but Jimmy can make that call, no problem. Now, I’m not too up on the whole scumbag business model, but from an outside perspective, it would look like Laurent’s got a lot more clout than a fat slob like you.”

“Laurent was kept out of prison off of your suggestion, due to how valuable he was to the club; When it was your turn, didn’t you find it a little disrespectful that Jimmy didn’t find you equally as valuable, only seven years after you kept his ass out of the fire?”

“Motherfucker, we work as a team, a two man monarchy. I saw the resolve Jimmy had in him when he let me know I’d be safe and the club would be alright, and I couldn’t argue with that. Now look at us, two-thousand-ten, still roarin’ strong, and with cops drillin’ us for info they need that we don’t need to give. Looks like he was right.”

“Well, when Jimmy had it figured out for the both of you, you probably couldn’t go wrong. All that sage advice from Bugsy, I’m sure he knew what was best for the club. What’d Bugsy say when you wanted to speak to him?”

“Hey, Vinny, I think that was privileged information. Only Jimmy was allowed to know where Bugsy was hanging out, consult with him and what not.”

“So, Jimmy’s having talks with patriarch, behind everyone’s back, and you get butt-fucked out of the club’s generosity. When is it going to hit you that you’re running a group by appearance only, and that same group is mounting your demise all at the same time?”

“Listen, we know about the leaks at the Treasury, and we just need the source. Jimmy hasn’t signed shit, just brushed us right off, but he doesn’t know the shit storm that will come down on you both, as well as the club, once we find the rat on our own and he gives up all parties he assisted. You have that information, why not take strides to become the decision maker?”

“First off, take everything you think you know about our group’s dynamic and throw it out the fucking window. Big changes are taking place and I’m at the helm of all of them. But I can see where you’re coming from, and sometimes you gotta see a bad business investment, and protect yourself.”

“I’ll let you in on what I know, but I want complete immunity for everything this department has on me. Every ticket, parole violation, domestic dispute, I want it burned in the furnace. Until then, you call this number and tell my counsel to come down to the station, whether or not you decide to give me the deal. Don’t tell him what it’s for, who you are, who I am, or anything of the sort. If you want this done right, than we work together, I’m not getting strung along by bureaucrats just to get fucked in the back and end up like Henry Hill, stuck in the suburbs with a fake name for the rest of his life.”

With synchronized gestures, the pair of detectives filed out of the room to discuss game plans. It appeared to them that they had struck the right nerve to earn Peterson’s assistance, but his request for immunity would definitely have hurdles to cross. Immunity would keep Peterson out of jail, he’d only be able to be held for 6 hours at a time, and there was no leverage to hold over him should his assistance be to no avail. It would also poke all sorts of holes in the Federal case against Laurent, Peterson, La Baptiste, and the Roarin’ 20s, essentially digging a steak knife into the back of whichever federal friends threw Bravka the lifesaver.

“If we give him that immunity, we’ll be off the case before we leave the building, with termination notices waiting on our desks.”

“I don’t see many options here. This is our golden ticket, and if we pass it up, we’re just waiting for this killer to drop a few more bodies. This sicko really fucked up throwing a bone to these motorcycle morons, but he’s too damn smart to slip up like that again.”

“Maybe we should start talking to your friends in the bureau, see if they can shake things up.”

Fact is, federal assistance only looked appetizing on paper. The whole ordeal becomes a dick measuring contest, with the feds slapping you with enough red tape mandates to make a good detective’s head spin. Not to mention, there couldn’t be a more delicate situation. The killer had resources and would hit the road as soon as Baltimore’s climate became less of a police action and more of a federal firestorm. Not that it mattered to the Brass, they could chase this guy through any state, and all it would do is squeeze out local departments and give them the biggest win since the Beltway Snipers.

“We don’t need any of their bloodsuckers stomping through our units. I’m gonna call Peterson’s counsel, see if we can come to an agreement, while you start a file on Laurent.”

“Laurent is clean, we’ve got nothing pin on him.”

“Peterson’s talking a big game, but I have a feeling this renegade streak isn’t going to last long. If he sees us ‘making progress’ in this leak investigation, pinning Laurent to some time, he might back down and give us everything we need.”

~cXc~

He attacked himself, demanding to figure out how long he had sat in this hell. Time is the thief of memory. As is darkness. And food depravation. And dehydration. White orbs of light danced on the bridge of his nose, figments of his tiring grip on reality, yet as real as the harsh concrete floor below him. The normal flow of reality had abandoned him, seeming to increase the connotations of every idea and sensory output. His ego was too strong for such treatment, being exposed and eclipsed by sensitive emotion and introspection. Feeling the pillars of his sanity crumbled, he fought to conjure an image, an event, something concrete his mind could attach to. In weary, glowing afterimages, he envisioned the fight, the battle that landed him in the cage. It was perhaps his last moment of feeling alive.

He walked down the dirt path that split the emerald green sprawl of the yard, kicking up plumes of dust with each step. Word of any sort got around quick in the BCF, and by the way each huddle of criminals seemed to have battened down for the storm, it showed. His throat tightened as he felt the gazes of eyes that peered between gym equipment and around other inmates.

He noticed Landgrave across the yard at his post, eyes darting back and forth like a tennis ball. It was this sight that made Calvin’s heart sink. Landgrave could usually scout the units of a yard attack while appearing to read the newspaper, but this unease that hung above the German’s head was a sure sign that things were not indeed going as planned. Still, Calvin pushed onward toward his destination, each step weighing heavier and heavier.

As his eyes met the bulging frame of Martin Delaney, his worst fears were confirmed when the flabby Nazi was flanked by two of his personally protectors. How could they have been compromised? Only the four of them had met about the attack. Calvin had told a number of associates to keep an eye on him, but it wasn’t enough information to have startled the Nazi’s into a defensive panic. It had to have been one of Landgrave’s followers, or Landgrave himself. Frederick’s death white complexion seemed to have ruled out the latter.

A trap has been set, Calvin thought, but they can’t possibly know of the alliance between all of us. They may have Landgrave fucked, but no one is going to expect this nigger to carry out the German’s orders. He might be able to avoid the trap, but chances were still small. If anyone had it out for Carter without his knowledge, which was entirely possible, a full scale riot would be the time to take out the aggression.

A loud, deep shout heralded the beginning of battle, when suddenly, sun light was blotted out by an inundation of fists clapping and thumping into Calvin’s body. He staggered lightly, allowing the blows to ravage his body while maintaining a level head. With forearms presented he deflected the following attacks and retreated to gain footing. It was when the next, wheezing, pudgy skinhead charged that he let his fists play their heavy, percussive music.

With a crack Calvin’s knuckles dug into the man’s eye socket, snapping his head back, knocking his limp carcass to the floor. Sticks and sharpened edges flew at him from tattooed grips, birthing hot, stinging wounds that his adrenaline refused to allow him to sense. A young boy, eyes burning with desire to prove himself, lunged at Calvin’s legs like a cheetah, before being cut short after crashing face first into the tree trunks of thighs Calvin had developed. As the boy went down, Calvin began to stomp out of instinct, splashing warm blood up his pant legs as the young face shattered and peeled.

He continued running as hard as he could, his hands picking targets with deadly accuracy. They charged, eyes filled with blank obedient fire, shouting incoherently as Calvin led them on a parade towards Martin Delaney, who was focused on the slow beating of Frederick Landgrave, who didn’t seem to have the luck Calvin had.

As he turned to inspect the oncoming ruckus, Martin Delaney’s head swiveled on its based with a swift hook from the freight training figure of Calvin. Delaney’s figured accordianed into himself as Calvin began to rain blows down onto the top of the hefty Nazi’s skull. Palming the back of the man’s tilting head, Calvin fired consecutive uppercuts, causing blood to pour from Delaney’s face like a shower faucet. With each fist, Calvin wanted more and more for Delaney to stay alive, to feel every bit of pain Calvin unloaded.

Within a second, Calvin was swamped. A wave of bodies knocked him to the floor, scuffing, cutting, scratching as they hoped to get a piece of the Bloodhound. He was gouged in the shoulder before he could rain elbows onto his attacker. He felt a teeth clenching on his ankles, causing him to kick back who ever was there. This is it, he thought, after all that I’ve been through, I’m going to die in a facist dog pile.

Shining through the darkened pit of hateful flesh were the burning eyes of Frederick Landgrave, swan diving through the air, whittled tooth brush in each hand. Ropes of blood splashed the dirt as the German killer swung his arms like a dancer, piercing and stabbing all those who had attacked Calvin. One of Delaney’s guards charged at Landgrave, but after grasping the man’s head like a basketball, he tilted him sideways and pounded down viciously into the man’s ear canal with his sharpened dental tool.

Seeing his target limping away, Calvin took a split second to gather himself. He was bleeding from at least thirty different areas. He was struck with a momentary dizziness, one that would commonly follow a powerful yawn. Thick, oily sweat covered his body snatching up particles of dust that blew through the air like razors. His tongue was sandpaper; his feet, numb but lumbering. As his body seemed to collapse, his eyes never ventured from the back of Martin Delaney’s tattooed skull.

With a final feat of effort, he snatched up a palm sized chunk of concrete cleverly hidden among the yard weeds and lunged at his man, grappling him up in a sloppy sleeper hold. Squirming like a bloody tarpon, Delaney’s rolling eyes, now red with burst blood vessels pleaded with his attacker. He attempted to do the same vocally, but oceans of blood spewed from his nose and mouth, morphing all words into a hopeless gurgle. With a euthanizing blow, Calvin jammed the chunk of rock hard into the man’s collarbone, lodging it significantly.

With a last bit of adrenaline, Delaney strode forward, groping in front of himself meaninglessly. He turned to try to face his killer, but stumbled forward, toppling down on his stomach. His open jaw slammed hard into the roof of his mouth, sending shining red teeth out of his glimmering, blood soaked lips. The target had been neutralized.

A new round of heat invaded Calvin’s body, as rubber bullets pelted down from the guards towers. White pillows of tear gas seemed to spring right from the ground, lulling the combatants to an ineffectiveness. With Roaring sirens and shouting officers, the battle was over.

~cXc~

Bravka slammed his the receiver of the breezeway’s payphone down in disgust. For professional legal counsel, Peterson’s attorney had a flare for the dramatic that bordered the unprofessional. No response, not a word. One would think that upon hearing of one’s client, a former convict, being sat in an interrogation room, more urgency would emerge.

He flicked the smoldering remains of his No. 27 Marlboro to the asphalt beneath him. He had hardly noticed it burning at the flesh of his knuckles, far past the sienna colored filter. Slowly collapsing into a squat, his bear-like palms reached for his eyes, burying his face deep in thought.

What sat in front of Bravka was nothing short of disappointment. All they had was a pair of junkies and a power struggle. There was no way of seeing how far this pair would be willing to go to cut the legs out from one another, and Bravka had dragged himself and his team right into the thick of it. He had been under the impression that anything other than stagnancy was progress, but he had been wrong. They were no closer to catching their killer then they had been when they answered the call for the death of Albert Kennefick.

Twenty long minutes of deep contemplation were soon shattered by Patrick McAllister, bursting onto the breezeway, his eyes as wide as hubcaps, skin paler than his Irish heritage could account for. Bravka nearly drew his sidearm at the sudden appearance of his colleague, rising to his full height after regaining his composure.


“Cap, we’ve got a one-eighty-seven down in Locust point, apparently it’s related to the investigation.”


The Captain’s mind was free from the physical aspects of the charge to the crime scene. He hadn’t even felt it when he rammed his crown into the side of the Ford Police Interceptor McAllister had pulled up to the side of the station. As they flew towards the scene, a mixture of feelings rushed through Bravka, giving him little time to sort himself out. He could feel an excitement, a longing that had been fulfilled, dragging along cinder block-like anchors of shame for feeling joy over the demise of another human being.

As they arrived at the scene, Raul Dominguez’s normal suave demeanor was replaced by the nervous twitching of an addict. Behind him lay the disheveled corpse of an outlaw, perforated by sub-machine gunfire. Blue bruising circled his throat, the tell tale signs of an additional strangling. Long, stringing brown hair fanned out across the floor, sticky and matted with congealing blood. Like the corpses before his, there was a smile artificially stretched across the mouth of James “Uncle Jimmy” Laurent, a man who seldom grinned.

The Devil is not the King of Hell

After swallowing what appeared to be a softball in his throat, Dominguez hurried over to the Captain and McAllister, holding out a closed fist, indicating that he had snatched up something.

"Did you just tamper with a crime scene, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"This happens to be a bit different, Vincent, we’re playing a different ballgame now."

Vincent, the Captain repeated to himself. The use of his given name in a business scenario somewhere awakened a primitive sort of distress in him. Perhaps silly in after thought, but just as significant considering what was to come.

Clutched in the palm of his latex gloved hand, a crisp bloody scroll was would tightly. Pulled from the jacket pocket of the victim, Dominguez discretely handed it to the Captain, huddling around the pair to provide a human shield. After applying his own pair of latex gloves, he unraveled the hand written parchment, scanning it carefully.

O Captain, my Captain! Our trip has just begun,
My reign will weather every rack; this hell will not succumb,
The land of Mary’s outlaw prince, his soul belongs to me
I yearn to face my nemesis, my final destiny.

Carter free, how it must be, lest my wrath be provoked
Futility, the cries for help, the deities invoked
My hand delivers devastation, blue cloth stained with red
Where on the deck my captain lies, fallen cold and dead.

The Last Living Prophet,
sMiLeZ

The chaotic sounds of the darkness still roared behind him, as if he had stepped out of hell’s back door. The cool, quiet ambiance of human interaction quelled the raging storm of insanity that threatened to was over Calvin’s sensibilities, calming the growing flood, but leaving harsh watermarks along the walls of his psyche. Through sweaty, blinking eyes, Calvin glanced at the facets of ordinary prison life, seeing what was once a jungle free-for-all of bloodthirsty killers now as nothing more than a marketplace for freedom-impaired. The flanking guards behind him that were once the sentries of a system that wasn’t to be altered were now just kids, children in the line of fire should a flare of psychosis shine past his common sense. Everything was different; Quieter, calmer, weaker than when he had gone in.

A violent dance on slippery stones...

Laughter. The only sound in Calvin’s head was laughter; his own, in fact. What had become of his last eight months was nothing more than a well crafted practical joke. Five months of tiresome obedience to a gathering of criminals…Ha…Ha. Navigating out of the reach of the warden, who hoped to wanted to use Calvin as an informer…hehe..ha..ha. Assassinating the head of the Aryan Dynasty in hopes of empowering his Maryland Grove compadres, only to learn he had stuck his neck out in the field of battle to create a diversion, one that almost cost him his life…ha..ha…ha. And to top it all off, earning three months in solitary confinement for trying to appease the demands of his criminal organization as well those of the warden…ha. But what no one could have known, Valdez, the Warden, no one, was that an attempt to neuter, to crush the spirit of Calvin had not only failed, but had created a new beast. Calvin’s naiveté of the system, the only source of Calvin’s reluctance towards dominating his city, this prison, the whole fucking world, shattered before his eyes as he sat in that box. A new man stepped from the cage and all Calvin could do was laugh…and laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

The Devil is Not the King of Hell

Honor.

Webster defines “honor” as “a keen sense of ethical conduct” and “an evidence or symbol of distinction”. Honor is what defines this sport for those who truly love it; honor separates the devils who seek power and destruction from those who simply do battle for the sport of it.

It is this honor that my future opponent, the esteemed and talented Abel Steele, has accused me of losing sight of. He claims I am slipping, that I am no longer the hero I once was because I have lost my honor and allowed instead for it to be replaced as I take what he believes to be the easy route, the road most taken. He has bought into the hype, if you will, and decided I am no longer worthy to call myself the Savior of FMW.

And to that, well, that is a discussion for another day. The point is still reached though; honor is important for those who truly believe themselves to respect the sport of professional wrestling and strive to be the best within it.

But others have opinions on the idea of honor other than our friend Webster. Leonardo da Vinci believed that he who sows virtue reaps honor. If that is the case, how can I believe so fully in my mission and not have honor? There are no ill intentions in my revolution, no personal vendettas. No…

I simply want to save the company I love.

Why is that wrong? What is that unjust? Why is that hated? Why am I now the enemy when for so long I was the hero?

Why are my friends turning their backs on me?

When Abel Steele debuted in this company, I could see he was a good and just man. He was an athlete, a champion in his own regard before even stepping foot in this ring. He believed in the sanctity of the sport and had a deep seated respect for all it was about. He valued competition over the petty bullshit we find ourselves embroiled in far too often in professional wrestling and for that he had already earned my respect.

In short, Abel seemed exactly like the kind of person we as the Broken Saints were organized to fight for and defend.

But time passed, things changed. The Broken Saints began to take shape and people began to take sides, mainly those in power began to see exactly what type of power was possessed by a brewing revolution and began to take steps to stop it…

The propaganda machine swung into full force.

Suddenly, I was militant and in it only for myself. All my actions, past and present, were called into question. I was a cheater, a liar, and a fake despite the fact I had done none of those things in my search for a better FMW. I no longer cared about the fans no matter how much I worked to show my fans how much I loved and valued them. I no longer had any connection to my associates despite me often expressing my respect for many, even some who openly opposed me.

I was made into public enemy number one simply because I dared to speak out against the corrupt status quo. We as a people have seen this a thousand times before, reaching back as far as the Pharisees working to discredit Christ in the eyes of the people He was preaching to.

We saw it with Martin Luther when the Catholic Church deemed the former monk a heretic for daring to speak out against the abuses within the church that they even finally admitted to some time later after many turned their backs forever on the Catholic tradition.

We saw it with his spiritual successor Martin Luther King, Jr. during the Civil Rights movement in the United States of America. King spoke out for equality for all men and was threatened by the government and even imprisoned for a time in his fight for his beliefs. Now, his birthday is a national holiday and he is recognized almost universally as one of the greatest American to live in the twentieth century.

And now we see it again with Drew Michaels, a man who has done nothing but try to be a hero and protect the company he loved. He sweat, he bled, and he cried for FMW and now, when he returns and tries to save it again, he is demonized. He could just walk away and say forget, pursue his professional career elsewhere and let the company fester in its filth. He could just turn a blind eye at the abuses around him and not be the hero he is meant to be, follow the easy route. But he doesn’t? And why is that?

Because on that path, there is no honor.

“No amount of ability is of the slightest avail without honor.” – Thomas Carlyle


Story #1: A Family Affair

The scene opens the beautiful, somewhat rustic home of the Bryson family. The luscious estate masks the vile truths of this family, a family only exposed to those on the inside of it such as former Full Metal Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion Nicholas Bryson, who recently reappeared in the company after some time away under the mask of the disgusting monster Virus (or at one of the Viruses). Nick knows all too well the inner workings of this family and the deep dark secrets that this home hides within.

And then, there is his cousin Andrew Michaels.

It is this bastard child of the Bryson family, a son who never knew his true family until well into his adulthood, that our story follows. It is this scorned offspring who steps forward on this day, this day that has lazily passed on up to this point at the large home, and kicks in the front door with a mad look in his eyes.

Michaels: NICK! (Looks around slowly) NICK! SHOW YOURSELF NICK!

Butler: Sir, I do not know who you are but I have to ask you to stop this madness…

The butler, a rather large man who looks as if he could work security for the Russian Mafia, steps towards Drew but the Chosen One is quick to the draw, whipping out a police issue taser and drops the butler quickly before he can overtake him. Stepping towards and then over the body, Drew continues his search

Michaels: NICK! Come on out little cousin, we need to have a bit of a talk!

The look on Drew’s face is that of total madness, he has nothing on his mind but finding his younger cousin and getting answers for his recent appearance on the FMW Corruption division’s television show as Virus. Drew throws open door after door in the large home but finds no one, particularly not his cousin and long time friend. As Drew begins to get frustrated, a voice calls out to him and pulls him out of his thoughts.

Voice: Andrew, in here please.

Michaels: What in the hell…?

Drew is able to recognize that voice is coming from a door down the hall to his left. Drew slowly creeps towards that door when he hears the voice again.

Voice: Please hurry young man; I am not getting any younger.

Drew reaches up and turns the knob on the door with his left hand and swings it forward as he steps through the threshold. Sitting before him in a wheelchair is an elderly lady; she must be in her eighties and is connected to an oxygen tank. She looks frail and sickly but when Drew glances in her eyes he sees a fiery passion that he recognizes as his own.

Drew is staring at his own grandmother for the first time in his life.

Michaels: Mrs. Bryson, how are you today?

Bryson: So you know who I am young man?

Michaels: I have heard stories, as I already know you have of I.

Bryson: Indeed my child, it is nice to finally lay my eyes upon my son Matthew’s offspring. I have to say, you have his eyes.

Michaels: Yes, Nick has told me as much before.

The elder Bryson smiles a weak grin after Drew’s response.

Bryson: You remind me so of your father, a man of business and business alone; no time for anything else.

Michaels: I would say I agree but I never met the sorry son of a bitch.

Bryson: And you inherited his rebellious tongue too, such a joy. Now my child, what have you come here for?

Michaels: My cousin, we shall have words.

Bryson: Such a penchant for the dramatic, huh? “We shall have words”, people didn’t even speak like that in my day and I am old as dirt. Young Nicholas is not here, he has been out and about for some time now.

Michaels: So you have no clue where he is?

Bryson: We are just so use to him being gone with that job of his that we no longer take notice of his absence.

Michaels: To my understanding you never took much notice of him to begin with…

The elder woman stares deeply at Drew for a minute, not speaking. Drew feels uncomfortable in her gaze and turns to walk away, satisfied with the answer he received. As he steps away, his grandmother speaks.

Bryson: Why are you so bitter?

Drew turns back with a look of disbelief on his face. His mouth is agape as he searches desperately for the words to answer what he believes to be an inane question.

Bryson: Nicholas has told you things about us, correct?

Michaels: More then you could ever hope to know.

Bryson: He has told you of us being uncaring, of being cold, of being empty. He has told you that we never were there for him and we never wanted him in our lives.

Michaels: He has told me a lot of things but I know one for sure…you are all a collection of total manipulative bastards.

Bryson: That seems uncalled for.

Michaels: You created me to fill some type of prophecy! You wanted your own Chosen One in house for whatever sick twisted reasons you could possibly have had! And then, in order to make sure your little plans worked, you had my cousin so that you had a back-up plan that also fulfilled the requirements so, gasp, you would be set either way! So fuck you, every last damn one of you!

The old woman just sits and takes all this verbal abuse. As Drew finishes, she smiles and speaks.

Bryson: Finished now?

Michaels: Yeah…yeah I think so.

Bryson: Feel better?

Michaels: A little.

Bryson: Now, back to the topic at hand. You have heard plenty of things about us Andrew but my child, you do not know us. We are your family and, more importantly, we know and accept what you are and who you are.

Michaels: You mean as the Chosen One.

Bryson: When here, you do not have to lower yourself to their level. You no longer have to walk on the filth of the masses; you can truly be where you belong above them all. You could be their champion Drew, you just need our guidance.

Drew looks at her with shock in his face. Despite his obvious disdain for the family, despite the fact he seems to know all of their games and their techniques; she cannot grasp the concept of a world where she is not in power and she cannot get what she wants.

Michaels: That is a tempting offer ma’am, it really is, but I think I am going to say no.

Bryson: You are making a huge mistake Andrew…

Michaels: No you old bitch, you are making a huge mistake! You are mistaken when you assume I would even be willing to look in your eyes again after this day let a-fucking-lone stand by you. The thing is, I do not see it as “wallowing”, I see it as standing by those I have been sent to help. I am not here to help you, from what I have seen you are so far gone that hell already has a seat warmed for you and the rest of the people who live in this house. So please kindly fuck off.

Drew turns to walk away again when he hears something else emitted by the woman. It is not English but it is very…familiar as of late.

Bryson: Then I guess you have no need for the tongue.

Michaels (To himself): Fuck…(Turns back) You speak Glossolalia.

Bryson: Of course I do, it runs in the family. We know much about the history of the language and, more importantly, where it all comes from. This is information you need Andrew and information you could easily have by working with your family.

Drew stares at her and thinks for a minute. He knows this information would be valuable. It could help him in his quest for answers on the true nature of his status as the Chosen One and, more importantly, the location of the true Scorpion. The language was the key, it always has been, and knowing what Gabriel and the Scorpion are both up to could be deciphered by knowing more about the past and its implications. But still…

Michaels: No dice. I refuse to compromise myself and my morality. Whatever you know, I will find out on my own so take your offer and shove it.

Drew storms out of the room, refusing to hear her pleas both in Glossolalia and English. He storms right out of the home and out of the scene as we fade to black…

“Honor is simply the morality of superior men.” – H.L. Mencken


Story #2: The Conflict

The scene opens to FMW wrestler Christopher Austin trying to unlock his hotel room. He is fumbling around with his keycard, there seems to be some type of trouble with the card as if it has been demagnetized or something. As he turns around to head back to the front desk, a shadowy blur blasts out of the darkness and tackles him to the crowd. Austin goes to react but find himself unable to do anything, the shadowy attacker has pinned him down effectively and efficiently.

Austin: Who the fuck are you!?

Michaels: SHUT. YOUR. GODDAMN. MOUTH!

Drew’s left hand cover’s Austin’s mouth while his right raises a knife, the same knife that has been so evident in his life, and presses it against the soft skin on Austin’s throat just above his Adam’s Apple. Drew seems to look at Austin with a complete and total disdain, as if he is dirtier for having laid hands on the man he once called a friend. As he speaks, his voice is barely above a calm whisper.

Michaels: If you move, I will kill you. If you try to fight back, I will kill you. If you speak, I will kill you. I have done it before and I have no doubt I could perhaps do it again. Understood?

Drew is silent for a minute as if waiting for a response. Austin wisely does nothing causing Drew to only smile before lowly speaking again.

Michaels: Good, we seem to understand something. Now Christopher, I have been listening to you, I have been absorbing every word out of your mouth and digesting them. I have sat back and allowed you to spit your poison, to make your vile threats and your accusations. I have just watched and listened…and waited. I waited to find you alone, I waited to catch you with your guard down and your mind weakened if only for a moment. I waited for a chance to look you in your eyes and search in vain for the man I once knew. And now I look at you…

I look at you, and I do not see him. I loved you Chris, I offered you the world. I told you I would take you in, I would help you professionally and personally and do whatever it took to make your life better. I would have given anything to pull you out of this abyss. But then you threatened her…

YOU FUCKING THREATENED HER!

Drew twists the knife ever so slightly, just enough to nick the skin on the top of his laryngeal prominence and cause a small trickle of blood to run down his throat.

Michaels: Sorry, looked like you missed a spot shaving and I just could NOT resist. (Drew stifles a laugh) Now listen to me Christopher and listen well. These people, they are saying a lot of things about me lately, mostly untrue. They are saying I am in this for myself, that I have lost my moral compass, that I am no longer the man I was once. But the one thing they are saying, the one truth that is being spouted here is pretty simple…

I am NOT a good person. I never have been. I know right from wrong Chris, you know this but I have a tendency to…forget sometimes.

Drew presses the knife tighter against the skin of the man pinned underneath him.

Michaels: Let this be known Chris, Jade Striker is under MY protection. You lay one foul hand on her and I find out and I SHALL find you and I SHALL…take care of you. That is not a threat, I do not make threats nor do I have time for threats. This is a promise. And the same applies wholeheartedly to Leah Striker, to Annalisa, to my Juliet. The women of Full Metal Wrestling are under my protection Austin and I shall not see these innocents harmed in your new little game. If you do…

Drew falls silent for a moment in thought before continuing.

Michaels: If you do, I will hunt you down Chris. Nothing in the world can stop me, you know what I am and you know what I am capable of. I will find you, that is a guarantee. When I find you and I will hurt you. It will not be quick; it will not be clean. I will start by prying off your fingernails one by one, a torture perfected by the Vietnamese during the war. I will then proceed to go through a variety of mental and physical assaults; waterboarding, electroshocks, sleep deprivation, starvation. I will break you. And then, then you shall beg me for death. You shall want it, you shall crave it…

And I will simply walk away to leave you to your own fate. Tied up, bleeding out; I shall walk away and let nature do what must happen. I will not kill you Chris but believe me, you will wish I did. You will pray for God to finish the job and if He does well so be it. I simply cannot think of a more horrible way to pass on to the other side, to either eternal pleasure or more likely in your case eternal suffering, than to do so in complete and total absence of the entire world and never being missed…

Never.

So remember this Austin, I did not abandon you. This path you are following is your own and one we all know you are far too familiar with, a path I have seen you cross before despite your protests otherwise. There is no honor in the path you are walking down and there shall be no honor in the retribution that follows. Remember Austin…

I am ALWAYS watching you.

And with that, our scene fades to black…



“Honor isn't about making the right choices. It's about dealing with the consequences.” – Anonymous



Story #3: A Million Implications in Infinitely Less Words

Dearest Romeo Vizzini,

NEVER use the Broken Saints for your personal gain again like we saw at the end of Distortion. Doing so will end our working agreement and bring the full wrath of those loyal to me upon you. We have a mutual need for each other but that does not mean your decisions and your needs equal that of this alliance.

We may be at war with them Romeo but there is no reason we cannot do it with honor and dignity. How we fight is what we fight for.

Sincerely yours,
Andrew Michaels

“Success without honor is an unseasoned dish; it will satisfy your hunger, but it won't taste good.” – Joe Paterno




Story #4: A Look Within Yourself

The scene opens to the bathroom of Drew Michaels, more specifically Drew the mirror situated over the sink. Drew stares deeply into the mirror, shirtless and with a haggard look plastered across his face from too many long days and even longer sleepless nights for with sleep comes the dreams and with the dreams comes the doubt. His dreams, when he allows himself to dream, are filled with disjointed images of suffering, sin, and failure. He worries all the time, he no longer has time for the small things in life.

Thus, his beard is growing in nicely. It is funny, Christ had a beard and He was the Savior for all mankind. How, a well defined beard gets you nothing but weird stares and whispers behind your back. It is funny how times change…

Drew’s mind is racing; he brushes the hair out of his eyes and runs his right hand over his forehead, feelings the numerous scars that adorn it. Each one tells a story, each one connects him back to a battle in his past. Each scar has a maker; each maker was once an enemy. Drew once treasured these scars as trophies; they were a sign of his commitment and his dedication to his craft. But now…

Now the scars are not all physical. No, too many times now is Drew wounded mentally but those he once believed to be friends. They call him a bastard, a liar, a devil.

Why can the Celt not look him in the eye anymore?

No, they all talk about the law as if it is some unchangeable force when truly it is as fluid as any ideal in this world. Law changes with society, it changes with the times. The only truth involved in it is the right and wrong, how justice is achieved is constant despite what the law may be. The law is man’s invention, justice belongs to nature.

Drew’s hand drifts from his scarred forehead to his eyes; he rubs underneath first the left and then the right. They are so tired; a lack of sleep is really getting to him. His eyes are heavy like his burden; he can barely keep them open as he struggles to force his focus on the image before him.

Drew remembers a time that seems so long ago, but could not possibly have been, when his face held much more joy than it does these days. He once woke up every day refreshed and anxious to tackle the new day. Now, he is tired of life and tired of those around him. He wonders if it is all worth it, if perhaps he could just walk away.

That would solve all his problems really, just to walk away. Pack his bags and turn in his letter of resignation to Full Metal Wrestling. Perhaps take his family and move somewhere else far away from all of these madmen. He and Juliet could adopt, take care of some of the life already brought into this world since they cannot have their own. Once he gets away from it all, it would be better. So much better…

No. No, he cannot do that. FMW needs him and he needs FMW. The company is his family, a dysfunctional one but one he loves nonetheless. He has to protect them, it is his duty. He cannot walk away from this like some, he has too much invested.

FMW must be saved.

Drew knows it is a fool’s task but it is a task he must take upon himself. No thoughts of failure can slow him down, he has to prevail. Failure is a fate worse than death, it not only guarantees a world filled with bastards and devils running this company but what does it mean for Drew?

What would happen to FMW’s Savior if he were to be her champion no more? Would she take him back? Would she love him still? Or would she deny her prodigal child and embrace the evils within her? Would Drew be welcomed back or cast away for used? Could FMW survive without him?

Could he survive without FMW?

Drew stares in the mirror for a second later before he grabs a shoe from the bathroom floor and smashes it into the mirror, shattering it. Drew’s mind cannot handle this anymore, not right now. Drew just shakes his head at the mess all around and steps out of the room, his mind still racing as an all too familiar scene in his life comes to a close with the eternal black…



“What is left when honor is lost?” – Publilius Syrus




Story # 5: The Discussion

The final scene reopens to the School of Hard Knocks, the gym owned by Seth Omega and the unofficial home of the Broken Saints revolutionary alliance. Sitting in a locker room is Drew Michaels, pondering the events that have occurred recently in his life and how fast things seem to be moving. As he is lost deep in thought, one of the newest Saints, Apotasy, walks in a pulls up a seat next to the older man and interrupts him bluntly.

Apotasy: What is this all about?

Michaels: What do you mean?

Apotasy: The Broken Saints, this whole organization. What is the purpose of this?

Michaels: If you do not know, why did you join?

Apotasy: I trust you.

Michaels: Then why do you not believe me when I tell you what this is about? That we are saving FMW? That we will do whatever it takes to make this company better?

Apotasy: Because the company you are keeping is…less than savory.

Michaels: I agree.

Apotasy: Wait…what?

Michaels: I completely agree. Do you know why Christ said He came to Earth?

Apotasy: I really am not looking for a religion lesson Drew…

Michaels: This is not about that Heath, I promise. It is simply an example of what I am trying to do here. When Christ was confronted by the upper class of his time, the Pharisees and such, they asked why he spent all his time with the lepers, the gamblers, and the tax collectors. Christ said that the righteous had no need of a savior, it was the sinners who needed saving.

Apotasy: Hmmmmm…so you are saying that the people around you, they are the ones you need to save?

Michaels: Something like that. Each member of the Saints has been brought in for a different, unique reason by myself. The first, obviously, was Seth. Seth is family, that much is common knowledge. I tracked Seth down and brought him to FMW, I pushed him through rehab and into the spotlight in this company.

Apotasy: He is a fine guy most of the time; he just has a tendency to…

Apotasy is searching for the right word to use but Drew simply laughs and finishes the sentence for him.

Michaels: Put his foot in his mouth, hell sometimes his entire leg. Seth is a work in progress, I admit that freely, but he is my responsibility and he will be an upstanding member of this company and society even if it kills me.

Apotasy: And Gray?

Michaels: I am going to save Gray. He is lost, he is spiritually weak, and he reminds me so much of myself when I was much younger and much more foolish. I ran with the wrong crowds like he did, I ran with the bastards of society and I paid a price for it. My goal is to make sure Gray does not have to do the same.

Apotasy: And you think he is receptive to this mission?

Michaels: He did not tell me no when I recruited him.

Apotasy: But what of this challenge?

Michaels: That…(Drew looks around slowly and methodically as if looking for someone) That was for the benefit of our other new member.

Apotasy: Romeo.

Michaels: Yeah, Romeo.

Apotasy: I have to say, I am not so sure about him still. Not after what he wanted us to do last Distortion.

Michaels: Romeo and I have had words and will likely have words again in the future, believe me on that. We are not thugs and we shall not serve as such for him. On the same note, Romeo was pushing for me to take a hard line approach with Gray against my better judgment and that shall be rectified.

Apotasy: Fair enough. However, I still question Romeo’s involvement.

Michaels: Before I explain that, I want to tell you why I brought you specifically into the Broken Saints. We have a history Heath, I believe in you just like my brother Edible believed in you. I think you are an upstanding moral person and I think that you have a definite sense of wrong from right. And for that I have brought you into the Saints…

For we need a moral compass.

I need you to watch them Heath, I need you to watch them and prevent them from crossing that line. You have been brought in because I trust you and I need you to fulfill that trust by watching over those I have charged with this mission of saving FMW. Protect their morality while they work to protect this company.

Apotasy: Drew, I am the youngest member of the Saints. How can I be expected to be so much better in my judgment then the rest of them?

Michaels: Because of where you came from, because of whom you came from. Both Edibles and the preacher all taught you honor, they taught you to follow the path of the angels, even if they do not believe in angels, and fight against those who would do wrong. As men, our moral compasses are defined by our environment and the things that make up said environment; our family, our friends, our responsibilities, our education, our life experiences. These things help shape our belief system and help us become the people we should become.

Apotasy: But why not you?

Michaels: I am too religious, believe it or not, to serve in this role. It comes off to much as preaching, as forcing my beliefs on others when truly it is a common morality that I am advocating as you know. After all, we have major distinctions in our faiths, or lack thereof, and yet we believe in similar concepts of right and wrong. Correct?

Apotasy: Indeed…

Apotasy lets the word trail off, as if he has something else to say but feels uncomfortable touching the topic on his mind. Drew, however, seems to read his mind as he quickly responds.

Michaels: You are still wondering about Romeo.

Apotasy: Most definitely.

Michaels: Well Heath…it is a bit complicated. As you probably know, Romeo is in the middle of negotiations to purchase Full Metal Wrestling but is currently being blocked in his pursuit by the Board of Directors that were appointed by former Head of Talent Relations Robb Larsen after Jason Roy lost control of his company at the conclusion of the Full Metal War with his Original Sin. They have determined he cannot complete his purchase until he wins the Full Metal Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship, an odd request but I assume it is their right or else legal action would surely have been taken. Anyway, Romeo is looking to purchase FMW. Do you see how that could help us in our goal to cleanse the company?

Apotasy: If Romeo takes over, we have our way in to make some real changes in the company and the way it is run.

Michaels: Exactly.

Apotasy: But do you trust Romeo?

Michaels: Not as far as I can fucking throw him.

Apotasy: Then what makes you think he will give us a chance to make any type of changes?

Michaels: Romeo knows one cannot hope to succeed alone in FMW these days. Skyler has Leon at least somewhat, Eric has Danse Macabre, Jaro has Eastwood and Virus. So Romeo, if he hopes to reach the top of the industry, needed back-up so he came to me and offered me the chance to have an active hand in the policy making in his new FMW if it were to come to be.

Apotasy: So you accepted Romeo, despite your personal distaste for him?

Michaels: My grudges may be put aside for the betterment of FMW and the betterment the Broken Saints. As I have said so many times over, I am more than willing to make myself a martyr for this company that I love. If I have to kill my reputation and my good name to save FMW, so be it. The joy of seeing a competition based professional wrestling company without the involvement of unsavory bastards like Jaro and TyranT would be more than worth it.

If I have to surrender my own interests in order to save this company, so be it as long as I do not compromise my morality.

Apotasy: So we are going to look like the villains to some in order to protect this company?

Michaels: If one man is all people see when they look at us then I guess so. Are you okay with that?

Apotasy: I…yeah, that will work.

Michaels: Are you sure? You have to know this means people are going to turn their back on us; they are going to push us away and heap their scorn upon us. We are going to become the enemy despite our best intentions.

Apotasy: Sounds like par for course really. Maybe we can get hit with a car or something too while we are at it.

Drew laughs at the joke, more so at the fact that the horrible affair of explaining this less than favorable situation to Apotasy is over. Drew stands up and steps over to a cooler on the floor. He throws it upon and tosses a bottle over to Heath, who catches it and screws the top off. Drew does the same with his own bottle and steps back over to his new ally with a smile on his face.

Michaels: I propose a toast. To FMW, to a glorious revolution, to keeping our enemies close. And, more importantly, to the unspoken honor that binds us like thieves.

The two men tap their water bottles and laugh as the scene, as usual, fades to the ever present black…



“A man has honor if he holds himself to an ideal of conduct though it is inconvenient, unprofitable, or dangerous to do so.” – Walter Lippmann






“Liberty, as well as honor, man ought to preserve at the hazard of his life, for without it life is insupportable.” – Miguel de Cervantes



Abel, the time is coming near. We shall do battle proudly and like champions. You may try to make it personal, try to make it about my loss of honor but down that path, the path you are trying to follow, there is no honor. To follow the route you want to pursue, the route of stopping this revolution, there is only one end…

You will have to destroy me.

No matter the odds against me nor what I may have to gain from it, throughout my life I have held on to what I believe to be right and just Abel. The decisions I have made have always been tied into what I believe to be right and just, I refuse to compromise on that.

On that same note, I fully believe this crusade to be what is right. I see FMW for what it is and more importantly what it can become. It exists in this state because of its reputation as a company, destroy that reputation and the monster will die. FMW will be crippled in this, it will be gutted. But dammit Abel, it will also be saved. I have faith in my mission and I have faith in those around me to complete it to the best of our abilities. We will save this company no matter the cost to ourselves and you…

Well you want to stop us.

You act as if we are misguided, as if we are doing this for our own benefits. While each of the Broken Saints are here for a different reason, we all want what we think will be a better FMW. It is not about us; I swear to you Abel, this is not a move for power.

I fear power, it corrupts.

But you do not believe that and I have to respect that. You want to stop me and I know your passion is true. Tonight, we meet for my C-4 title because I am a fighting champion. Tonight, you are going to look to derail my revolution. Tonight, you want to prove a point. Tonight, you are looking to become a star off my back. Tonight, you are hoping to do what I did to The Rabbi years ago in the Psychotic Wrestling Alliance for his United States championship.

Tonight, you claim you are going to show me the error of my ways.

The problem is Abel, to accomplish all of these goals you are going to have to do more than beat. Pinning me wins you the title but does nothing to stop the revolution. Making me submit breaks my body but not my soul. Knocking me out will only hurt my pride, not my determination. To do that, you are going to have to do more Abel…

You are going to have to cross the proverbial line Abel.

To stop my move to save this company, you are going to have to go beyond that of a normal talent Abel. You are going to have to become the monster you claimed you abhor, you are going to have to become what you accuse me of being in order to be a man of your word. This no longer is about you Abel, this no longer is about a man full of morality looking to enforce morality upon a band of renegades.

Abel Steele, this is a war and to stop this war, you are going to have to destroy my ability to wage war. Are you willing to do that Abel? Are you willing to cross the line to prevent me from doing so? If so, does that make you any better than me? Does that make you more of a man? Does that give you the satisfaction you crave in seeing me put in my place if you just replace me as a monster?

Do you have it in you to be a hero when there is no honor in it?

So here we are Abel, we are preparing to do battle in what could be the last step before war or the move that will prevent a full scale escalation. You want to keep us in check; here is your opportunity if you are willing to take it. I offer you the chance to keep your word Abel, you get the first swing at the new C-4 Champion and the most Broken of the Saints. So Abel, I ask but one simple thing…

Take your best goddamn shot.

“I love the name of honor, more than I fear death.” – Julius Caesar

There was something about the cold, it never really seemed to trouble Faith . The bite of frost was evident everywhere tonight, and the few that still walked the streets in the dead hours huddled their covers and coats over themselves in a feeble attempt to gain protection from the invisible arms of winter’s embrace. Faith only wore a coat over her dark attire to protect herself from the icy touch of winter, and that sufficed even for prolonged stays in the outside. The cold really didn’t affect her much, maybe she had become so used to it in the asylum cell. For the better part of two hours she had waited for him, waiting for the man she had followed all night to come back out of the dark hole he crawled in to drown in poisons. Faith never held much regard for bars or drinking houses, even when she was a little girl watching her father drown in his own sorrows with his own poisons. There was no beauty to it, only loud rackets to make her remember how silent she was.

Faith thought the medication would help ease the pain that had remained with her since she was drugged before Deathrow. The pills helped clear her head, but it didn’t remove the anguish, nor did it ease the reality of betrayal she had suffered when she discovered her father had been behind the whole ordeal. Despite returning to speaking terms with Striker, she had seen nothing of him since, her victory over Mass Caesar did not quench the dominant dread within, even the Hayabusa Cup seemed tainted to her now. Faith sought a cure for the growing apprehension and rage within, but so far her search had been fruitless.

There was only one thing she had left to do… one thing that might make the anxiety go away as it worked in the days of the asylum. That was taking vengeance. Not against her father… Faith knew the time was not right … not yet at least, TyranT would be waiting on such a thing. Faith had to take her anger out on something else. Someone else had gained her attention as it had happened, someone who Faith had set her sights on since the aftermath of her fight at Deathrow. If she could take her rage out on him, perhaps she might find some peace again, at least for a time. Her long wait finally found reprieve when he finally appeared amongst the darkness and snow from the run down public house… all Faith had to do was watch… and he would do the rest… of that Faith was confident of given his chaotic nature.

-----------------------------

The winter night held such a bitter chill, the sky above was left empty of both clouds and even stars, as a film of crystal coated every surface of the outside world, a frost that was slowly developing more as the night drove on. Syanide could see his breath turn to vapour the moment he walked outside, clad in heavy clothes suited for the cold time of year. A bottle of beer was in his right hand, a drink he had more than earned after his confrontation with Leon Caprice at 10.1, a confrontation that ended with his victory, sending out a message no one would soon forget. It would continue again by 10.2, this time with a little girl being the next victim. Something truly to look forward to.

Life was treating the skin headed monster very well; his well being mocked the fabrics of law and religion after the methods he used to rid himself of his family troubles, committing sins that would never be punished or even known by any but Syanide himself. Such a flow of victories called for a form of rejoice, and as soon as news reports began to flood in over the death of the legendary Detective Brown, everything else just slid smoothly into place. It was pleasant to see such a status of a well respected man plummet to below nothing when the charred corpses were found in a burnt down shack linked to him. It was enough to bring birth to a wry smile as Syanide looked up to the void of a sky, knowing his plans were coming to fruition.

Syanide: Why am I so happy? I shouldn’t be happy. I just lost my wife and what should of been my fucking son! This is a sad moment, so why the hell am I laughing?!

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, having stumbled out the back of a bar, maybe he was high on life with such a string of success both in and out of the FMW since his return on the scene, whatever it was that Syanide felt, it had him laughing out loud in sheer, twisted delight. A laughter he soon drowned out when he took the bottle to his lips and consumed what was left of it. When the contents were drained, the sound of glass shattering echoed in the darkened alleyway when Syanide tossed away the bottle. Syanide wiped his mouth of excess beer and saliva, still revelling in his own personal amusement... that was before a frown found its way upon his face. The smile remained however as Syanide became aware that something was amiss, feeling something within his core, a feeling he had become very familiar with over the years.

Syanide: You know... when you’ve been living the kind of life that I have, you become aware of certain things. I’ve always gotta’ watch my back and cover my tracks, keep my guard up against those that are stupid enough to stand in my way, and fuckers who think they can sneak up on me. As the years have gone on, I’ve gotten much better at it... to the point when I know when someone is watching me. I can feel your eyes... I know you’re there.

Syanide spoke out, turning around cautiously to see who was watching him, knowing the presence of another was nearby in the dead hours of the night. It was then he witnessed his follower in plain sight, making no attempt to hide as a figure sat upon a wall a few metres up from ground level, sitting amongst the frost as cold emerald eyes stared blankly into his own. Syanide’s smile grew, looking almost delighted to see that the young mute from the FMW was there before him, clad in a heavy coat and dark clothing, making her merge well with the darkness of the night as her coal black hair was hung and scruffy over half her pale face.

To the half drunken eyes of Syanide, she was angelic, or rather the dark shadow of some angelic creature at least. Though she had grace, there was nothing good in her, that much Syanide could see from the emerald eyes alone. Given she is more a silhouette before him, It was no wonder he missed sight of the soundless woman, especially given she had a history of being a sneaky bitch. Regardless, Syanide’s day felt as if it had just become a little more interesting.

Syanide: Oh look, a little girl. Old man TyranT’s little angel. I’m almost honoured, a little more curious. Got to say I thought you’d be too spineless to show your face around me before our supposed match we’ve been scheduled for. I figure you must know who I am and what I’ve done over the years if you’ve heard the stories. When I saw that card, I smiled, just like I’m smiling now. Whoever thought up of that match is a genius... I suppose I will have Smitten to thank for that.

Faith: ... No... You can thank me for it.

-----------------------------

It had been as straight forward as anything. Faith had walked into the office of Christian G. Smitten, not so much of a knock to alert him of her presence before she quietly entered. She recalled very well the look of disapproval upon the commissioners’ face when he glared at her the moment the door was swung open. A pen was in his right hand, several documents scattered on the desk before him. He was a busy man, that much was clear, having no desire to be interrupted. Faith didn’t take too much of his time though, she simply handed forward a piece of paper with a name scribbled upon it… the name of Syanide.

Smitten: Done…

Was the only word that came from the colossal man, before he returned to his documents, the encounter with Faith already dead and buried in the back of his mind. No nonsense, no deals, no banter. It made Faith realize such a challenge was a desirable one for Smitten who liked his ratings and no doubt held high regard for seeing the mute go through hell. What better opponent to put her through hell then Syanide. Faith had no words Smitten, but then she had no words for anyone when she left his office, she just wanted blood, and this time the medication was not getting rid of such a dark desire. The urge became so great, Faith simply couldn’t wait for 10.2... She needed to do something now, the longer it took, the worse she began to feel. It was almost just like old times… like the medication wasn’t even working anymore…

-----------------------------

Syanide slid his hands into his coat pockets, his own empty eyes never leaving Faith’s as that smile of his remained with him. He walked a few steps closer to the mute woman, who was no more than half a dozen metres away from him, closing some of the distance. Faith made no move, almost statue like as she remained seated on the wall side on from Syanide, one leg up against her chest as the other dangled freely. The only sign of life came from the vapour that escaped from her lips as she breathed. The fact that Faith wasn’t intimidated by Syanide only served to amuse him all the more as he licked his lips in a grotesque manner, closing a little more distance.

Syanide: I respect your old man Faith. I remember seeing him back in the day before I even started doing what I do best. He was a better fighter then, near untouchable, did everything as fucked up as possible, just as a man should do. You should stick with him instead of the pansies you’ve been hanging around with. Might learn something good. It’s out of my respect for TyranT that I’ve not come after you sooner, but I’ve always wanted to put you on my “to fuck” list since I saw you in a straight jacket before you were even a fighter here in the FMW. Gotta’ wonder though, why would a fine piece of ass such as yourself come looking for me when we’re destined to meet already. Is it that you just can’t stay away from me? I have that kind of affect on woman.

Faith stared blankly, she knew of Syanide’s reputation and all the horrid stories and speculation that came with the tales surrounding him. Faith was prepared however, she had dealt with his like before, abiet not nearly as dangerous as Syanide. Though when Faith looked upon him, she found her artistic imagination began to displayed many images of Syanide mutilated in a variety of ways. Just the thought of inflicting damage upon Syanide was already easing her mind, taking the edge off the stress TyranT, Skyler and Syanide had caused her. The dagger she had carried for the better part of a year was concealed in her hand, the cold steel pressed lightly against the base of her fingers as her hand was angled in a manner that Syanide could not see it.

Faith: … A little closer now…

Syanide: But oh wait... I remember now. I bet this has something to do with Deathrow, I believe all the deadbeat’s I kicked the living shit out of where good buddies of yours. I’ll confess, I was more than just disappointed when you weren’t there to join them, you abandoned your friend pretty fast as far as I recall, I had fun bashing his fucking head in, he got it worse then everyone else… he had to take your beating as well. I guess I’ll get to have my chance at you now though, just one on one. I’m certain we can have a special time together.

Faith: … Keep talking. It makes this all the easier.

Syanide laughed out, pointing an accusing finger at Faith as he closed the distance, no more then two metres away, slowly edging, his hostile intentions more then evident to Faith as she knew from the movements he made that he would continue to approach until he was within reaching distance. This fight was going to happen now, Faith could feel it, adrenalin beginning to run through her body. Yet like some professional poker player, Faith remained silent and still, aware of the weight in her hand were the blade rested. She was in control, she couldn’t strike too early.

Syanide: Ha! I saw those eyes of yours move. This is about Deathrow isn’t it? I’m guessing you came here to settle the score early didn’t you? You want a piece of Syanide, that’s almost fucking cute from a creepy fragile looking thing like you. There’s not a damn thing you can hide from me Faith, I can see you for what you really are. A sinister little bitch! You’re not who everyone thinks you are. Heh… so many people that look up to you as some kind of saint who graces the FMW, when deep down your nearly as dark in the heart as I am. Maybe your more like TyranT then I was giving you credit for.

The moment Syanide stopped talking, the moment his smile was gone. There was only a focus in his eyes now as he stared deep into Faith’s, speaking a language she could understand with a mere look. Like a mechanical rattle snake, Faith heard the jingle of links as the chain slid into view from under Syanide’s right sleeve, the end of the chain thudding heavily against the frost coated ground. It was now Faith played her own card, letting the blade slide into view as it shifted along her fingers in a skilful manner before it was grasped in her hand. In less then a second Faith was off the wall, standing not far from Syanide as she held the dagger out before her, the blade pointed to her side.

Syanide: Funny how all my fantasies are coming true in a matter of a few days. This one is one of my favourites because I know how it will end. I think I like you though Faith, are you sure your hanging around with the right people, because from what I can see, you should be standing along side someone like me. Come to think of it, that is something you should really consider… because you don’t belong anywhere else do you? You’re all alone, your daddy doesn’t want anything to do with you, your so called friends don’t care about you, and whoever is left you either drive them away or they end up hospitalized or dead. Me? I’m everything you could ever want in a man. Stand with me, and I can let you be who you want to fuckin’ be and do whatever the hell you want to do.

Faith: … I’m going to turn you into a work of art Syanide. They’ll be marvelling over the pieces of you for years!

Syanide certainly had a means of reading her, that much was clear when he swung the chain at Faith when she was about to strike. The steel sliced through the air, slashing at the wall behind Faith who narrowly avoided the strike by ducking low. The blade switched within her hand, and already she was rising upwards, looking to drive the blade into Syanide. She heard his coat tear up and saw the trickle of blood on the clean surface of the steel, but she had missed her mark as Syanide was only cut at a skim on the arm. It was then Faith felt a strong hand grasp her around the throat, tightening to cut off her air supply as Syanide brought her close, the chain in his other hand ready to loop around her neck in an attempt to strangle her like he did with everyone else so far.

Faith lifted up the dagger fast, her body not moving as it should with the loss of air as she struggled to think, feeling the chain threatening to encircle her neck like some serpent. In desperation, Faith managed to slide the blade deep into the side of Syanide’s arm, causing the large man to grimace and loosen his grip. It allowed Faith to plant a kick against his chest to put some distance between them, not before she heard the movement of the chain links as Syanide swung his arm out in retaliation. Faith might have screamed out if she could when a sharp and intense pain grew between her shoulder blades were the chain slammed against her during her retreat. The searing pain was enough to make her drop the knife as it clattered against the ground as she was left stumbling.

Faith dropped down to one knee, making a quick glance to Syanide who lost some balance on the ice after being kicked away, preventing him from advancing outright. Faith knew she had to act fast however before he did, quickly reaching for the blade… that was until it was kicked away from her. She felt hands seize the collar of her coat, lifting her up to her feet before she was shoved back near the wall she once sat on. In a second she regained her bearings, staring with bewilderment as a man stood in front of her with his back to Faith. He was clad in a long dark brown coat, having scruffy auburn hair with a noticeable brace on the right knee over a pair of dark jeans. From behind, Faith couldn’t tell who it was, but the look from Syanide meant he did.

A small trickle of blood ran down the links of that dreaded chain, either from the cut from his arm or from Faith as still felt the screams of pain her body gave her from the hit to her upper spine. By now Syanide was laughing, more then amused at what stood before him.

Syanide: Heh, Oh look, a corpse back from the dead. Never figured you’d have a guardian angel Faith.

???: This little scrap or whatever the hell it’s suppose to be is over Syanide… less you think you can handle two of us.

Syanide: Oh it’s tempting VanGuard. I know you’re not gonna be in any real shape for a fight right now after all.

Faith: … VanGuard?!

There was a moment of silence, Syanide no doubt thinking of his options as he kept his chain in hand, glaring between Faith and a very worn out VanGuard who stood with a lazy fighting stance. Syanide could only laugh in the end, licking a few of the links of his chain to clean it of the blood before he began to wrap it around his wrist to tuck it back under his arm.

Syanide: I’d rather have Faith all alone, I only have to wait a few days and she’s all mine. I’ll be thinking of a variety of ways to punish her once I’m in the ring with her. You take care of yourself now VanGuard, we won’t be pushing our luck any more will we? Less you want a repeat of Deathrow.

VanGuard: Get lost Syanide. It’s finished…

Syanide: Between me and you? Perhaps… not between me and her.

Syanide spoke, before he turned around, showing his back to the pair as he began to walk away. He made a final farewell gesture from over his head in a mocking manner, a laughter escaping from his lips that could be heard all the way down the street. Faith went to press on, not wanting to let him slip away so easily, but VanGuard blocked her path, throwing an arm out like a barricade to stop her in her tracks. It was the first time she managed to look on his face, and immediately Faith could see what Syanide meant by the term corpse given how gaunt and pale VanGuard had become whilst hospitalized.

VanGuard: No you don’t kid. Not unless you wanna’ try and get through me as well.

Faith frowned, agitated by the challenge. But after walking away from VanGuard at death row, having allowed Syanide to beat him down, she dare not challenge him. She owed him that much. The moment Syanide was out of view, VanGuard’s form seemed to slump considerably as he winced, favouring his leg before he hobbled a little.

VanGuard: Jesus Christ its fucking cold. I need a drink and I need one right now. Your buying.

-------------------------------

Strange fate that Faith found herself in the very hole Syanide had spent the last two hours in. As Faith and VanGuard sat on a small circular table, it was easy to why Syanide had chose such a location to sit in whilst he slowly killed himself with alcohol. Although dead and a near rust bucket in appearance on the outside, it betrayed the chaos that went on inside. The pair had to head downstairs, and the moment they opened the door, music began to blur out as a crimson light basked over them from inside the main area. It was more a club then a public house. The place was well populated for a weekday, it was no wonder with all the topless pole dancers that paraded around the place. Clearly VanGuard had made a mistake, but given how rough he looked, the man clearly needed to rest and have a drink, so awkwardly he found the pair a table in the quietest corner, ordering a strong whiskey and a Cranbury juice from a topless waitress whilst some KMFDM track was booming out of the speakers.

VanGuard: Chloe would have my balls on a plate if she knew I was in a place like this.

Faith had no reply, she just looked at VanGuard, waiting for him to explain himself. Last she saw of him, he was comatose in a hospital bed. Faith never stuck around long enough for Chloe to return, she wasn’t certain she could face her after feeling so responsible for what happened to VanGuard. It was only a few days ago since her last visit, and now here he was, though to say as if nothing ever happened would be a lie given VanGuard had lost some weight and a fair amount of his strong appearance. VanGuard looked to Faith, seeing those eyes of hers, so easily readable when she wanted them to be, it was one of the few ways she had of talking… it seemed to work well.

VanGuard: Woke up two days ago feeling like shit. That’s all you need to know about my recovery, as for why I’m here, I asked Chloe to keep an eye on you.

Faith: … Why?

VanGuard: Someone has been paying the bills to keep me well treated. Chloe told me my own funds I accumulated from the FMW didn’t take me too far. You’re the only person I know whose made a bit of a killing with money from the FMW… I figured it was thanks to you I wasn’t tossed into the street. That’s not the reason I wanted Chloe to keep tabs on you though.

The drinks arrived, yet it was VanGuard who paid despite what he had said. He looked to Faith after downing the entire contents of his drink, pulling a face as it was strong stuff. At a glance to the mute, VanGuard could see Faith was not in the most amount of comfort, the strike Syanide landed was pretty heavy. Faith winced as she favoured her back were she was struck with Syanide‘s chain, checking on her hand to notice a little blood on her fingers were the metal links managed to scrape through her coat and her flesh. Faith didn’t care, at worse it would be another scar to add to many, the pain should hopefully be gone by 10.2... It seemed VanGuard wasn’t as willing to let it pass so easily however.

VanGuard: What the hell were you thinking?

Faith: ... What the hell are you thinking turning up in your state?

VanGuard: Listen, it’s easy to see your pissed, but what happened during Deathrow, none of it was your fault.

Faith: … So simple for you to say.

Faith looked away from VanGuard, she was in no mood for a lecture, but VanGuard regained her attention when he slammed the whiskey glass down against the table, the impact going right through Faith’s core as she looked sharply.

VanGuard: It wasn’t your damn fault! TyranT robbed you, Striker and Leon gave up on you and I let you down when I could have done something. Your mind wasn’t right at the time and I can see now it still isn’t. You need to stop this madness and get your head on straight. I told Chloe to look out for you, make sure you didn’t do anything stupid because I know you‘d be blaming yourself for everything. I’m awake for only two days after weeks of unconsciousness, and on the second day your already doing something stupid. Picking a fight with Syanide, are you looking to take your anger out on him over what happened? You don’t just pick fights with psycho’s Faith! And you don’t fuckin’ take them on with a knife! What the hell is going on with you? Have you got a death wish?

Faith: … It matters not. You’re awake now, this isn’t important, nor does it even involve you.

Faith stood up from her chair, she didn’t want to listen to this, especially from a man who looked nearly half dead. Faith knew what she wanted, and it was Syanide, VanGuard was just getting in the way of her vengeance. VanGuard slid his chair in the way however, leaning back to block her path as he looked up at her.

VanGuard: What would have happened if you won that fight? If you managed to cut Syanide up just how you wanted. What next? Move onto the next guy you think deserves your attention? What would have happened if you killed him? Think of what would have happened Faith. Everything you’ve achieved since coming to the FMW, all of it would be erased and you would be right back where you started, right back in that fucking asylum with no one. You would be all alone again. That whole struggle you’ve had to endure, everything you’ve worked for would have been undone and for nothing… TyranT’s legacy would have collapsed along with the TyranT himself.

Faith: … You think I care about the TyranT?!

Faith grasped at VanGuard’s collar whilst he sat, the expression on her face speaking more then words as she displayed her rage for the mere mention of the man that cost her dearly. VanGuard made no reaction, he just watched Faith, seeing how easily she hesitated. He could see she wasn’t going to hit him, and seconds later her hand released his collar as she slowly sank back down into the other seat.

VanGuard: TyranT is the source behind the problem, he’s the one holding all the strings, but you can’t confront him can you? You can’t bring yourself to fight the TyranT. That’s why, despite all that has happened, you still can’t hate him. Sure, you’re angry with him… but you don’t hate him, and you certainly don‘t want to fight him. Hence why you let the likes of Striker or Romeo deal with him when it should be you. You want his legacy to go on because you love and respect it so much, you’ve grown up with it. It’s been your life.

Faith: … You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what I’m going through.

VanGuard: Syanide is nothing more then a means to get around the problem, and after Syanide, you’ll just find someone else to pick a fight with, all whilst you continue to blame yourself for everything that has gone wrong. You’d rather go on this self destructive path then face what you need to… well I say this to you. Good luck with it, but don’t expect me to sit by and watch. I’m going to watch your back Faith, no matter what fucked up state I’m in, I’ll be here to stop you every time you try anything stupid. I’m gonna be here, correcting your mistakes until your ready to go in the right direction. No more fucking suicide attempts on the likes of Syanide, no more cutting corners or medication. Me and Chloe are going to straighten you out… We’re gonna’ do this right.

Faith: … Why?…

VanGuard: Why you probably wonder?… You really think I’m here because you paid for my treatment? It doesn’t work that way Faith. I’m here to help ‘cause that’s what friends do. In a business like the FMW, you need all the friends you can get, and let’s be honest now Faith. I’m the only friend you’ve got.

As blunt as the statement was, there was truth in his words. Striker had been her mentor, and had taught her well, but she felt ultimately abandoned by him. Leon would never look upon her the same way ever again, not after what she did to him at Distortion, nor after their conflict in the Hayabusa Cup. There was no one else who ever acknowledged her as Striker and Leon once had. No one but VanGuard, and their pairing had been thrown together and forced, yet VanGuard seemed persistent that the two of them had a friendship.

VanGuard: I can’t help you in the ring Faith. You’ll always be on your own when you fight. Syanide took out three men at once at Deathrow. Leon was unfortunate to become his next victim. After what happened tonight, he’s got his eyes on you now. You need to understand… no one will be coming to help you when Syanide comes for you in that ring. Win or lose, he will look to use that chain. You have to be ready for him. You have to do what you can to beat this jerk. I got faith in you though… a lot of people do. You’ll be ready for him when the times comes. We’ll get past Syanide, and we’ll see where we go from there..

Faith: … I was ready for him.

Or so she had thought when she confronted the giant of a man. Faith glanced over her hand once more, looking upon the crimson smeared across her finger tips. Syanide had certainly sent her a message tonight, blood had always been something she considered so beautiful, the foundry of her own desired art, but looking upon her own blood, she could see nothing beautiful there at all, she couldn’t see anything in it… but she could feel the pain. Faith had to make sure that Syanide would feel pain too. She looked to VanGuard, staring past an unkempt fringe as she gave a light nod to him.

Faith: … I will be ready for him.

“One. Two.”

The surround sound encased the room, as if coming from everywhere at once. The voice is powerful. The room is in pitch black darkness. Nothing can be seen. The room would feel dead but for the echoing of the voice through speakers. Soon however, the voice fades, and the room recedes into nothingness. All is calm for a brief moment, then footsteps can be heard, each one quieter than the one previous, as the feet move further from the microphone. A gentle flutter is head as the person passes through curtains. Silence resumes.

A soft buzzing can be heard briefly, then the room comes alive, the lights turn on. The lighting on this occasion is coming from a large chandelier dangling from above. The light is dim, but the content and accoutrements of the room can be seen. The room’s main feature is undoubtedly the stage. In front of the stage there is a little room for seating purposes. On the stage is a microphone stand with a microphone, and wires trailing off the stage towards amplifiers. The background of the stage is a pair of large velvet drapes, concealing the main part of stage from any viewers. Standing opposite the stage is a sole camera, held up by a stand to be level with the low-lying stage.

With the sound of a click, a spotlight above bursts into life, shining down on the centre of the stage, illuminating the microphone, made clear for the sole spectator that is the camera.

From the side of the stage, a sharply dressed man walks onto the stage. He is wearing a long coat, a white shirt which is tucked into his trousers, a short top hat and a cravat. He takes his time, walking slowly towards the stage’s centre. He turns to face the camera, now fully in the spotlight’s snare. He tips his hat to the camera.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome. Tonight we present to you, something like no other. I assure you, this will be a night you will not forget. I hope my good audience is paying close attention.”

PX leans forward and smiles at the camera.
“I just found this taped to my desk, sir.”

The officer hands a piece of paper to his commanding officer, sitting at his desk. He takes the note and studies it. He turns it over, then back. With a kick of his foot, the commanding officers chair swivels to face the officer who handed it to him.

“You say it was just taped to your table?”

“Attached to my paperwork, yes.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“I could hazard a guess, sir.”

The commanding officer arose from his seat. Major George Allen has been a serving officer of the police department for over 20 years. When you have served the police for that long, you’ve seen it all. Things that would shock an average person wouldn’t move a man like Allen. He’s seen more than his fair share of bodies, of murders, homicides, manslaughters, the works. During his time as an officer, he has proven a highly capable officer and detective. He has spent his career in the homicide division. His passion in life is arresting those who commit the act of taking lives from another.

Allen stares at the note. It simply reads “E.B.S”. Without lifting his head, he exits his office. He walks slowly, so as to not bump into anything. He stops in his tracks, with a look of sudden realisation on his face. He crumples the note, shoves it into his pocket and starts walking quickly. The office is large, and relatively plain. The floor is blue carpet, the walls are a cream colour. There are large windows on one of the walls, and plants line their windowsills. There are many rows and columns of cubicles, arranged neatly. Each one contains men and women working away.

Allen walks over to a small group of officers looking at the news on a large television on the wall. The news article being watched is showing the story of a murderer of another man that has been arrested the previous night. Their mutterings are in a positive tone, they are smiling and congratulating each other. He snatches the remote from the hand from one of them.

“Hey! What th-”

“Quiet, this could be important.”

The officer who handed Allen the note scurries up behind him, and realises what Allen is thinking. Allen keys in a number on the remote, and within a second the channel changes. A banner in the corner of the screen reveals the channel he has chosen: Emergency Broadcasting Station. They are greeted with a twisted smile on the face of a well dressed man.

"What the fuck is this?”

“Shut it for a minute will ya?”

And so in silence, the Allen, the officer who received the note, and the four watching the news gave their undivided attention to the screen.

“All is in place, gents. I shall keep you in suspense no longer. Allow me to introduce to thee, the star of the show!”

An excited PX jogs off stage, and reappears a moment later. He walks back on, and behind him is a woman, being lead by PX, whose hand clutches her wrist. She is in a state of undress, bar a pair of shorts and a small vest. She is blindfolded, large headphones cover her ears, and her mouth is gagged. Her arms are outstretched, expecting to bump into anything at any moment. PX yanks on her arm in attempt to make her move faster, but with her senses blocked, she takes minimal baby steps, her feet barely lifting off the ground.

“This woman tonight is going to perform for you people, a daring stunt. Audience, I do hope you are ready to witness this event like no other.”

The six viewers gasp when they witness the introduction of a woman onto the stage. They are dismayed, and it appears that only Major Allen is the only one not in shock. The muttering begins. They know immediately that something will need to be done, and quickly. Allen is the only one to not open his mouth, he simply watches.

“What is he doing...”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Fucking Lunatic...”
“Dear Christ...”

“I said keep it down! If we’re going to find out what’s going on here, we have to pay attention!”

The talk quickly dies down, and the observations resume.

“I’m sure you are all wondering what daring feat you are about to witness. Well, I shan’t leave you wondering!”

PX steps to the side and waves his arm at the curtains. At his command, they begin to part. They shimmy along their railings, and unveil an object in the very centre of the stage; a huge fish tank. The tank stands about 8 feet high and 3 feet wide. It is filled almost to the brim with water. Standing next to the tank is a large ladder.

“That’s right, you are about to witness escapology at its finest! Come dear, this way.”

PX takes her hand once more, and leads her towards the tank. When they reach the tank, PX cuffs her hands behind her back. PX bends down to lift her foot onto the first step of the ladder. As soon as her bare flesh touches the cold steel of the ladder, her whole body shivers. She is shaking, as PX continues to guide her feet upwards.
“He’s going to kill her!”
“This is madness...”
“We’ve gotta move!”

The officers and detectives standing next to Major Allen are not an experienced bunch. They’re all youthful, in their 20’s, maybe 30’s. They’re young and brash. But at their experience level, they were ready to leap without looking.

“Davis, how many stage theatres would you say are in this city? Including shut down ones.”

The officer who received the note looks up and responds.

“Four I believe, sir.”

“Can you tell me how many are liable to hold a magic show?”

“Jameson’s Royal is too large to be the one we’re watching, if that’s what is on your mind, sir. Three could be the one we’re witnessing.”

“Do you know where they are located?”

“The Depot is on 2nd and Ritner’s, the Marshall, which closed down three weeks ago, is on Vicar’s, and I think the theatre that was abandoned about a year ago is on 14th.”

“Thank you, excellent job, Davis.”

Allen smiled. Thank the lord for a man like Matt Davis. He is such an organised and efficient officer. He is in line for promotion, and would have it ASAP if it were Allen’s call. Of course, Allen had asked those questions of Davis knowing him to be a man very fond of the arts, so he would know where the theatres are.

“The Depot is on 2nd? That’s just a few blocks from here! We could get there in no time, let’s get going!”

“Hang on, we can’t just tear off, we have to work this out! Ease up son.”

The young officer looks ready to burst out the door and hop into a car and tear down the street. Takashi Matsu is the youngest person standing in the group. He is 23, and has been serving the force for just over 2 years. He is brash and not the cleverest of the group, and is usually the first to run out the door; he doesn’t think his actions over as thoroughly as necessary. Still, he is a well meaning, mild mannered young man, with a taste for justice.

“We’re going to have to go to all the theatres like, right now!”

“We’ve only got two police cars available to us.”

“Fuck...”

“I’ve my car parked outside, we can use that.”

“That’s perfect Christina. Have you a portable television in your car?”

Detective Christina Ray has been a homicide officer for 10 years. She has always been a useful and very capable detective. She is a person of strong will, and has cracked cases that many have struggled in.

“Sorry boss.”

“That means that you’ll have no visual on this lunatic when we roll out.”

The girl is now standing at the top of the ladder. She is still shaking, but dares not to budge. She knows that she’s at a height. The first signs of sobs are beginning to show now.

“Now, everything is in place, we are ready to get this show on the road! But, if I can be serious for a moment, I’m sure my honorary audience are asking themselves the simple question of “why?” And as I said, it is quite simple. This is a game of choice. I want to teach to you a simple ideal, that we all have choices to make, and some are more difficult to make than others, but in the end, the choice must be made. As men of the law, you of all people should know of making decisive calls. What I’m doing here, is showing you that we all have to do things that we don’t want to do for the greater good. It’s quite simple, no? The game is ready to begin, gents, and I promise, if you’re not ready, we’ll start without you!”

Another officer in the group decides to speak his opinion on the matter, having been silent before.

“I can’t take this! This punk has some nerve, showing us this! When we find him I’ll show him the strong arm of the fucking law! Let me find this sonofa Bitch!”

Marcus Jacobs has been an officer for 5 years, and has a notoriety on the streets as a cop that doesn’t take any bullshit. He is a very aggressive officer, and can’t stand anyone who steps out of line. In a game of good cop/bad cop, he’s the guy who’s always bad cop. He commands respect with an iron fist, a real hot head.

“Hey, take it easy bro. We’re gonna get him, we just have to get movin’!”

The man calming Jacobs down is his long term partner, Nathanial Woods. He graduated alongside him, and has worked together on the streets. He is the smarter of the two, but perhaps the less proficient at the street work he is accustomed to. Nevertheless, he is a valuable asset, and he and Jacobs are a good team together.

“What does he mean? What choice is he talking about? I don’t see a choice here, what does he mean?”

“Who cares what it means? He’s a nut job about to kill somebody, and he’s talking in riddles, let’s just go get that fucker!”

“You have a point, we should get moving, but it’s still worth listening to. He has to want something, and he must have a reason for this!”

“How about he’s psycho?”

“One last thing before we commence, if you’re looking for a motive, reasoning behind this, trying to decipher what I want, all I want is you to make a choice. That is it. Try not to make it come across as something complex when it isn’t. Now, let the games begin!”

With a giddy skip, PX moves over to the ladder, which he begins to ascend slowly, so as to not shake it.

“Fuck it, we have to go now, or by the time we’re there we’ll be pulling the body out of the tank! Woods take Jacobs and a car and head for The Depot on 2nd.”

“I know a shortcut down to Vicar’s, I’ll hit The Marshall.”

“I’ll roll with you, Christina.”

“That’s fine Matt. Matsu, you’re with me, we’re heading to 14th, you drive!”

The six all head for the exit. Woods and Jacobs are out first and run to the parking lot just next to the building. Ray’s car is parked right in front of the building, and she hops in, and starts the engine as Davis jumps in. Matsu and Allen get into the other police car and Allen quickly sets up the portable television attached to the dashboard. It comes to life, and PX is visible once again. He is right next to the girl, close enough to feel her breath. He slowly reaches towards her, and she gasps when his hands touch her face. He removes her mouth gag, then removes the headphones on her ears. Allen picks up the microphone for the radio in his car.

“Woods, have you got a signal and the channel set up?”

“Sure do boss.”

“Good. I don’t know why he’s removing her gags and blocks.”

“He left the blindfold on, sir.”

“I see that, but why just that? I can’t seem to understand what he’s really thinking...”

“Maybe this isn’t as complex as you think boss, like he said”

“Well of course he’d say that. He’s messing with me. I know there’s more to this.”

PX, standing on the opposite side of the ladder, leans right up to her ear. He could count the hairs in her ear if he wanted to. He leans in close, and...

“BOO!!”

PX yells into her ear, and she screams and jumps. She loses her balance, and falls, plummeting into the water.

Even the men in the car jump at the volume of PX’s voice. Matsu accidently swerves in the car, and Woods let out a yelp in his car. The men had their volume up, thinking he was going to whisper something into her ear.

“FUCK!”

“Holy Shit!”

“What?! What the fuck happened?!”

Davis comes over the radio with desperation in his voice, he had listening and is shocked by the sudden outburst.

“He yelled in her, and she fell in! We’re running out time fast! Go Matsu!”

Matsu puts the peddle to the floor. Matsu and Allen have the furthest distance to go, with their sirens blazing, disturbing both traffic and homes they drive past.

“We’ve arrived at The Depot, Jacobs and I are going in.”

“Affirmative. What about you Davis? Are you nearly there?”

“Give us another minute or so, and we’ll be there. Hopefully he’s at the Depot, but I’m not holding my breath on that. I doubt he’d be at a theatre still open.”

Allen cringes at Davis’ accidental pun.

“We’re going to be another few minutes, sir.”

“Step on it Matsu, we may not have that long.”

“The game has begun gents, the clock is ticking. But I will confess this; I’m not happy about this. I didn’t want it to come to this. Having to kidnap somebody, having to subject a human being to this, it really makes me sad, and it’s hard for me to do, but hopefully the ends will justify the means. Whether that happens is up to you, gents.”

The girl kicks and thrashes in the water. Her head is struggling to keep above water, she gasps and cries out. Her feet kick wildly, and her arms shake and writhe in an attempt to break free, but it is little use. She is clearly in distress, and is sweating a lot.

Woods and Jacobs flank the doors of The Depot. The word “Depot” is emblazed across the building, in neon flashing lights. The building has double doors for its entrance. 2nd street is a safe place, and simply locking the doors without additional security seemed to suffice for the theatre. The men nodded at each other, then, on a count of 3, kicked the doors with a powerful kick. The doors fly open, and an alarm sounds. Jacobs runs inside first, and Woods soon follows. They move quickly through the hallway and burst into the room containing the main stage.

“Fuck it! He’s not here guys, there’s nothing here.”

“Except this, Jake.”

Nathanial picks up a note attached to the door they burst through.

“Sorry Gents, you won’t find me here. Good luck and continue the hunt!”

“Fucker! Bet he thinks he’s real clever.”

“He knew we’d come here.”

The two stand with their heads down for a moment before a voice comes over their radios.

“We’re at The Marshall, we’re going in.”

Matt is shoulder barging the door of the Marshall. Ray is standing behind him with gun in hand, ready to run in. Following consistent tackles, the door cracks, and a kick sends the wooden door to smithereens, and Matt and Christina run in. They reach the stage quickly, and see a man dressed sharply standing on it. Matt runs onto the stage and grabs him, only to find he is but a mannequin.

“Shit”

“He’s not here. Looks like he’s all yours boss.”

“He’s got a note attached to him. It says: “Looks like I’m not here, gents. That’s a real shame. I guess this is goodbye then. Good hunting though, you were so close!” What is this shit.”

The two go silent, and a beeping noise can be heard.

“What is that? A beeping noise?”

“Yeah what is... FUCK! RUN!”

It doesn’t need to be said twice. Christina turns and runs for the door, with Matt just behind. They barge out the door, and once outside, the mannequin explodes to pieces.

“Matt, Christina, what the fuck happened?!”

“He left a bomb in the theatre. He’s really thought this through. Please be careful boss, you never know what’s going to happen when you get there.”

“I know. But if he’s there, he’ll have something planned for us.”

“Boss, this is Woods. We’re heading down to 2nd right now. She’s looking really tired, I think she’s fading.”

Allen looks down at his screen. The girl isn’t moving much, and her head is regularly dropping under the water and re-emerging. Her strength is diminishing. She doesn’t have long.

“It’s just around this turn, Matsu. We’re about to arrive.”

Suddenly, Allen’s TV burst into laughter. He looks down to see PX laughing.

PX is sitting on the ladder, watching the girl flail. He is now laughing hard.

“I see my dummy has exploded. It was wired in such a way that if the connection was broken, this little on the side of the tank would go out. Now that it has, I know the dummy has been touched. See, the circuit for the explosives was separated by a piece of lead, attached to the back of his neck. When you moved him, it fell, and the connection completed. So I know that you moved him to set him off.”

“Clever.”

“Do you think he has a bomb set for us or something?”

“I doubt it. He’s gone to this effort for something...”

“Judging by my timing, you should be just about here by now, which means it’s time to reveal the final part of the puzzle!”

PX jumps down from the ladder and walks right up to the camera.

“See, I have these doors rigged! But not with explosives or anything, don’t get me wrong. I have them rigged to this contraption here.”

PX takes the camera and turns it around. Standing behind the camera, where the chair would usually be is much crueler object. Taking up the entire shot is a Gallows. Not only that, but there is a man in the noose. He has a hood over his head, and his arms tied behind his back. He is just standing there, not struggling, and just accepting his faith. PX swings the camera back, with a smile on his face.

“My doors are connected to this machine. The doors are unlocked, but if you open them, a circuit will be broken, and the tap door will fall, and this man will killed!”

There is silence. Nothing can be said. They are backed into a corner now. Takashi and George’s car comes to a halt. Allen looks over at him.

“Eh... We’re here, sir.”

Allen looks across the street, and the theatre is there. On the TV, the faint sound of their siren can be heard.

“He knows we’re here.”

“This is his game then. This is the choice. Open the door and hang someone, leave it closed and drown somebody. He’s putting their lives in our hands now.”

Allen strikes the dashboard. This is something he didn’t want to do.

“Now, there is one more piece of information I have for you. The man you see with a noose around his neck isn’t as innocent as the woman in the tank. He is a criminal. Not only a criminal, but a murderer. He’s killed a woman and her child, and is a wanted man. I’m sure that means you’ll know him. Now, it’s up to you. You can save this girl, but you’ll have to hang this murderer to do so. Can you make that decision, to kill this man? That is the choice. The answer may seem easy enough, but whether you can do it or not is another story. What I’m teaching you is that we all have to do what we don’t want to do. Now, you don’t have long to decide, she isn’t kicking anymore. Good Luck.”

“Fuck me!”

“I can’t believe it’s come to this. Somebody is going to die no matter what!”

“If you had time maybe we could work a way to get them out, but we don’t have a minute to do this!”

Allen gets out the car. Matsu does the same. They walk over to the door. Allen is just staring at it. Matsu is more animated, looking back and forth between him and the door.

“Are we going to do it or not?!”

“We have to go in but... When we open the door, we’re condemning someone to death...”

“It’s the same if we don’t!”

Allen reaches his arm out. He is in reaching distance. His hand raises, and stops at the door. His hand quivers. Beads of sweat trickle down his brow. 20 years in this business, Allen thought he’d seen it all, and done it all. But he’s never had to take somebody’s life like this. He is frozen. Matsu speaks up.

“I know its hard Boss, but if you open that door now, we can catch this creep! This has to be done!”

So easily can young Takashi Matsu take the life of the criminal. He has no concerns for him at all. That’s his brashness.

“I’m not waiting!”

Matsu takes it upon himself, and kicks the door in. It almost comes off of its hinges, and Matsu runs inside, drawing his weapon in the process. Allen follows as soon as he realises what has just happened. As Allen enters the room containing the stage, he spots Matsu atop the ladder, pulling the girl out the water. She is slipping in and out of consciousness. Allen’s immediate reaction is to look for PX. He spots the sharply dressed man standing by the Gallows.

“Hands up, now!”

He responds accordingly. Allen walks slowly towards him, never allowing his weapon to waver. When close enough, he slaps a cuff around one wrist, then, after lowering his weapon, cuffs the other behind his back. He turns him around and looks him in the eyes.

“Hi”

“WHERE IS HE?!”

He grabs the man by the scruff of the neck. He is unphased. He is not PX, but a man wearing the same clothes.

“Where’s who? It’s me silly!”

“How did he escape? How did get out?”

“I didn’t! You gotta take me down to the station; I’ve committed a heinous crime!”

“Don’t say another word!”

Matsu, after wrapping his jacket around the girl, and giving her basic CPR, has walked down to Allen. He doesn’t look at him.

“He wasn’t lying. Look at that poor guy. His neck probably snapped in the fall. He should be so lucky. Those gallows weren’t the only the door was hooked up to. The camera burst into flames when I ran in here.”

“Damn it!”

Matsu is looking up at the Gallows, where a man is dangling. Allen climbs up onto the gallows, and removes his hood. He gasps.

“What is it sir?”

“I know him!”

“Who is he?”

“He’s the man I’ve been investigating for the last few months. He murdered two people. I’ve spent a lot of time looking for him, and building a case on him, and now look at him. I’ve killed him. I have killed this bastard! Christ...”

“The worst part of this is that he got away.”

“No I didn’t!”

“I will bash your skull if you do not keep quiet, you imbecile! You’ve let a murderer escape here!”

“We still have to bring this guy to the station you know.”

“I know, it’s all we’ve got...”

There was once a time on this Earth. A time where men could be more than they were born to be, a time where one man could help change his country, or where one man could step out of the shadows of his mentor, or where one man could rise from a citizen to a noble man.

It was the time of honor.
The time of religion…
And the time of the courageous Knights.

The Knights were the noblemen of the land, the protectors of the noble people and they were honorable men who swore upon an oath to do all they could for their beliefs.

Yet there were only a few ways in which a man could become a knight. The most common way was to be the son or close relative of a noble:

When a boy was young, he was sent to the neighboring castle where he was trained as a page. He spent most of his time strengthening his body, wrestling vigorously and riding horses endlessly. He also learned how to fight bravely with an elongated spear and a steel sword. He practiced against wooden dummies called quintains. The young page had to hit the shield in its center. When hit, the whole structure would spin around and around. The page had to maneuver away quickly without getting hit. The young man was also taught more civilized topics. He would be taught to read and write by a seasoned schoolmaster. The lady of the castle taught the page to sing and dance and how to behave in the king’s court.

Within the boy’s teenage years, he would become a squire in service to a pre-standing knight. His endless duties were to be almost a slave to the knight, while also taking in what the knight did, how he fought, what his tactics of battle were. When he was around the age of twenty, a squire could become a knight after proving himself worthy. A lord would agree to knight him in a dubbing ceremony. The squire knelt in front of the lord, who tapped the squire lightly on each shoulder with his sword and proclaimed him a knight.

Now although these times have long past, the basic structure still exists, as it does not differ too much from a young wrestler. A man looking to make an impact, needing the guidance of an experienced wrestler, and from the training given he would lift to his potential and fight for his own morals.

It is with this connection that I daub Leon Caprice a Modern Knight, a man who fights for the people in the face of his enemies, a man who helps to fix FMW rather than rebuild it, a man who is stepping out on his own and letting the crowds take him as he is.


Leon: I don’t need any damn pain medication!!

The scene opens to a shirtless, bruised and bloodied Leon, sitting anxiously on the edge of a white medical bed, surrounded by the contents of what seemed to be the backstage medical room. With bland white walls and a finely layers cream tile flooring, Leon, with blood evidently building in his mouth and a line of bruising on his lower chest, sat there. Hearing the harshness in his words and the look of annoyance evident in his lips and eyes, he glares forwards to a petite young, ginger-haired, backstage nurse who was attempting to offer Leon some Panadol. Still obviously backstage at the Distortion show, the crowds reactions echoing within the walls, adding to the headache growing within Leon’s head. With every roar of the crowd further pumping the headache within, Leon’s frustration became more and more evident as he clutches his head with both hands, tugging the strands of hair from the tip of his head as he lowers his head in obvious pain. With the nurse looking on, Leon closes his eyes and changes his expression into one of rage, the built up emotions were seemingly coming through. The nurse politely asks again.

Nurse: These will relief the pain.

Before Leon lets the rage erupt into a howl of anger, he pauses, still with his head bowed, he slightly opens his pain-conceived eyes. Looking down towards to cream tiled floor he dropped his arms, clenching them as they fell from his shortened hair. Now with a controlled sense he slowly drew his eyes up to the young nurse, keeping his eyebrows low and his eyes constantly looking up he saw the look of fear dash through the young nurse’s face. She quivered in anticipation of what was about to happen. Leon had locked his eyes onto hers, viewing the box of Panadol pills shaking in her hands he built up the strength to stand, shifting his weight from the bed and onto the solid flooring below. Now standing higher than the petite nurse he slowly, painfully took steps towards her, with rage in his eyes and anger in his fists he closed the gap between himself and the nurse. With less room than a standard sized ruler between them, Leon looked down to the nurse and in a harsh and deep voice he uttered.

Leon: I. Don’t. Need. THEM!!

With that Leon swiftly grasped the box out of the dazed nurse’s soft grip, and with a single action crushed the box within his palm, showing his remaining strength to the scared nurse. After seconds past of Leon glaring into the nurse’s eyes, he turned his back on her, with no point in remaining there Leon slowly staggered to the doorway.

Nurse: D-Do you want me to bandage your wounds?

Leon slowly tilted his head back to the nurse. With a stone-like gaze he kept his eyes on her, and angled his body to still face the open doorway in front of him. Seconds passed by, no words. The glare began to take hold of the nurse, she jittered in place, probably would have already raced out the doorway if Leon wasn’t standing there. Subconsciously Leon must have realised the fear within the nurse, whether he was enjoying the emotions she expressed or simply wanted someone to show his dominants over. Yet as the seconds ticked past Leon eventually lowered his glare, almost as if held by it the nurse exhaled deeply. Yet Leon wasn’t done, although he lowered his glare he tilted his head to his side and spat out the crimson liquid from his mouth. With the blood splattered over the cream flooring, Leon simply walked away.

Following Leon, he staggered out of the medical room, through the doorway and allowing himself to merge with the noise and artificial light of the crowded hallway. As he carelessly stumbled through the hallway, many eyes were drawn to his weary state as he passed by backstage crew and wrestlers alike. Many eyes observing the bruises on Leon’s mid section, a few looking up to see the drained, yet annoyed eyes of Leon. But still Leon did not care. With the actions of tonight, with the failed attempt to stop Syanide, it questioned Leon’s beliefs, knowing that if Leon was more susceptible to using a weapon he may have won. And in questioning such a result, it began to play with his mind. Were the actions he displayed to the nurse his own personal actions, or was he blinded by the anger within himself.

Keeping track of Leon’s progress through the lengthy hallway, he lurches around a sharp corner and moves his lowered gaze to follow the corner, however in turned slowly past the corner he looked slightly up to catch the eyes of nearly everyone in the hallway, whether it was the wounds of Leon or his change in attitude, it drew attention. With all the eyes on Leon it only build the rage within, still with the blood filling in his mouth he gritted his teeth and ignored the attention of those around him. In knowing that eyes were following him he began moving quicker through the hallways, keeping his head down he knowingly directed his path. Eventually he swayed himself to stop in front of a door with no handle. Casually he exhaled, knowing that pushing through the door would bring a sharp pain to parts of his body, yet he still pushed past it, showing signs of the pain as he shouldered the door open. As the door slowly creaked shut behind him, Leon looked up and into the room, it was a backstage bathroom. Adorn with finely designed limestone bench tops and glossed porcelain sinks to the right, however the lighting was highly dimmed, one of the lights had fallen into darkness. Leon slowly staggered through the empty room, seeing the steel urinal to the left and the toilet cubicles beside it. As he tottered further into the room, stumbling towards the basins, he tilted his head to check the cubicles…all empty. It reminded him of the conversation he had with Drew after the last show, flashing back to it brought more anger to the face of Leon, the inquisitions of Drew and the promise to silence Skyler.

Finally he ceases to move in front of one of the basins, steadily dropping his head into the washbasin, while reaching forward with his hands and gently twisting the right tap of the sink, with a quick tense of the muscles in his right arm, he managed to free the stiffness of the taps and let the untainted water flow down the long metal column and into the sink. He promptly cupped his hands and moved them under the cold stream of water and begins to store the water in his hands. Ultimately he swiftly lifts his hands and splashed the pure water into his still cringing face, while also spitting out the remaining blood in his mouth. As the water continued to flow, Leon threw another cup of water through his hair, he began to calm himself and now showing signs of relief. With the pain now easing as the rushing signals of pain to the brain lessen, it allowed him to think more clearly and realize the gravity of the night’s results. To be able to reflect on what exactly happened, how his own morals stopped him from winning, how his own methods were not enough. It would be a lie to say no man would titter on the possibility of darkening himself to achieve the goal intended, that if Leon broke his rules and smeared Syanide’s face with a chair would he have won.

As moments of silence passed by, Leon gradually reached forward and twisted the tap til not even a drip fell to its lower point. Yet that didn’t halt the raging thoughts or the returning pain from messing with Leon’s status.

The thudding pain, the searing stabs into his chest, the seeming loss of consciousness as the headache throbbed within, it was taking its toll on Leon and even in the best of times he wouldn’t react any differently.

The passing week had been tough, the preparation for the match, the moving in of Leah and the twins into Leon & Sarah’s household, the constant thoughts of Entellect, it was driving his brain in different directions, stretching his thoughts, his actions in different directions. Yet with this loss it proved a point…That Leon cannot handle it all, something had to give. It couldn’t be Leah and the twins, they needed the refuge after Skyler’s last contact. Entellect was a pressing issue. Leon needed the money more and more too accommodate Sarah and now the additions of Skyler’s family. The money that was now outside of reach, locked away within Entellect, with only one key to get to it, to make someone spill the answers, to get someone to admit to the underhanded bribes. Sarah needed more of Leon’s time, there was no doubt of that. Six months pregnant, on leave from work and she was depending on Leon to provide both money and time to her. This was to be Leon’s first child, and he can’t even balance time and effort to spend time with it. And lastly there was FMW, a constant connection to Leon’s passion, his drive. If FMW was doing well to Leon then Leon seemed to have things under wraps, but with the loss of tonight, how does that change things, how does that affect Leon’s future, his family, his job, his career.

Leon: I had it…All I had to do was pick up that chain first and WRAP IT AROUND HIS DAMN NECK!!

A slight pause creped into Leon’s monologue as Leon steadily lifted his eyes and head to look himself in the mirror in front of him, observing the appearing bruising and the slight crimson liquid surrounding his lower lip, an evident disdain of his current look was evident.

Leon: I just can’t let this happen again…NO MORE!!

The rage was seething through Leon’s lips as his questioned himself.

Leon: What about Sarah, what about the house. I can’t do this anymore.

Leon quickly lifts his hands to his forehead and brushes them through his freshly dampened hair, letting his rage-filled emotions dim to a point where frustration would take over.

Leon: I wont do this anymore, I can’t hold my life, Skyler’s life and Crash Scene at the same time… Not like I am right now.

Leon simply looks up into the mirror, staring into his own reflection, diving into thought, he had a solution, but could he do it.

Leon: Things need to change, I can’t just smile and keep walking…Skyler needs a wake up call, Crash Scene needs a decent challenge and I need to take control.

A few moments pass with no words, the rushing thoughts channel the pain into passion, pushing his words further into the air, lifting his tone and demanding attention.

Leon: I wont smile and take another bashing, I need to strike first, and make it count… NO MORE!! Now it’s my turn to wield the chain.

A slightly demented grin dashes over Leon’s lips, almost like his body acted in response to his words. Where was his heart in this, where was his morals, his reason…or had darkness clouded that too.

Leon: I need to show that I can DO THIS!! BY NO MEANS I WILL WIN!!!

By now Leon’s words are beginning to echo through the closed doorway. Possibly drawing the ears of passing people, yet little mattered to Leon right now.

Leon: I cannot be nice anymore, its time to wake up my dying soul.

The reasons behind these words are clouded, who knows why Leon would snap like this. Sure the pressures of home and work have escalated lately but is that a reason for this? And is this simply desperation talking, or is this a new side of Leon, have the gloves come off…has the sleeping dragon awakened.

Leon: Its time to take what’s mine and knock every man down who wishes to take from me. Skyler, Syanide, Drew… No man will stand before me and knock me down. I cannot let it happen again. It’s MY time to be the savior. It’s MY time to be the head of the team and it’s MY time to be the man with no rules.

With those words Leon seemingly becomes engulfed in his words. The cringed of pain, gone…The sense of frustration, gone…The anger of his situation, gone… All replaced with one emotion, one desire…

Power.

And whether it was desperation or not, Leon didn’t look to be spitting out false words. He meant what he said, and by God’s name people would see a new side of Leon. Whether temporary or permanent, things would change and people would notice.

The scene fades to black with Leon, standing still with his hair still dripping wet, staring into his own reflection, with nothing but a power-hungry grin smirked across his face. No doubt this had to be from the stresses of work and family and the frustration of the actions of those around him.



24hrs after Distortion 10.1. By now Leon had returned to a somewhat calm state, whether the anger of the previous night had diminished or taken a secluded form within Leon’s mind. At this point in time, Leon is seen casually entering into his BMW with his mobile phone grasped in his right hand, a few seconds passed before Leon lifted the phone to his ear. As the phone began to ring through, Leon lowered himself into his classy automobile and sat motionless as he awaited for his call to be answered.

Skyler: Hello?

Leon: Hello, Skyler.

Skyler: Leon…what's going on?

Leon: No friendly hello?

Skyler: Hi, then. So why did you call?

Leon: I wanted to check in with you…see how you were going?

A pause entered the phone conversation.

Skyler: I'm doing fine. How's training going? You know we're against-

Leon: No…Forget about FMW for a sec, what’s happening with you?!

Leon began to raise his voice through the phone. His anger slowly rising within.

Skyler: What's happening with me? Well, let's see. My tag partner knocked me out, took me to a hospital, got me examined to the point that no doctor would clear me to wrestle and then started inquiring into my personal life.

Leon: I’m trying to help you for God’s sake.

Skyler: Help is something I only need if I ask for it. I'm fine.

A silence fell over the conversation.

Leon: No you’re not.

Skyler: And what the hell would you know?

Leon: … I know that there is something wrong with you, and I bet it has something to do with those drugs of yours.

Skyler: They're just pain meds. I don’t need a lecture. I've got to get back to training, so-

Leon:Just listen!!

Another silence made its way into the conversation. Yet this time, Leon would get the chance to back his words.

Leon: You need help man.

Skyler: Like I said - I only need help if I ask for it. We, however, need to talk about Danse Macabre as well as ex-HavOc.

By now Leon knows that he cannot break Skyler over the phone, he wouldn’t talk about what he doesn’t want to, and there is no pushing Skyler. So in the point of possibly having another chance to break Skyler’s guard, Leon keeps the phone conversation going.

Leon: They're our opponents? Is it for the titles?

Skyler: Naturally.

By now Skyler’s tone had become irritated.

Leon: …ok, so are you going to be there?

Skyler: Of course I am. Don't insult me. You're almost like a shadow.

Leon grits his teeth and clenches every muscle he can at the one possible time. He knew that those opinions were running around, but never did he think Skyler would bring something like that up.

Leon: That was low…

Skyler: So's your opinion of me at the moment.

Leon: Not without reason.

Through the phone Leon can hear the seething breaths of Skyler after that remark.

Skyler: Watch your tongue boy.

Leon now shows an expression of annoyance over his face as he seems to grow tired of the conversation, so in an effort to quicken this up Leon begins to ask the right questions to Skyler.

Leon: So Frost is finally going to wrestle again?

Skyler: Evidently. I have a feeling Jade's had a hand in this.

Leon: So you going to be ready for it?

Skyler: Of course. Just focus on yourself. I don’t feel like carrying you again.

Another low blow by Skyler, he was beginning to test Leon’s patience.

Leon: Don’t you worry.

Skyler: I expect I won't. These tag titles will be coming home with us.

Leon: Well at least we have something in common.

Skyler: Try and up it a notch when we step in the ring though, hey?

Leon: What are you saying Sky?

Skyler: Maybe you should try getting the pin for once.

Leon: Well someone needs to watch your back.

Skyler: Ha. I'm not a double champion for nothing. Just be ready for the match.

Leon: Just try to stay off the drugs.

…Silence…*beep…beep…beep*…Skyler had hung up.

With a light snicker, Leon reaches forward and tilts the keys to allow the car to roar. With a few seconds for the engine to find its gear, Leon shifts the gearbox to 1st gear, drops the handbrake and speeds off with a sudden sense of haste.


It was nightfall by the time Leon walked through the front door of his house. All the lights were off and the only source of lighting was from the moon’s bright aura seeping through the family room curtains. Gently placing his keys on the kitchen bench Leon treads softly through the shadowed house, gradually making his way into the bedroom he stood suddenly back with an oddly surprised look crossing his face. In the bed before him, was not the love of his life, the women he married and the bearer of his child, instead lay Leah and the twins. Little can be said about the sudden jerk reaction of Leon. After the painful 24hrs, the last thing he needed was to worry about Sarah and her well-being while being pregnant. She needed to be in a soft bed and without her in sight, it only lifted the stress level within Leon.

Still keeping the noise to a minimal, Leon attempted to rush around the house. With silence and the pain of his injuries slowing him down, he began checking every room. The kitchen, the bathroom, the toilets, the balcony, the dining room, the living room…There she was!! With the passing glance of Leon’s into the living room, from the corner of his eye he saw a figure curled up on the couch, And there she was. He knew it was her even before he saw the face, the rather large lump in her stomach gave it away. It was both an unmistakable feature and drew a sudden tug within Leon’s heart. In seeing her there, he slowly moved in the opposite direction, entering into a large cupboard and swiftly coming back into sight with a deep red cotton blanket and a baby blue pillow in hand. Although the frustration and stress of now having to be more observant of Sarah was circling his mind, Leon put it to the back of his head as he quietly approached Sarah.

As he reached the side of Sarah, Leon slowly staggered down to his knees. Now on a similar level to Sarah, he unfolded the blanket and pulled it over the curled body of his darling wife. Following the blankets path with his unwavering stare he could help but feel calm in her presence. Like all the stresses of FMW, all the frustrations of Entellect, that none of it could touch Leon while he basked in his wife’s presence. She was one of a kind and truly Leon was lucky to have her, and to be able to raise a family with you.
A gratefully smile overtook Leon’s face as he set the blanket to rest on Sarah’s still body. Yet the job wasn’t done, Leon then shuffled his knees slowly towards Sarah’s head and carefully lifted her head and gradually placed the pillow beneath it. Although he didn’t expect Sarah to stir from that.

Sarah: Mmmmm…Leon is that you?

Quickly tossing up the thought of replying or letting her fall back into her peaceful slumber, he wished to see how she was, to ask why she was sleeping on the couch, so he took the opportunity.

Leon: Yeah, its me babe.

Sarah slowly began to open her eyes to the darkened figure in front of her.

Sarah: Mmmm…So how was tonight?

Leon: I did ok.

Sarah quickly inhaled as she returned somewhat to consciousness.

Sarah: Did you do your best?

That was the question Leon had been pondering all day, the stress related question. Did he give his best, could he have done better? The question brought up the painful memories of the aftershock of his loss, the build up of stress that brought upon him… What would he say?

Leon: I’m not sure, yes and no.

Sarah: Hmmm, well I’m sure you did.

Her reaction brought a slight smile to a rather distant Leon.

Leon: So how’s Mummy-dearest going?

Sarah: Ahhh, well… He’s been kicking a lot today.

A sudden realization hit Leon…did she just say “he”? Did she meant what she just said.

Leon: Does that mean that w-

Sarah: Yes…we’re going to have a baby boy.

A gradual smile exploded over Leon’s face, no matter the stresses, this was joyful. This was the kind of news Leon needed, but would it be a long term feeling.

Leon: Wonderful…

A silence crept into the conversation as it became apparent that Sarah was slowly falling asleep, nodding her head as she began to fall into her motionless slumber.

Leon: By the way Sarah, what are you doing on the couch?

Sarah: Whuh?

By the lack of actual words Leon knew the hour of night was too late to make so many inquisitions, it would have to wait til morning. So with an outstretched hand, Leon brushed the hair out of Sarah’s closed eyes and flicked it past her ears, then with a gradual shift in weight he lifted himself from his knees, lent forward and delivered a sweet, genuine kiss to the forehead of Sarah. Soon afterwards Leon slowly and quietly lifted himself to a standing position and walked off into the darkened house.

So the realization that Leon was going to be a dad was becoming more and more apparent. Sarah was now roughly 6 months pregnant with a baby boy. A joyful occasion it will be on the day of his birth.

With a few moments of darkness we eventually see Leon opening the sliding glass door the balcony and steadily making his way through it to be standing alone, atop the balcony. He continues to step forward until he is holding himself over the metal railing before him, with a single clear glass resting beside him, with a golden liquid within it. The moon was at its fullest tonight as the light of it shone directly onto the balcony. With the relaxing sound of the waves crashing on the beach and the cold sea breeze flickering past Leon’s hair, it was quite the relaxant Leon needed, with a few moments to himself and to enjoy the harsh warmth of his cool golden drink, he stood in solitude…or so he thought. Little to his observance, behind him sitting in his outdoor seating area was the young Jade Striker. With a few moments to observe Leon’s constantly changing expressions from joy to frustration, Jade broke the silence.

Jade: A late night, I see.

Although the hour was late and the reactions of Leon were highly irresponsive he still hurriedly spun around to see her staring straight at him. As his shock-induced reaction Leon almost tipped himself over the end of the balcony. Obviously in Leon’s mind it was far too late for a house call and too late for a midnight chat.

Leon: Jade…Oh, quite the fright.

Jade gave a slight smile at seeing Leon’s reaction.

Jade: Apologies. It wasn't my intention to do so.

With a few moments to regain himself and compose himself to the fact that Jade sat in front of him, he built the endurance to last a midnight conversation.

Leon: Quite late indeed, shouldn’t you be in bed?

Jade: I could return your question in kind. You're the athlete.

Slightly off put by Jade’s mature response, Leon began to ponder why she was here.

Leon: So why are you on my balcony at this time of night?

Jade: Waiting for you, of course. I'd like a few words.

Leon: Oh I don’t like the sound of that.

With those words, Leon casually grasped his glass and moved towards the seating arrangement where Jade sat, bringing himself to rest beside the chair in which Jade sat.

Jade: Let's get to the point. It's dad.

In hearing that Leon swiftly lifts his glass and takes a rather large amount of the golden liquid into his mouth, with a slight cringe he swallows and builds a response for Jade.

Leon: What’s wrong with Skyler now?

Jade: Maybe you haven’t realised it yet, but he’s been taking a lot of pain medication.

Leon: OK, I’m following you…

Jade: With the bond between you, there's obviously some level of accountability within your partnership.

Leon: Are you seeing something I’m not, your father is in a pretty spiteful mood right now.

Jade: Are you so sure about that?

Leon: Well after knocking him out and taking him to the hospital, yeah I’m pretty sure he wants nothing of me, cept my wrestling ability.

Jade: At least he hasn't severed the bond completely.

Leon: Yeah, he wont talk to me about anything else though.

Jade: Pain medication does things to your mind. This isn't entirely Skyler making these decisions.

Leon lets out a slight exhale, as the tiring state of his body seemed to make this conversation quite the lack of importance. However in seeing this, Jade quickly jumped to the point.

Jade: Leon, I need to ask you a favor.

Leon: Sure, what is it?

Jade pauses for a moment, building the suspense of the question.

Jade: You need to be the one to watch over my father. He's more likely to listen to you than anyone else. Maybe you can help him realize his own addiction.

Leon: Well you know your father, he’s as stubborn as a pregnant woman, he wont listen to my words.

Jade: Then use your actions. Do whatever it takes. All we can do is try.

It was an outstanding favor, something that Leon knew would probably fall to him, yet it still caught him as a shock, it was one thing to call himself to look over Skyler, but another thing for his eldest daughter to ask him to do so. What this did though was something big, it now made Leon accountable for Skyler.

Leon: Sure Jade, I’ll try then.

A silence fell through the conversation as Jade build up her response.

Jade: Just don’t give up. He might hate you for it at first, but he'll be grateful at the end of it all. He has a breaking point somewhere.

Leon nods in agreeance to Jade’s remark.

Leon: I know, I just hope I don’t take him too far.

Jade: At the stage we're at, I fear there might not be a 'far enough'.

Leon lifts the glass to his lips and sculls the rest of the golden liquid. Following the emptiness of his glass, Leon begins to wrap up the conversation.

Leon: I hope your fears are wrong, then...

With that both of them sit back into their chairs and rest their heads upwards towards the stars. Allowing the view to free their minds, relief their edging thoughts about the addiction of Skyler Striker.


The morning after Jade and Leon’s conversation. Leon is seen standing outside the front of his house, with his mobile phone in his grasp as he slowly lifts it to his ear.

Skyler: Hello?

Leon: Hello Skyler, we need to talk.

Skyler: Huh. Another lecture, Leon? Really?

Leon simply brushes Skyler’s remark off.

Leon: I’d rather tell this to you as a friend, rather than wait for us to drift so far apart that my words wont reach you.

Skyler: Here it comes...

Leon:…Skyler, you’re an addict.

A pause enters the conversation.

Skyler: Typical. Even my best friend's turned on me?

Leon: Skyler, I’m not going to just watch you kill your career by becoming a pill popping junkie.

Skyler: You don't have to. Medication is medication, Leon, I HAVE to take it to keep competing. There's nothing wrong with me, so just quit telling me what's wrong with me and focus on your own damn training.

Leon: And is that Skyler saying that or the pain meds?

Skyler: How many times do I have to say it to get it through to your fucking thick skull, hey? I. Am. Fine.

Leon: … I’m not going to stop. I know you're addicted and I know I can help.

Skyler: If you know what's best for you, you'll stop now.

Leon: … I’m not Skyler, I’m going to help you whether you want it or not.

Skyler: All I want from you is for you to defend your side of our belts, got it.

Leon: I’ll be there, but if I see my chance to help you. I’m going to take it.

Skyler: If you try anything stupid during our defense then you're as good as an enemy.

Leon: You can’t scare me off Sky, I’m going to be there, waiting for you to slip up.

Skyler: Then you're going to be waiting a long, long time.

Silence…*beep…beep…beep* He had hung up again.


The scene opens to the office of Leon Caprice, former CEO of Entellect Ltd. Within the office are the two rivals tied closely to the heart of Entellect, both wearing business suits and looking as formal as possible. The former CEO himself Leon Caprice and his bitter rival Lyle Domican, who was responsible for the business merge and costing Leon his position within the company. The two men are sitting opposed in silence, pondering what to say, what the other might say first. Time was running short, the sun was rising in the day, and to Leon, he needed answers, the financial support needed for Sarah and the baby must be secured soon. Leon looks around the room at the place that he has got himself into, and decides to finally break the awkward and thoughtful silence with a light bit of chatter.

Leon: Would you like a drink?

A moment of hesitation from Lyle, yet in that time Leon had already lifted himself from his seat behind his finely crafted wooden desk and casually made his way towards the black corner cupboard. Resting atop of the cupboard stood 5 glasses and a glass cylinder of a potent golden liquid. As Leon began to pour two glasses, Lyle steadily stood up and slowly made his way towards the glass window looking over the city of Perth. With Leon eventually joining him by stopping beside him and handing the young businessman a glass half full of the potent liquid. Upon handing Lyle the glass, Leon turned his back on his bitter rival and reached across to his desk, hurriedly opening one of the draws, grabbing something and then sliding it into his suit pocket. With little noise Leon turns back to Lyle who to Leon’s amazement was sculling the entire glass of liquid. Giving him a couple of minutes to adjust his facial expression to a normal state, before breaking the silence, Leon lowered his glass onto the desk.

Leon: So Lyle, I have a question for you.

In hearing this Lyle gingerly tilted himself around.

Lyle: Sure, what wa-

As quick as Lyle replied, Leon was lying in wait, as Lyle tilted far enough he was met with a solid right uppercut, knocking the young businessman out cold. As Lyle fell out of consciousness Leon needed to act quickly. Swiftly reaching into his desk draws he removed some rope and duct tape. Knowing what to do, Leon quickly went to work.


It was a good 20 minutes before Lyle became to open his eyes, yet for the most part that’s all he could do. His lips were taped over, his body was taped to the chair in which he sat on, his legs were tied together and also to the chair. Basically, Lyle was helpless. As he regained full consciousness, he began to swiftly shift his eyes around the room, making little noise as he did. The chair was still placed towards Leon’s desk facing out to the glass window. Looking around the room, the lights had been substantially dimmed, the glasses had been cleared and back into their original spot, the walls were still dark and the flooring was still a silver carpet, yet the most alarming thing to Lyle was Leon. Opposite the strapped in Lyle sat a composed Leon. With no emotions of anger or stress or even happiness, he remained with a stone-face expression. As Lyle finally drew eye contact with Leon, he clicked, Leon jumped into motion, and with a crude grin on his face he slowly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small sized dagger. With the grin not faltering, Leon gradually lifted himself from his seat and casually walked around the desk and positioned himself directly in front of Lyle, with the dagger pointed straight into Lyle’s eyes Leon began the torment, the interrogation.

Leon: So Lyle, bet you didn’t expect this today, hmm… So let’s talk about Entellect…Are you going to admit to bribing the directors, or do I need to make some incisions?

Lyle’s eyes were staring intently on the daggers edge, watching its every movement.

Leon: So are you going to tell me what I want to hear, or do I need to improve your hearing and ask the question again.

While saying the latter of his words, Leon positions the dagger below the left ear of Lyle, grasping the dagger with his wrist bend down, in a ready position to slice upwards.

Leon: So what will it be, Acceptance or Repentance?

The scene opens up with Seth Omega sitting in a bland white room. To the right are vending machines, to the left is another couch which is also empty. The window behind him shows the darkness of the Tallahassee night as a lamp in the corner shines a dim light on Seth's face. His head is in his hands as only one sound can be heard in the otherwise empty waiting room.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He was given nothing but time to sit and think about the woman he was falling for more and more everyday, the woman who had come into his life by mistake, and how he tried to be a hero just for her. He was trying to protect her, although the first murder on his hands was done out of vengeance, the second one was done to protect her. Annalisa had been going through a rough life, between her old boss raping her, the murderous stalker they encountered, the abusive boyfriend, and now this. Now she lies in a hospital bed clinging onto the life that had almost escaped her multiple times. She almost died without the surgery...although Omega had to sell himself out to afford it. He remembered it very well...


A black Chevy Silverado quickly pulls into Tallahassee Regional Hospital, the truck doesn't even come to a full stop before Seth Omega who is still wearing his wrestling gear begins running full sprint towards the front door, during his sprint he knocks over an older man and keeps going towards the door. As Seth runs off Dante quickly picks up the old man and brushes him off.

Dante: Sorry about that sir, his girlfriend just got put in the hospital and he isn't quite himself.

Finally Omega reaches the automatic sliding doors outside the huge hospital, without wasting another moment he goes and grabs the closest staff member by the shirt before shaking them violently and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Omega: WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?

The fear of god was struck into the hospital employee as he looked up at Seth with wide blue eyes, he appeared almost ready to shit all over his scrubs as the big pissed off Italian had him lifted off the ground. Quickly Dante ran into the hospital and forced the employee free from Seth's grip before pushing him against the wall and holding him still.

Dante: If you don't calm the fuck down they aren't going to ever let you see her...so relax before you really get in trouble.

A doctor walks up to Dante and Omega, he looks like the typical doctor, white coat, Carolina blue scrubs, he has a concerned look on his face as he taps lightly on Dante's shoulder. RAMPAGE lets go of Omega and turns around as Seth finally calms down and stares intently at the doctor.

Doctor Smith: Can I help you gentlemen?

Omega: Do you know anything about Annalisa Moretti?

The doctor turns around and walks up to a desk and grabs a clipboard, he scans it for a couple of minutes, which to Omega might as well been an eternity before speaking again.

Doctor Smith: Ah, yes here she is Annalisa Moretti. If you don't mind following me right this way.

The three men walk down the plain white hallway, which looks as most hospitals do. An off color white with some independent art paintings, white tiles, and large steel doors leading to the private rooms. The doctor walks up and punches in a code into the lock on the door. A large clank sounds in the narrow hallway as the doctor pulls the door open. As they walk into a cooler hallway the doctor pushes a lever on the left that shoots out hand sanitizer and speaks in a more open way than he did in the public rooms.

Doctor Smith: Of course Annalisa had a terrible crash, she had several injuries. She has a dislocated shoulder, as well as some broken ribs. She has several lacerations, and a crack in her skull and her brain is swollen and hemorrhaging of her brain. Her chance of survival all depends on this major surgery we'd have to perform...one that insurance won't cover because it is fairly new.

The doctor stops in his tracks and looks Seth directly in his eyes. The doctor continues in a very serious and grim tone.

Doctor Smith: The surgery is going to require 300,000 dollars, it is the only chance she may have of making it out alive.


During the flashback Omega had wandered outside the hospital. He held a coffee cup up to his lips and slurped down some hot chocolate. He felt the cold nippy wind blowing against his exposed neck as he pulled up his windbreaker, he paced back and fourth as he felt chilled to the bone at this very moment. He knew the feeling, it was the same feeling he felt when the doctor told him the news. He looked around and recognized the smoker station behind him, the same smoker station that he received the offer.

He looked down and stared at his black shoes, Omega firmly remembered the offer. It was burned into his mind, he had no choice, was he just to let Annalisa die? A heavy sigh left the lips of Seth as he stared heavily at the black smoker’s bench right before his eyes.



We see Seth Omega sitting on the black smoker’s bench outside the hospital, Dante stands before him as both men are silent for a while. Omega shakes his head before he begins to speak.

Omega: What in the hell am I going to do?

Dante: I don't know what you can do bruh, you know that a bank isn't going to give you a loan for something like this.

Omega: Yeah, and no matter how hard we work none of the Saints are going to be able to help pay for this.

A mysterious voice comes out from behind them, it is a cold voice, obviously from someone in power, yet when Dante and Omega look around they see nobody around.

???: Maybe you should find a new Saint who can help you out Omega.

Omega: Who the fuck are you and where the fuck are you hiding?

???: Oh Seth, you share a show with me. We're in the same division and I am the most powerful man in the free world.

Dante: Oprah?

???: And you wonder why you aren't allowed to wrestle you feeble minded nigger.

Dante: I oughta kick your ass...

Omega: Cool it Dante, reveal yourself and let's talk about this proposition you have.

A middle aged Italian man steps forward from the shadows with a devilish smirk on his face, he's wearing a nice pressed suit and has a powerful feel about him. It was none other than Romeo Vizzini. Omega and Jones tense up upon seeing the arrival of the powerful businessman who laughs at the eagerness to fight shown by the Saints. He relaxes and continues talking in a tone that shows his control of the situation.

Romeo: You want Annalisa saved, you've only got one thing to do Seth.

Omega: What's that you slime ball? Do you want me to kill your parents?

A sneer comes over the face of Romeo as he walks closer to the two Saints.

Romeo: Sarcasm will get you nowhere Omega, now listen and listen well you underachieving undercard curtain jerker. I want my clear shot at the Full Metal Championship.

Omega: What does that have to do with me?

Romeo: What doesn’t it have to do with you? This is the same Skyler Striker that fucked you over when you were off in Greenland. He overlooked you, he was vocal in the trade that sent you to Ignition for Slegnadamus…the same Slegnadamus that received an empty shot at the Abandoned Championship.

Omega: Yeah…and then I earned a shot at the Television Championship at Death Row.

Romeo: Only to be fucked out of it in the end by PX, then what, you’re settling with facing Danse Macabre? Listen Omega, you need to make an impact at 10.1, or else you’re getting no more shots at anything. What do you say…you screw over Skyler, I put down the 300,000 for Annalisa’s surgery?

Omega sighs before giving an answer, he looks at Dante who instead of cocky and sure looks downtrodden and sympathetic. He goes to answer Romeo before being snapped out of the flashback by the sound of a doctor.


Seth was thinking of how things went, he had managed to walk back into the hospital and sat back down. He was waiting for a sound, a noise, something signaling Annalisa had made it alright. It was then Doctor Smith popped out of the emergency surgery room with the good news.

Doctor Smith: It worked, the surgery was a complete success!

That was all Omega had to hear as he jumped off of the sofa and went running towards the doctor, for once since the accident, once since losing to Danse Macabre, he was finally wearing a smile on his face. He quickly ran to Doctor Smith and began talking to him right away, asking all the questions he could to find out what he needed to know.

Omega: How is she feeling? Is she responsive? Does she know who I am? Does she know where I am at?

Doctor Smith: Calm down Seth, calm down…you can see her right away.

The two gentlemen walked into the back of the hospital’s surgery ward. It had storage shelves of all kind holding different kinds of surgery tools, and scrubs. It was practically empty, Doctor Smith decided to do the surgery at night so he could concentrate in a non-hectic environment. Shortly after the walked into this huge hall way(all of which was the same off color white as the rest of the hospital) they hung a sharp left and walked into a large room on the far wall. They walked in, and that’s when Omega saw Annalisa. He face was bruised and cut up, she was connected to an oxygen machine, and the all too familiar sounds of the heart monitor beeped in the room.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Doctor Smith: She isn’t able to talk of course, and she won’t be able to walk until she completes physical therapy…but it appears as if she might make it out of this after all.

Seth walked up to Annalisa, who looked at him with the same soft blue eyes she always looked at him with. He grabbed her hand and she squeezed it, a small tear started to roll down the cheek of Omega as he mouthed the words, “I’m sorry Annalisa…I’m so sorry.”

Deep down inside he had a feeling Annalisa knew what he had done, but he didn’t want the world to know what he had done. He leaned down and softly kissed her forehead before he began speaking to her in a normal tone.

Omega: Annalisa babe, I’ve got to leave for now. I’ve got a shoot interview and then I have to go wrestle, but I promise you the second I can I will be right back here next to you…I promise that to you.

Annalisa nodded, and Seth shook the doctor’s hand and said one last phrase before leaving.

Omega: Thanks doctor…I owe you one.

The doctor smiled as Omega began walking out the door, he had a feeling things were going to be alright. He had a feeling he was going to show PX what being the Television Champion was all about. But for now he had an interview to go to, and with that he got in his Dodge Charger and sped off away from the hospital.


We see a room that has Omega in it, wearing his normal street gear of a pair of jeans and his infamous Punisher T-shirt. He is sitting in a leather chair next to a geeky looking man with a thin frame as well as glasses. They shook hands and the geeky looking man begins to speak into a large microphone.

Mr. Wilson: Welcome to ProWrestlingShoots.com's set, we're here with Seth Omega, who has the shoot name of Seth Corleone. Thank you for stopping by Seth, how is everything?

Omega: As good as can be expected.

Mr. Wilson: A lot of our fans have followed you for a while, from your history in Florida, to your Death Matches in Japan, you wrestled and dominated CGS, you made appearances in OWW, some in ROG as well, now you're a regular with LPW and FMW, performing on the Insanity and Corruption brands respectively. So let me ask you, what is wrong with the business today?

Omega: The business today, the better question is what isn't wrong with it. You have your political guys in the back like your Chris Austin's, your Skyler Striker's, etc, these are the guys who can put together a great match but at the same time are clinging onto their spots for dear life. Personally I'm really wondering why Skyler Striker hasn't gotten in the ring with Drew Michaels, and why he hasn't gotten in the ring with Leon Caprice. Personally I think is scared to lose his spot to Caprice who as of right now is outperforming Striker in and out of the ring. That's my take on it, I like Striker...but at the same time I know he has enough power in the back to make Caprice vs. Striker happen.

Mr. Wilson: So what exactly are you trying to say Seth?

Omega: I'm saying that with their age, their rise on camera has almost been followed by the rise off camera. They pretty much book their own shit, and they always think that their spots will be taken. RCA thinks that his move set is the biggest and baddest, and Striker is as hallowed as Eric. Both men think that they can give and give and give to the opponent, but when it comes time to take they won't do it. Their egos get in the way, for instance at the Hayabusa Cup. I eliminated Chris Austin, but Austin had to go all political on people's asses and got it to where I couldn't hit my finisher on him and pin him. He had to be hit with something by Harlequin so I could pin him so he wouldn't lose face. He pretty much thinks that the show is only big enough to hold one star, and until he's ready to give up his spot he wasn't willing to try and make me a star.

Mr. Wilson: Who do you think is the most political in FMW?

Omega: I don't want this to be misunderstood, I don't want you to think that I consider Skyler the most political. He isn't the worst, he kind of goes with the flow but he wants to get his shine in as well. That's his job as a babyface, truth be told I'm not exactly sure if his wrist is broken, but honestly he gets that sympathy pop from the crowd. That being said the most political...well I think I don't have to explain it.

Mr. Wilson: (laughing) Would you mind explaining it for the cameras and the fans at home?

Omega: Chris Austin. I've never seen someone whine so fucking much about having to do the job in my life. So what, you had to get pinned? You're a former Hayabusa Cup Winner, and you've not made the strides to improve your wrestling skills. That being said you've got the cred to put over some of us that have made the effort to get better for the good of not only the business, but for the good of FMW, for the good of LPW if you work there like some of us, but the good of wrestling altogether. We've been considered "fake" and nothing but "politics" which is why MMA is slowly taking our spot as the most violent quote on quote sport. In other words, Austin should spend more time on his back for the greater good of FMW altogether.

Mr. Wilson: Are you saying Chris Austin's time is up?

Omega: Is his time up? Maybe, maybe not. But if he isn't going to make the effort to improve then he doesn't need to be here. This is the top of the line, and if you're not training to improve than you're hurting yourself, you're hurting the business, and you're hurting the fans that spend their hard earned dollars to watch what we do. They pay to watch us bleed, they pay to watch us sweat, and they pay to watch us tell a story IN THE RING. If you're not telling the story in the ring then you're not a wrestler. If you're telling the story in your promos, then you're a fucking actor trying to play the part.

Mr. Wilson: Do you feel like sometimes you get passed over by these quote on quote actors?

Omega: Honestly, I can talk about my match, I can put myself over, and I can put my opponent over. That being said, just because I can't talk for 20 minutes about what cereal I had for breakfast and how the fiber content effects how I shit, doesn't mean I'm any less charismatic than RCA, or Chris Kelson, or some of the other guys considered above me on the ladder we call the Main Event-Jobber ladder. I feel like my mic work is good, and I feel like my wrestling skills are better. I do high spots, I take risks, I'll openly do a barbed wire match on free tv, and hell if you want the ring to explode we can do that as well. I'm not just going to say "I'm a wrestler, what I do is talk and have 5 minute matches." That's a lie, I'm a wrestler and I have 20 minute brawls. I go in there and I wrestle strong style, you feel my punches, you feel my kicks, and by god if I swing a chair then you're going to feel it.

Mr. Wilson: So tell me Mr. Corleone, I know you spend a lot of time in a lot of different feds, which one is the most political?

Omega: Well a lot of people would expect me to say FMW, but I think when I was in OWW: Takedown it was the most political. I mean honestly, half the wrestlers were also the writers, they didn't really want new stars until it crashed and burned. After the crash and burn it kind of came up that if we don't fucking put people over we're going to end up as badly as WCW was in their final run. It was then they decided that we needed more stars, but by that point my contact hadn't been renewed due to Lojax considering me to work way too stiffly. That's pretty much that, I mean FMW has some politics, and some clicks, but really it isn't any worse than that. On the worst day you'd see maybe a couple of political pulls, but in all reality it wasn't anything to serious.

Mr. Wilson: Let us talk now about some of the guys you've feuded with, and there have been reports that both you and Chris Kelson have a strong hatred for one another. Is that true?

Omega: (laughing) I would love to tell you that Chris Kelson and I got along great and we are good friends. But it isn't true, one bit. What happened is, when I came back I had Drew ask management if I had an actual chance of getting a decent push, before Drew was injured that is, they told me to come back off my rehab stint and then I could cut some promos and we could go from there. Originally they wanted me to have the match with Double Barrel Dallas Roland, who trained at my school. Sadly Kelson had just come off his first loss to Scorpio and was looking for a way out, he wanted an easier match so he could get a decent push I guess. Basically Kelson had asked management for the easiest match for 9.2, and request myself. Management gave me the Dog Collar Match to make it even, and when I heard word of what Chris Kelson had done I pretty much decided then and there we weren't going to get along. Hence Omega and Kelson beat the brakes off of one another by throwing hard shots, it was almost like an MMA Fight in there. That's pretty much all that happened in that ring that night, it was decided to not let us cross paths again.

Mr. Wilson: Some people are claiming you rookie of the year, you had an impressive showing in the Hayabusa Cup, a great showing in the divisions you fought in, and it has been over a year since you put your name on that dotted line. Who do you think the rookie of the year is?

Omega: You'd like me all to give myself the big rub and say I am the rookie of the year. Which as much as I'd like to claim, I am not. I've got to give props to my boy Abel, he's caught a good break with the Gold Card being vacant and management got him to face Smitten in one hell of a match. Now he's going for the C4 Title is on the line against Drew Michaels, it really really is going to be one hell of a year for him. Honestly the only way I see myself overthrowing him for that award is by winning a title, or maybe multiple titles. But Abel Steele is just a great guy, I know he has dealt with some hardships financial wise and I wish him all the best I really do. I'd go as far as saying he is one of my backstage buddies, even if Drew is going to kick his ass.

Mr. Wilson: You made the mention of Drew Michaels, and you said backstage buddies, so now I've got to ask how is your relationship with Drew? Who are some of your other backstage buddies?

Omega: Well it isn't a hidden story that Drew and I are semi-related by adoption processes. As far as the relationship between us, well we're close. We train wrestling together, we travel together, and we even do light MMA together. I know his wife, she spends some time with Annalisa, we are always quizzing one another, and that's just the way we do things. As far as other friends go I am fairly close with Jack Eastwood, Hannibal Frost, Dante Jones, Mark Johansson, Heath Yates and I respect other guys like Abel Steele and even Harley Quint. I have something in common with all of those guys, including Mark and Dante. We seem to mesh really well, and I'm glad to be part of the Saints.

Mr. Wilson: We will let you go on this note, do you have any regrets since you began wrestling?

Omega: Only one, I kind of wish I would of tried coming to a bigger fed sooner. It has really pushed me to try things differently, work harder, and even pick up some light MMA in order to keep up with the rest of the roster. I had to watch and learn, something I hadn’t done for years. I still teach many but I learn from a couple as well.

All the sudden “The Way of the Fist” by Five Finger Death Punch begins playing out of Omega’s phone, he looks down and notices the phone says “Text Message from Heath Yates."

Mr. Wilson: Is everything alright Seth?

Omega: I’m sorry, I just got an important text and I have to take this…is there any way we can finish this interview up some other time?

Mr. Wilson: Well I believe we have enough to air, but thanks for your time Seth.

Omega: Anytime, and if you ever want me to shoot on how fucked up Jack Eastwood talks…just give me a shout.

Seth begins to rise out of the chair and walks out a giant wooden door. He glances down at the text message to see what the rest of it says.

Quote :

Hey Seth, I am at the Waffle House in Tallahassee…was wondering if we could get some coffee before we head down south, peace Apostasy.

With that Seth texted back that he would meet him in about half an hour, afterwards Seth hopped in an elevator and rode all the way down to the parking garage. Shortly after that Omega got in his Dodge Charger and sped off going to meet Apostasy.


Seth pulled into the Waffle House, he quickly got out of the car and spotted Heath sitting alone at a table drinking a coffee and enjoying his last bit of eggs and toast. Omega walked in as he waved to the waitresses he had seen many times before during his tenure of wrestling all over Florida. He loved Waffle House, mainly because they were open late and always served good food. He sat down next to Apo after shaking his hand and the two begin to talk.

Heath: Hey Seth, good to see you again.

Omega: Same to you Apo, same to you.

Heath: Look I figured we should talk about everything, clear the air.

Omega: I agree, it is something that should be addressed.

Heath: Look, I know you fuck people out of things just for shits and giggles, and I know Romeo isn’t exactly Saint material…so what’s up with it?

Omega: Well…Romeo offered me the money to pay for Annalisa’s surgery. Drew didn’t have it, and none of us could make up the difference by ourselves. Romeo was the only one who had the money at the time to actually put in on the surgery.

Heath: So you took the deal in order to save Annalisa’s life, you must really really love that girl.

Omega: Of course I do, why else would I sacrifice myself at every twist and turn just to make sure she’s alright?

Heath: I hope you know you’ve pretty much made a deal with the devil Seth.

Omega: So says the Atheist, I thought you didn’t believe in heaven and hell?

Heath: You’re just as godless as I am, so you should know the answer to that question Seth.

Omega: I thought you learned a long time ago I figured you out, we do have some history together Mr. Yates.

Heath: Indeed we do, so what is the plan from here? What is the stradegy to keeping the Saints as dominant as possible?

Omega: Drew is the C-4 Champion, I plan on walking away with the Television Title, we have a potential member in the Ultraviolent Tournament, Romeo has a walk in to the Full Metal Championship, and you sir are slowly but surely on the way to wearing Abandoned Gold…err Silver.

Heath: So you think we’re all going to be successful Seth?

Omega: I know we will Heath, now let’s get out of here and start taking care of business.

With that both Seth and Health got up out of the booth at the Waffle House, and both went into their own separate vehicles, however one was on the way to Miami and the other was heading towards Orlando. They both backed out and headed down Interstate 10 towards their respected destination. As they were heading along, Omega began to talk as if he were speaking directly to PX.

Omega: PX, Pure Extremist, whatever the hell you call yourself now. I’ve come to terms with the fact you’re a coward, I know you’re not a real man unlike your brother Celt, I know you’re clinging onto any excuse to remain Television Champion. I’ve talked to you about respect, honor, heart, determination, all the things that it takes to become a true honest champion. All you’ve done is the exact opposite, you’re nothing but a dishonest wrestler.

But PX, this isn’t wrestling anymore. I beat you at 9.4 and we fucking fought afterwards, you beat me at Death Row and we fought once again, then you felt the need to rain on my parade at the Hayabusa Cup Final, you felt the need to hit me in the head with the very belt I vowed to win. This is personal PX, this isn’t a wrestling match, this is no longer honorable, this is no longer about respect, you made it clear you don’t respect me as a competitor, maybe now you’ll respect me as a fighter. This is a dog fight PX.

Blood, sweat, tears, money, pills, titles, contracts, merchandise, all of that is out the window now. This is restoring pride in something you’ve royally fucked up just like War Machine, just like O’Rion, you didn’t hold that belt with honor, you didn’t respect that belt, you didn’t hold that belt like a proud champion, so now I’ll make you bleed for that belt. I’ll make you cry about it like a 16 year old Irish boy who just lost the only girl to ever fuck him. I’ll treat you like the dog that you are, the only question is…are you ready for a dog fight? Be prepared PX…and don’t leave home without the title. If I have it my way, it will be the last time you have it around your waist.

And with that Seth Omega drove off down the Florida highway, hard rock music blaring out of his 2007 Black Dodge Charger Sports Edition. The Florida sun was beginning to rise as a silhouette was all that was left after a couple more seconds.