FMW 11.1 VOTING & PROMO THREAD

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru


-Corruption 11.1 LIVE from Washington, DC-



Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo


-Distortion 11.1 LIVE from Buffalo, New York-



Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

Robert: Marky… wake up.

I am eight years old when my sick father wakes me, sitting on the foot of my bed gently rocking my leg.

Robert: It’s time.

He was a marked man, not because someone was out to get him, it was cancer.

Robert: Mark! Up!

I was too young to understand his usual down trodden persona and his new found excitement was something I hadn’t seen and would never see again.

My father helped me get dressed, I did not know where we were going, I was confused but it was the lost energy of my father that rubbed off on me.

I too was excited.

Mark: Daddy where are we going?

Robert: It’s a surprise Marky.

I was eight, remember when you were eight and how awesome surprises were?

He pulls the car up and lets me out of the back, we were in the middle of Philadelphia. I rarely visited the city, we weren’t well off so the trip was always going to be special.

Mark: What’s that noise daddy?

Robert: It’s a parade little man.

He starts to rush me, but I don’t care, I was about to see a parade. I thought it would be the circus, like I had seen on TV.

I was wrong.

Robert: Can you see?

Mark: No daddy.

My father couldn’t even throw a football during his final days but somehow with all his energy he was able to lift me onto his shoulders.

Mark: I can see!

The original joy I had felt soon faded as it wasn’t at all what I had expected.

Mark: Who are they?

Robert: They are police officers.

Mark: Like on TV?

I remember looking down at his face as he looked up at me.

Robert: No, not like on TV, these men get no glory for what they do.

I didn’t understand, I thought my dad was being his normal. He often said odd things, I later realised it was him reacting to the medicine that tried to stop the inevitable.

Robert: This is us giving our thanks to the men who protect us, who serve us.

Mark: Daddy-

Robert: Wave Marky, wave to the nice men.

I do as I was told and wave at the police officers, one catches my eye and waves back, but my dad had all he could bear and lets me off his shoulders.

Mark: I want to stay! I want to see the police!

I was almost being dragged back to the car, it had never occurred to me that my father couldn’t take a lot of physical exertion due to his terminal illness.

Robert: Mark.

This is the part that has forever stuck with me.

Robert: When you grow up, will you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned?

Mark: What’s damned?

I had no idea what the words meant and nor would I for years to come, but they stuck by me until I was old enough to understand.

It was his parting words of advice as he didn’t see out the year, the lung cancer finally beating him. I sat alone with my mother as she wept over her lost love.

Life changed from the moment of my fathers death, money was scarce and my mother struggled to put food on the table every night. I was without a father figure and as a consequence I turned radical.

Petty crimes littered my adolescent life, I was too naïve to see it was hurting my mother. I was too ignorant to think how it would affect my future. It took me til I was sent away to boarding school after my list of misdemeanours grew too long.

My teachers told me I could be what ever I wanted, they helped me realise that I had to fulfil my fathers dying wish. From then on I knew, I had to become a police officer.

They told me I could be what ever I wanted to be. They lied.

I applied for basic training, but days before my graduation, and receiving the badge that I had held on a pedestal since realised my dream, I was told I couldn’t be a police officer.

Cleaning out my room was awful, my heart had sunk so low I was kicking it around on the floor. That was when I heard the knock at my door and met the man whose words changed my life.

Sgt. Matthew Gregan asked me to become an undercover officer. I jumped at the opportunity believing that I would still be serving the community. Just like my father asked me to do.

I have lost my way, I haven’t served for four years now. Looking back on my time as an undercover agent I concluded I had done nothing but fail to do what was asked of me.

So the time comes to now. I must become a saviour to those less fortunate. To protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Mark stands infront of his lounge room mirror holding his mask in his hand.

Mark: I will become…

Mark puts the mask over his face quickly tying it up.

Mark: … The judge.

Seth: Gay.

Spinning around Mark sees his new tag team partner leaning against the wall with his ski mask on top of his head and gently resting his hand on the axe handle around his waste.

Mark: What!?

Seth: Why do you need a name to begin with.

Mark: Masked heroes have names.

Seth: No they get given names. By the press. After they become heroes-

Mark: Fine! I won’t take a name.

Seth: Plus… the judge? Seriously?

Mark: I’m not good with names.

Seth: You’re damn right about that. Ready?

Mark: Ready.

Both men head towards the door but as Seth opens the door Mark pushes it shut.

Mark: We shouldn’t wear our outfits out.

Seth: Yes, your vagina won’t like that.

Mark: They are outfits, how does calling something what it is make it gay?

Seth: First off, I didn’t say gay I called you a girl. Second, they are disguises not outfits!

Mark: Regardless, its still a good point.

Grabbing a bag Seth throws his items into a bag, Mark soon follows suit and the pair finally leave the building.


Seth and Mark are sitting in Mark’s car, with Seth in the drivers seat and Mark in the passengers seat fiddling around with a radio.

Seth: Something from your hey-day?

Mark: A police scanner, and yes I got it back in my hey-day.

Seth: So not only were you on the supply of crime you also harboured the cause of justice?

Mark: I had to fit the part.

Mark finishes fiddling and switches the police scanner on and the silence in the car is replaced by inane police chatter.

Mark: Now we wait.

Seth: Indeed.

Mark winds down his window and lights a cigarette, relaxing into his chair after the first puff.

Seth: You really want to be The Comedian don’t you?

Mark: Nah, it’s the idea around the mask. I don’t want to become Andrew Shiner.

Seth: Who?

Mark: Basically he thought he was Rorschach, which was cool until the movie came out.

The mask is an opportunity, to hide what I really am. Mark Johansson has emotions, emotions that have held him back in the past. Anger that boils over possibly losing the one person I have ever truly loved.

Behind a mask Mark Johansson doesn’t exist and nor does his failings.

Scanner: 911 call for a fire on the corner of North 20th and West Toronto, all available units respond!

Mark: That’s our call!

Seth kicks the car into gear and starts to drive erratically towards the fire with Mark rattling off the route.

Seth: So… why a fire?

Seth makes a hard left, the car skidding into the oncoming lane before returning to the right side.

Mark: Because people will need to be saved.

Seth: I thought we were busting up thugs.

Mark: We will get to that!

The flames can be seen pouring into the night sky as Seth slides the car to a stop at a safe distance, both men jump out and rush towards the closed door.

Mark: Courage Seth, Courage.

Mark attempts to kick in the door, it shakes but doesn’t bust open, he tries again but fails once more.

Seth: Watch and learn!

With one swift kick Seth smashes the door open snapping the door open.

Mark: To be fair, you’re much fatter than me.

Seth runs into the burning building and Mark follows, bounding up the stairs they part ways. Mark going left he sees a closed door at the end of the hall. Leaning close he can hear the cries of people inside.

Mark: Legs don’t fail me now!

Mark leans back and lays a boot just above the lock the door swinging open, flames blow out as Mark ducks through the doorway.

Staying low he keeps moving towards the cries for help smoke is quickly filling the room and Mark starts to look around panically. Time is of the essence.

Mother: Help us!

Mark enters the bedroom where he heard the cry seeing a mother with her two juvenile children huddled in a corner.

Mark: I am here to help!

The mother tries to force Mark to leave her but he heaves her over a shoulder and picks up a child under each arm.

Mark: Keep your mouths covered!

Moving out of the room and into the hallway the weight starts to take its toll on Mark’s knees but he presses on.

Suddenly a door to his left blasts open sending Mark do his knees. In a superhuman effort Mark finds his feet, eventually finding the stairs but the fire has taken its toll.

Mark: The weight won’t take us all! You need to save yourself! I will protect the children!

The mother slides off, and Mark looks towards the entrance to see Seth shouting through the entrance, carefully the mother navigates down the stairs but halfway down the stairs begin to give way.

Seth: RUN!

The mother runs down the stairs and into the safety of Seth’s arms, the stairs begin to crumble leaving Mark with a two metre gap.

Taking a deep breath Mark leaps, his feet landing but unable to keep his footing and rolls down the remaining steps. Seth comes barging in and helps the uninjured children to their feet before leaving. Mark follows as the roof caves in.

Mark: Thanks Seth, I guess you risk my life twice you should save it once.

Mark looks around him, Seth had saved a family of four, all of them looking horrified.

Mark: You’re safe now, you’re homes are burnt but you still have each other.

Mother: Who are you?

Mark: Whoever we need to be.

Turning tail both Seth and Mark head towards the car, leaving the people the have save gawking at their backs.

Back in the car, before Seth starts the car he turns to Mark.

Seth: A Lord of the Rings Quote? Really?!

Starting the car the pair speed off and move to a secluded car park to assess their wounds.

Seth: I must admit, they were scared when I first showed up.

Mark: You’re wearing a fucking ski mask what do you expect?

Seth: Smiles. Is it so hard to ask for a smile?


Mark laughs as he bandages the burn he received on the left side of his neck.

Mark: I think that was a job well done.

Seth: Except I saved more than you.

Mark: Everything is a competition to you.


Once again Seth and Mark are waiting in his car.

Seth: Any word from Natalie?

Mark: No.

Seth: That’s a good thing.

Mark: I suppose.

Seth: You should call her.

Mark: I destroyed her bosses car, I can’t call her.

Seth: Well she doesn’t know, or else she would of sent the necklace back.

Mark: She won’t send it back.

Seth: She will, when she stops having feelings for you.

Mark: I messed up Seth, I know I did, but I can’t keep getting in her face all the time.

Seth: It’s been twice.

Mark: And look at the outcomes, first time was after she posted bail for me.

Seth: And then there was the beating of a car.

Mark: It was sickening, I had no idea what I was doing.

Seth: So you are giving her space?

Mark: Yes.

Seth: You could do a Spider-Man thing, Peter Parker doesn’t get the girl.

Mark: This is real life, not a comic book.

Seth asked me once to join the fight to clean up Full Metal Wrestling, to bring in a new righteous era. Luckily as a tag team member and as a friend he is standing with me through what many may view as a radical change, but I feel I must do this. I must fulfil my fathers dying wish and be the saviour that he always wanted me to be.

NO NEED TO VOTE FOR ME JARO!

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters)

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels


-Corruption 11.1 LIVE from Washington, DC-



Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint


-Distortion 11.1 LIVE from Buffalo, New York-



Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury)
LION FACEPALM FTW

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru


-Corruption 11.1 LIVE from Washington, DC-



Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Tough call.

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo


-Distortion 11.1 LIVE from Buffalo, New York-



Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru


-Corruption 11.1 LIVE from Washington, DC-



Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo


-Distortion 11.1 LIVE from Buffalo, New York-



Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels


-Corruption 11.1 LIVE from Washington, DC-



Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
"The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint

-Distortion 11.1 LIVE from Buffalo, New York-



Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost

Immediately after Lethal Injection…

Amongst the darkened, hollowed halls of the backstage area of Lethal Injection, a hunt was beginning. One man stood over the line; he made a move he shouldn’t have. Anger was brewing, darkness was falling and soon these halls would have the distasteful smell of blood. The elimination chamber had just been decided, Frost was continuing to pose with his belt, allowing the realization to finally take hold, yet it was only seconds after that his fallen opponent in Leon Caprice, regained himself and slid out of the ring and out of the chamber. He had lost again, another chance falling into the void, yet it wasn’t himself that he was blaming, and that was sorely evident as he past through the curtains without a recognition to the crowd.

Leon: SKYLER!

The anger was rising, pushing the veins to the surface of his skin, tensing the muscles of his body til he was as solid as the walls he continued to pass and as the drips of sweat raced down his heated body. The anger continued to rise, the longer he called, the longer he waiting to see his deceiver the more the hatred grew.

Leon: SKYLER!!

Turning swiftly down the main hallway passing the majority of locker rooms he began to pay attention to his surroundings, The doors to the locker rooms and the variety of people around him now came into his vision, not from a relieving of his anger, but in knowledge of ways to find the victimizer. Hurriedly and purposefully he looked around to find one man he could grasp and interrogate, one person he could rip the answers out of. With his mind incomprehensible, he reached out, forcefully grasping the collar of a backstage crewman.

Leon: Where did he go?

Crewman: I don’t know who yo-

Leon: SKYLER!!

In the fragile state that they crewman had instantaneously formed into he diffidently lifted his arm to point further down the hall, trying to accompany his action with words, a sharp and high-pitched tone finally was emitted.

Crewman: D-down the corridor. T-to the parking lot.

Leon: Thanks.

In his hurried state, Leon would sweep through the rest of the hallway, with a singular thought in mind and only one person he’d stop for. With the vivid image of Skyler delivering that final attack circling Leon’s mind, the thought of seeking reason with Skyler was fastly dwindling. Who was he to interfere, who was he to hold Leon back, and who was he to dictate who would ultimately defeat him. No, there was no apology that Leon would accept, no amount of remorse he could show, Skyler was beyond Leon, and he was slowly realizing that.

Leon: SKYLER!!

Taking the first step into the concrete slabbed indoor parking lot, Leon swiftly observed the movements in front of him, carefully analyzing every car and every person within the compound, searching for his man.

Leon: SKYLER!

His voice was growing in its tone, the fierce malevolence that had bottled up was ready to exhaust, his eyes were rage induced and his expression was one of deep acrimony. Nothing could stop him now.

Leon: SKYLER I KNOW YOU’RE HERE!

Leon began to steadily step into the compound, not allowing for a single motion to go unchecked. Yet as he continued to walk purposefully within the parking lot, he finally saw what he wanted to see. There packing his wrestling bag into the back seat of his car stood Skyler Striker, the man of selfish desires and slithering demands. With little hesitation Leon approached, readying himself for the duel of words and fists that would surely occur. Hearing his voice only moments before it wasn’t unexpected for Skyler to hear Leon’s steps towards him and give a glance behind him, in knowing that Leon was indeed there, and in a rage of sorts, Skyler’s best option would be to defuse the situation, and with the common use of mindful games with Leon, he would try once more.

Skyler: So you found me.

The words were nothing to Leon, simply the intro to allow him to give reason to his reciprocating words, and justly he unloaded.

Leon: WHAT THE HELL SKY! WHY’D YOU DO IT!!

Skyler calmly gave a pause, allowing Leon’s building anger and frustration to hold out til his reply. With moments passing by, he eventually responded.

Skyler: I don’t have to justify myself to you.

Leon: When your crap starts interfering with me, then you do!

By now Leon had prominently walked beside Skyler, with a stance in front of the driver side door, not allowing Skyler to slip away into the night. Although, the more time went on, the more it seemed like Striker wanted to stay, to play with Leon’s state of mind a bit more.

Skyler: What do you want me to say, that I’m sorry?

The words echo through the parking lot as Leon begins to comprehend why Skyler would say that.

Leon: It would help.

Skyler: Well I’m not, I have nothing to be remorseful over.

The contrast in personalities was beginning to show heavily now. Skyler was resting back onto his car with his arms casually crossed, whereas Leon with fists clenched and muscles tensed was begin to try and work through Skyler’s words, almost in an effort to break him completely.

Leon: What the heck is wrong with you?

Skyler: You are what’s wrong with me.

Leon: Oh yeah, tell me that please.

The flow of the conversation was getting to Skyler’s relaxed state as he lifted himself from the car and stood standing towards Leon, with a point to make, he readied himself to speak.

Skyler: You’re below me, a rising star on Distortion, someone who doesn’t realize he’s been carried in every match he’s won for the past 2 months, you can’t win without me, you can’t draw attention without me, and now you try to take me out.

Leon: Hey I can take care of myself and you need help.

Skyler: Can you? Without me by your side you lost to Faith, Syanide and oh Me!

Leon: That didn’t mean anything tonight.

Skyler: No your right, its nothing, I haven’t proven myself better than you and I didn’t deserve to see you lift the belt I held.

Leon: Hey! I eliminated you fair and square, and don’t forget it was YOU who backstabbed me first.

Skyler: Clearly I didn’t stab you hard enough.

Tempers were rising, both men were beginning to grind their teeth and clench their fists tightly.

Leon: So why did you backstab me in the first place?

Skyler changed his attitude from a raging anger to one of passive aggression as he lowered his tone of voice.

Skyler: Because why would I give a man who is obsessed with changing me a chance to prove himself better than me.

…A slight pause entered as Leon built his words.

Leon: Because this man isn’t trying to ruin you or break you to pieces, I just want to help you.

Skyler: I don’t need help, and definitely not from you!

With those words the aggression spilt out from Skyler’s body and shoved Leon away from his car and in the short period of Leon being pushed away, Skyler managed to slid into the drivers seat and lock the car straight after. With a few seconds for Leon to regain himself and position himself beside Skyler through the glass of the drivers window, he sought a new approach.

Leon: Fine if not for you then what about Leah, what about your children?

In hope of reaching him Leon pressed his hands against the glass window and directed his sight to Skyler. However little could interfere with the twisted mind of Skyler, and being on the other side of 10mm glass didn’t help.

Skyler: They can survive, they have up til now.

Leon: Only because I gave them shelter, what is wrong with you?

Skyler started up the engine of the car, allowing the engine to warm up first he continued the conversation.

Skyler: Nothing is wrong with me, I’m finally free.

Leon: So you think that since you now have no responsibilities as the champ, you can roam wherever you want.

Skyler: Nothing has stopped me yet.

Skyler’s words were truthful, nothing had stopped him, he was still the same old Skyler, the only thing that had changed, is that he now felt slightly invincible. In hearing Skyler’s constant points, it got to Leon. Not because of the aggression in Skyler’s tone or words, but because he was slowly realizing that Skyler was a lost cause. That as much as he could offer to help him, to save him all he was doing was driving Skyler further away.

Leon: You know you are completely right…

Skyler bemused from Leon’s words gave an inquisitive expression.

Skyler: I am?

Leon: You don’t need my help, you are completely fine. That this new you isn’t because of the drugs, it was from the changes of us and your family. We put to much pressure on you, we tried to change you too harshly.

Silence was all that could be heard from Skyler’s lips, he was hearing exactly what he wanted to.

Leon: I need to let you go, I need to stop trying with you and just focus on my career and family. Screw our tag titles, screw trying to save you. You can’t be helped, well not by me… So I’ll give you space, I’ll let you be alone to your own actions.

Skyler: Ahh, thank you?

The words were almost unbelieving from Skyler. How could Leon so quickly change his mind and expressions?

Leon: But I tell you this, there will be a change from me trying to help you and you being completely alone, and with that I want you to promise me one thing.

Skyler: I’m listening…

Leon: That if you drive off tonight with a sense of freedom, try your hardest to live free of me, take as many drugs as you want, deprive yourself of hours of sleep, sleep with all the girls and don’t worry about God.

A stunned expression is all Skyler was sporting as Leon continued to speak.

Skyler: Are you being serious?

Leon: I’m not kidding Sky, if I can’t help you then you just need to do what you want. Be yourself and live free of me and your family. But promise me if you chose this, you’ll try your hardest to never turn back, and then we’ll see where your heart truly lies.

Skyler lets out a small chuckle as the last of Leon’s words were spoken.

Skyler: Still clinging to hope are you… nothing will change will it.

With those words Skyler dropped the hand brake and readied the car into 1st gear.

Skyler: I am Skyler Striker, and nothing you do will stop me, you can’t touch me, not now, not ever.

With that Skyler brings the clutch up and reeves the car forward as the wheels begin to turn and Skyler would begin to roll out of the compound, leaving Leon still standing in the spot next to the drivers window, and with his hand still outstretched.

Leon: I could never reach you Skyler, it’s up to God if you are to be saved. For I don’t know you anymore…You are the havoc I have begun to fight…


I am Leon Caprice…

I am a seeker of opportunities

I am a man of justice

I am a human of faith

I am a son of God

I am the student of Skyler

I am the enemy of havoc

I am a father in waiting

I am a husband in life

I show remorse

I give healing

I live wisely

And I seek carefully

I am a loving man

A trustworthy man

A Godly son

And now a seeker of sins

God has gifted me

He has given me eyes to see

I can see clearly now

I shall not judge

Yet I shall not stay quiet

I can see sin everywhere

And its time to clean it up.

The scene opens into the locker room of Leon Caprice, kneeling down finishing his pre-match rituals by tying his laces was Leon Caprice, a determined man. Still sporting the heavy strapping around his wrist, the pain from it was still aching, yet the strapping helped. He didn’t want to take meds for it, the pain proved as a reminder to what he was fighting for. With the injury dating back to Supremacy, where Skyler, the same man who he now shuns proved he had more to fight for. Finishing with his laces, Leon lifts his gaze and checks his strapped wrist, rotating it while stretching it also to prove to himself that there are no problems with it. Just as Leon would lift himself from the locker room bench, a stern knock hit the wood of the door. With the golden metal handle twisting slowly the thoughts raced into Leon’s mind as to who it could be, who would need his presence right now?

Sure enough through the blinding light of the hallway closing behind the figure as he closed the door behind him appeared Skyler Striker, entering in with casual daytime clothing it would seem that he wasn’t at 11.1 to wrestle, yet why did he want to see Leon, has he already sought remorse?

Leon’s expression changes to one of high complexion, dealing with the emotion-filled thoughts of Skyler’s past actions, his last conversation, the same old Striker that he use to call his friend and the thought that there is still hope in Skyler. The thoughts came as a rush of blood to the head for Leon as he tensed his facial muscles and lowered his eyebrows to deliver a sharp glare to Skyler. Leon casually pushed himself off the bench to stand eye to eye with Skyler, if this was to be another demanding confrontation, it was surely building into one nicely.

Skyler: Hey, man. How’s the wrist?

The words seemed almost oblivious to the feelings they would both be feeling, and how their last conversation ended. Yet Leon seemingly was taking the defensive role, as his mind was trying to regain focus on his upcoming match.

Leon: You’d know more than me. What do you want? And how can you even walk in here-

Skyler: Hey, hey, Leon! Calm down! Look, I didn’t come to fight! I, uh... I came to apologize.

Believe was nowhere in Leon’s mind as those words slid past Skyler’s forked tongue.

Leon: Bull. Get out, Skyler.

Leon’s animosity-filled gaze deepened as he responded to Skyler’s hesitation to say he came to apologize. With his fists now clenched together and the veins in his arms rising up Leon took a few steps forward, yet only to be stopped with Skyler’s impatient words and protective palm out to stop Leon’s advancement

Skyler: No, Leon, hear me out, okay? Look, I know I pulled a bad move at Lethal Injection, alright? I screwed up. I shouldn’t have attacked you. I was pissed because I’d been eliminated, and you know how much that belt means to me, but I still had no right to ruin your chances. I’m sorry. I really mean it.

Leon was hearing him, he was seeing the emotion behind the words, it seems like Skyler meant it, but how to be sure, how to know this is a new chapter?

Leon: Last time I believed we were allies you backstabbed me – in the same match you’re apologizing for!

Skyler: I know! I know. I can’t do anything more than apologies and hope we can fix this. You’re my co-tag team champion, we need to be on the same page!

Voices were rising, purposes were being felt, the confrontation was fully formed and it was now to Leon’s decision to take the risk and trust the drug-addicted man in front of him, or to turn his back on him, close the book of Crash Scene, and keep butting heads with Skyler til he felt true remorse. Consumed in the decision in front of him, Leon turned away from Skyler, not allowing the outward emotions of Skyler to make this decision partial.

Skyler: Look, I can prove that our friendship, our partnership, means more to me than the Abandoned Championship does. I ruined your chance at winning it, and I still have a rematch for it. Let me give it to you.

Skyler was willing to give up the very essence of what he’d been fighting against Leon for since Supremacy. Why the sudden change? What induced Skyler to offer up his rematch? Who was the man now in front of him, was it the Skyler of old?

The opportunity filled words from Skyler encouraged Leon to turn back to him, to see for himself the sincerity in Skyler’s eyes, to see if the snake was still squirming around or if his old friend was himself once more.

Leon: You... you mean it? You’d give me a one on one match with Frost for the title?

The words were filled with scouting questions, two questions that would give Leon the definite answer he sought.

Skyler: No lies. I was scheduled to have a rematch with him tonight for the belt, but I can arrange to give it to you. You deserve it, not me.

The words seemed to be legit, this man, this corrupted man was now offering up his very platform. Without the title Skyler would be able to take the time to heal, to finally seek his family once more, to be the man Leon once admired. As the thoughts continued to run within Leon’s head, finalizing if he would indeed trust in Skyler Striker and take up his offer. To reciprocate in actions, Skyler reached out with his hand, leaving Leon to now make the ultimate decision.

To embrace the corrupted and face the distorted, or to become the abandoned and face the wicked…

Giving Skyler one more look over and finalizing his decision, Leon reached forward and shook the hand of his tag partner.

Skyler: I’ll go let Smitten know, alright? Get ready, Frost isn’t a pushover.

The words finalized Leon’s thoughts, he had made the long term decision, he would continue the ride with Skyler, to take the ups and downs, to take what he can and give what he must. Skyler had done the right thing tonight, whether through pure guilt or in an effort of repentance. Either way Leon was now facing the man who sought to break Skyler, the man who sought repentance and ended up in havoc… One stone at a time.

Leon: Thanks. It means a lot... but you're not off the hook completely.

Leon’s words were just of a verbal contract, both men knew the shaky grounds on which their friendship was on, both realised that each man was two-faced in their opinion of the other. In response to Leon’s words Skyler simply replied with a nod of acceptance and casually reaching for the doorknob as his warm hands envelope the cold metal of the door knob, slinging the door open and allowing the noise and artificial light of the crowded hallway to seep in. With a final glance back Skyler vanished, leaving Leon in solitude, and standing still, trying to grasp the full understanding of what just took place.

Moments passed as Leon began to think and move in unison, gradually lowering himself onto the bench behind him to deliberate what has now changed. Skyler was acting in good faith, the title was once again within grasp and he would finally have the opportunity to rise to the platform that would allow him to shape the brand that’s aptly named distortion.

There was no more time to idly think, action was needed, so as the nerves of the confrontation dimmed, the adrenaline and enthusiasm of the coming match took over. An overwhelmed emotion portrayed the inner thoughts of Leon as he rose purposely from the wooden bench and strode into the open hallway. With the hall beginning to fill with crew and wrestlers alike, Leon needed one final confrontation of authority, to finally prove that Skyler meant his word and that the opportunity was valid.

With the urgent task at hand, Leon swiftly passed through the hallways, dodging through the crewmen settling gear crates wherever they could fit. Yet nothing could stop Leon, like a bat out of hell he raced through the halls, every step quickening his pace. He needed to know; he needed to rely on more that trust and with that driven thought he stopped at the door to Smitten’s office. With little hesitation he grasped the cold doorknob and promptly opened the door, with a gush of the cold hallway air flowing into the room, Leon was greeted with a rather concerning event. There with a table in between and both standing was Smitten and Skyler shaking hands.

That can’t be good…

Leon’s entrance caught the attention of both men, however it seemed like the surprise of Leon was prophesied as Smitten delivered a light notice before finishing his dealing with Skyler and diverting his attention to Leon.

Smitten: So Striker here has informed me that you’ve got the prime spot now.

Leon: Correct.

Smitten looks down to his desk and lifts a singular piece of paper up, finalizing the paper before dropping it once more onto the desk.

Smitten: The change has been made, however did Skyler tell you about the match stipulation?

The possibilities came in a rush of thoughts. Cage match, ambulance match, scaffold match, TLC match…There was to many to think of, better to just ask.

Skyler: I did not.

Smitten: Well then let me tell the surprise, your match is –wait…you can find out yourself.

Leon: What! How am I going to know, how will I prepare or know when I’m up for my match.

A slight snicker came from both men.

Smitten: I’m sure someone will fill you in before your match. Enjoy the title shot Mr. Caprice, hope it bolds well for you.

Smitten finished his words with a highly amused smile on his face, he knew what it was and he knew it would be good. Leon should have suspected it. When has Smitten done something simple, when has something been what it could be suspected to be. What match is it? How would Leon win a match he doesn’t know about?

With the thoughts continuing to plague Leon’s mind, he turns with a farewell to both men in the form of a nod and backs towards the door and eventually passing through it. By now the enthusiasm for his title match had shifted to pure nerves, there were too many variables now, and how was Leon to rise to the opportunity if he didn’t know what the opportunity was.

Moments passed as Leon retracted his steps back to his locker room, passing through the same hallways as before and lowering his gaze to detract himself from passing glares. It was a weird feeling not knowing what was rushing towards you, whether it was something you could excel at, or something that would test you to your limits. But truly it would come down to owning your burdens, whether it’s deciding what your priorities really are, looking for something to hang your hat on, or just relieving yourself by seeing what other people have to deal with. Each of these thoughts would plague Leon on his journey back to his locker-room, trying to sort out his life before it stepped up another level. And as Leon passed through the door of his locker room, he found solace in his heart, he had found the answers he was looking for. Although God would play a key role in this from a spiritual level, it was his decision and he needed to step up and be the man he use to be. No more judgment, no more excuses or failures, it was time for Leon to be the man he is meant to be.

And it all starts with this…

Suddenly a spontaneous vibration emitted from his jumper pocket is realised and in time Leon reacts to bring it into sight and lift it to his ear, pressing the answer button to relieve the calling noise.

Leon: This is Leon.

Leah: Leon, its Leah!

There was a change of tone in Leah’s voice, she was panicking and nervous, what was wrong?

Leon: Is everything ok?

A scream could be heard in the background…it was Sarah.

Leah: It’s Sarah, something’s wrong!

Four words Leon wish he didn’t hear. What could he do, what could be done?

Leon: What’s happened, is she ok!!

The nerves were over-reacting within Leon, the tension of the match was now channeled into his love for Sarah, the adrenaline kicking in as Leon nervously sat down on the wooden bench like before, trying to put himself into a calm and relaxing state as he tried to figure it out.

Leah: She feel Leon! She was in the kitchen cooking dinner and next I saw she was screaming on the floor…

The priorities were beginning to switch around, the title meant nothing now, and it was all Sarah, was she ok? How was the baby? Would both of them come out ok?

Leon: Ok, where is she now?

The nerves were lifting in Leah’s heavy breathing, she was struggling to deal with it. If only Leon was there.

Leah: She’s on the couch, trying to relax, but the pain isn’t going away…

Leon: Can you get her to a hospital?

The pause entered the conversation as Leon waited anxiously for a reply. With Leah lifting her cheek from the phone he no longer heard her breathing, but instead the constant painful gasps from Sarah, It was killing him inside.

Sarah: LET’S GO!!

Leah: Yeah, I’ll drive her to St Vincent’s.

Leon quickly thought of the essentials, where was he, where was Sarah, how long would it take to get there, what could happen.

Leon: Ok Leah, I’ll meet you there. Be careful and I’ll see you there in 15 minutes…

The fast paced tone in Leon’s voice was increasing as he began to transform his worried thoughts into actions as he begun to untie his shoe laces and undo his bandages.

Leah: Hurry Leon, she needs you…bye.

“Beep, Beep, Beep”

She had hung up. What a turn of events, what stresses that would leave Leon with. One side to stay and support Skyler by taking his offer, by taking control of his job and letting his career be in his hands, or be with his wife, become the family man he was hoping to be. The choice was lopsided, and respectably Leon prepared for his departure.

???: I can drive you if you want?

…Wait a minute that voice is familiar, dark, deep and of few words…Oh no!

???: Just not to where you want to go.

WHACK!!

The cold steel of a lead pipe echoed onto the back of Leon’s head as he found the floor within two seconds of impact. Yet before the lights faded and the noises fell to nothing, Leon’s lips made out three words as he spun to see his attacker.

Leon: …Havoc… Bald…Sarah…

And with that Leon’s eye lids covered the light, his lips laid to a still point and his attacker admired his cunning work.

Syanide: Havoc will be wrought Mr. Caprice, starting with you in our house!

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru




Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo




Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru




Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo




Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

EMT: ODH, we have a mid-twenties male found down..unresponsive...possible overdose...substance unknown...pulse is sixty-and-thready...respiration is eight, he's intubated and we're baggin' him now...uh, BP is ninety over palp. Patient is cool, pale, and diuretic...exasperated...Uh, GSC is three, we'll update en route--ETA ten minutes...

From the desk of Dr. Cardinal James Arkham

Friday May 7th, 2010

Mood: Speculative

Déjà vu…

These feelings are all so..familiar.

So regular…

So safe.

The feeling of repetition is something the human mind enjoys. Our psychological construct dictates the familiarity of pattern and process. We would like to break from cycles but the truth is that our very nature tells us to continue in them. The very nature of our addictions and vices tells us that we wish to conform, not oppose. That we wish to be servants and not kings. That we enjoy being told what to do, how to do it, when to do it, where to do it at – so on and so forth. Bow, stand up, sit down, sing, pray, worship. As monotonousness as this seems, the repetition of behavior gives us purpose and structure to the very chaos that engulfs our lives. The rigors and ritual of church did that for me so very long ago. There was order amongst chaos; a safety net to catch me in case my failings as a human being overwhelmed the sense of control I thought I had over my life. God’s hands were there to support my fragile ego, mold it and cajole it with sweet, comforting words of wisdom and compassion.

See, the Bible has a very revolutionary take on the power of the human mind for those that look past the allegorical poetic meter and prose. There are those that believe that the Judea-Christian Faith have some of the oldest methods of psychology in the very texts millions of people across the world now hold in their hands. Consequently, there is also a degree of insanity in the belief that there is an invisible figure of omniscient power and majesty who oversees our squalid, insignificant, sputtering, and finite lives. The concept of such seems frighteningly oxymoronic given the Bible’s stance on free will with the counters of predestination. But the Bible’s key message about the mind is that it has absolute power beyond that of even God’s to those who could interpret it as such. The power of belief and of a single thought has wrought much suffering and joy over the million or so years we now believe humanity to have existed. And in that span, the constants are the same.

Warfare.

Bloodshed.

Poverty.

Neglect.

Constant themes that seem to only repeat themselves glibly across the simplistic and almost banal etchings we call “human history”. As if God Himself was purposely picking the needle off the record of “progress” and playing it back on the same unharmonious stanza.

And then there was William Abraxsus Hilliard III. Someone who seems to break the mould of the typical break from sanity. You see, I do not believe that William is particularly sick but rather his consciousness has found a way to evolve. It’s a humbling and sobering thought that after one meeting, he’s had this effect on me. However, the evidence is simple and, perhaps, more frightening still.

When first diagnosed, William was called what is an “aggressive narcissi”. His bleak, grim, glib demeanor, grandiose sense of self-worth, pathological lying, lack of remorse or guilt, lack of empathy are all symptoms that lead to this diagnosis. Alas, the criteria he doesn’t meet is personal responsibility for his actions. William chooses to act this way and takes accountability if not pride in his actions of being different. Breaking also from the arch type is that, generally, aggressive narcissi are solitary creatures. They do not co-habituate with other personality times (including their own) nor do they form emotional attachments to them. Despite his questionable behavior regarding his niece, my interaction with him leads me to believe that somewhere, he genuinely cares for Allyce. I may be pressed to say that she is an object of obsession to which he connects to his human identity or sense-of-self; that she is an anchor to the last remaining vestiges of sanity and that keeps him from going completely off the deep-end and committing heinous acts of murder if you’ll forgive my unprofessional annotations.

In this, he his co-dependent on her existence and she – his from my last session. And from this, they are addicted to the very presence of one another. She provides him with a side of his family he was denied since birth, giving him love and adoration of a matriarch figure whereas he provides her with a strong, amoral, restriction-free parental figure absent from all the rules and regulations that come with being the daughter of an oil czar. I’m getting too far ahead of myself in my diagnosis so perhaps I should start from the beginning of where I began to postulate this thesis by providing a little context of William’s familial history.

William Abraxsus Hilliard III was born on June 13th, 1986 to Irene Michelle Saddler (19) of Odessa, Texas – an aspiring nurse turned waitress to support a party girl lifestyle once moving to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metro area and William Abraxsus Hilliard II (48), spoiled son and single heir to William Hilliard Sr., founder of Hilliard Standard Oil Trust. Hilliard II or “Junior” as he was known to his critics and allies alike was a vain man with a history of purported drug use, debauchery, and social decadence. His charisma, charm, good looks, and influence of his wealthy family made it hard for people to say no to him. Coming across like a gentleman and a rogue all at once, he had a history of impulsive, rash behavior. Then, it was simply the case of him being a man-child not quite ready to grow up. Now, we would have termed it as bi-polar disorder.

Junior was trapped in a loveless marriage to Louisiana State Senator and former Miss Louisiana 1963 Josephine Croix (43) – a shrewd woman who by all accounts was cold, calculating, and manipulative, leading one to believe that someone such as Junior was ill-suited for the southern princess. Be that as it may, she was a fine trophy to add to a family of considerable wealth and power and bore Junior four offspring – Thomas (23), Ross (17), Nathaniel (7), and Julie Anne. Julie Anne, their only daughter, passed at three months of age from a rare blood disorder approximately a year before William’s conception. One could speculate that this was the catalyst that drove Junior into the arms of Miss Saddler, an unwed waitress whom he met by engaging in a tailspin of petulant, irrational behavior. From there, it seemed that the Hilliard family was cursed. Ross was killed in a well-publicized automobile accident, Nathaniel drowned under mysterious circumstances, and Junior himself suffered a cataclysmic aneurism all during the same year of 1989, leaving only Thomas, father to Allyce, and Josephine Croix-Hilliard as the sole proprietors of the Hilliard Standard Oil Trust. Today, Josephine is currently retired to the family’s country estate outside of Irvine whereas Thomas is CFO on the board of directors for Nyecon Energy Solutions, one of the five largest energy firms in the United States, after it merged with Hilliard Standard Oil in 1999 as well as a minority stake owner in the National Football League’s Dallas Cowboys(Source: Blackgate Institute Subject Profile Index).

Given the likenesses between father and son, one could infer one of two possible scenarios have created this disturbing trend of history repeating itself. Either William is attempting to emulate the pattern his absentee father had created for himself out of some misbegotten quest to feel connected to his late patriarch or the more disturbing possibility is the theory of genetic inheritance – meaning the progeny has inherited the “bad” behavioral traits from the parent. Either scenario could possibly trigger the aforementioned break from sanity. Though I’d like to think that with treatment here, William can avoid this break and become a productive, valued member of society not to mention contracted Full Metal Wrestling superstar. Today’s session with both William provided me with some decent footage for study and reflection so as to further delve deeper into this puzzling quandary.

As I fall deeper into a manic state/I'm a prime candidate for the gene to receive the drug addict trait/
Blood pressure climbs at a dramatic rate/I seem to gravitate to the bottle of NyQuil then I salivate.

I hope and pray..yes pray that history does not repeat itself. And I aim to cure this man of his wickedness.

A picture blinks to life on screen, the [REC] icon hovering in the upper left hand corner. Though digital, the picture quality is grainy and distorted. Instead of a non-ornate room, the camera adjusts to the bright hues of brown and gold with opaque pink and brown masses moving at intermittent paces through what appears to be mud. Upon further tampering, the lenses focus and the masses moving at odd, lumber paces appear to be swine inside a white-fenced in closure. The in closure sits upon a flat pitch with earthy, dry ground beneath the blazing heat of the sun that simmers and settles in the left side of the sky, sinking closure towards the horizon. The swine bustle busily in their merriment or stupidity, lamely basking in mudpacks to contend with the encroaching summer heat. Though three of these number are oddities. They languish and breathe heavy, labored, rattling breaths in drawn out, dramatic fashion. And they are quite stationary, laying side by side with their swollen bellies protruding in bloated fashion. Their dull eyes struggle to remain open as a booted foot crunches dirt beneath its weight beside the invalid bodies.

With a confident stride, the booted feet are joined by gloved hands, extrapolated by broad, long fingers that coiled around the corpulent bodies of the swine to check their vitals. This lead to the Sunkist figure of Apathy, brow furrowed in consternation whilst he surveyed the three malformed piglets and gave a nasty grin of triumph.

A: I do believe they are ready…

C: The date is May 7th, 2010. The time? 3:42 PM Central Standard. Hello and good afternoon, this is Doctor Cardinal J. Arkham representing the Blackgate Institute on behalf of Roy Enterprises in conjunction with Full Metal Wrestling. This is an evaluation of the mental health state of one William Abraxsus Hilliard III in accordance with guidelines specified in the outline of Full Metal Wrestling’s ‘Wellness Policy’. The ordinance states that each new independent contractor must undergo seven sessions of psychiatric evaluation during the first year of employment with Full Metal Wrestling and as part of their probationary employment, pass a psyche evaluation given the discretion of their attending physician. What are we doing out here today, William?

A: Proving a point, James. Proving a point. Sit down. Have a seat. Enjoy the show. As I was just saying, I do believe these subjects are ready.

C: Oh? Ready? Ready for what, exactly? They don’t look particularly plump enough to be slaughtered. Or healthy enough for that matter. In fact, they look simply dreadful.

A (mockingly): Did I hear a twinge of panic in your voice, Doc? Don’t have the stomach for this sort of thing? The cajones?

C (disgustedly): Just because I don’t relish in the death of a creature of God does not mean I don’t the stomach for a necessary function of working on a ranch. But must you honestly do that while we’re having one of our sessions?

A: The out-patient program is supposed to accommodate and catch the patient in their natural habitat, correct?

C: That’s the general idea behind it, yes.

A: Well this is me in my most natural, bare essentials, Skip. So we’re going to do things my way this time and not complain about it.


‘Maybe just a nice cold brew, what's a beer?’/ That's the devil in my ear I been sober a fuckin' year/And that fucker still talks to me, he's all I can fuckin’ hear/ 'Billy, come on we'll watch the game it's the Cowboys and Buccaneers'.

And maybe if I just drink half I'll be half buzzed for half of the time/Who's that mastermind behind that little line? /With that kind of rational man I got half a mind/To have another half of glass of wine sounds asinine.


C (exasperatedly): Fine. What exactly is wrong with them?

A: Well, they’re sick you see.

C: I can see that, thank you for stating the obvious.

A: Oh I wasn’t questioning your powers of observation. I was simply stating that they are sick though not in the manner that one such as yourself might be able to recognize. Moreover, at this rate, they’ll have been dead by this time tomorrow and their brothers and sisters would begin to feed on their remains. So is the nature of swine to feast on whatever looks most appetizing.

C: Why are they dying, William? What are they sick with?

A: They ain’t right in the head, Doc. Gone funny if you ask me. It could have been the fact that time and pressure creates madness in every being or that I injected them with my own little cocktail of opiates, methylenedioxymethamphetamine, benzydamine just to name a few two times a day for seven months straight.

Now I need something in my stomach ‘cause I haven't ate/Maybe I'll grab a plate of nachos and I'll have a steak/And you'd think that with all I have at stake -- Look at my niece’s face/'Tom, something’s is wrong with Bill, I think! ‘

Arkham becomes aghast with horror, making a step towards the poor, beleaguered creatures. Though Apathy gives him a warning look.

C: Wha-wh-why in the hell would you do something like that, William?!

A (mockingly): Well because, Cardinal. It was a social experiment of sorts. I wanted to know if pigs dream? Or do they have nightmares? Do they conceptualize reality as humanity does given their significant similarities to ours in physiology. Y’see Doc, I had a hunch that if you get a swine addicted to the same intoxicants we pump into our own bodies to forget our identities, I could essentially create life.

Create the context in which a soul was made.

C (disbelievingly): ..You wanted to create a soul so you got a bunch of pigs high?

A: Precisely. But there’s no need to be so crude about it. Look, maybe I should explain it to you. See, the increase in these chemicals has the effect of increasing dopamine and serotonin in the human brain, thus inducing euphoria and elation in the users. Now these feelings of ‘happiness’ and ‘joy’ are followed with terrible crashes of ‘sadness’ and ‘sorrow’. Users would call this the come down if I’m not mistaken given my own dalliance into the world of illicit recreational dru-

Apathy was interrupted as he stroked the middle pig of the three tenderly while Arkham vomited violently. This is, perhaps, triggered by the fact that the farthest pig to the left began gagging and vomiting all over itself, spewing blood-colored bile in a healthy pile that the seemingly healthy gaggle of pigs began to consume hungrily.

C: Urgh…

A (mirthfully): Are you quite finished or can I continue with my story? Good. See, once upon a time not too long ago (which I sure you have somewhere in your files about me), I was experimenting with drugs. Not because I wanted to cleanse myself of identity but because I wanted to embrace it. I wanted to dream, Cardinal. I wanted to be able to experience the human condition as others do. To be pitiable and wretched. Needless to say, it left me in a state of helplessness and from it sprung a crucible that formed over my conscious level of thought. Needless to say, this metamorphosis frightened poor Allyce who, God bless her, uses in order to experience euphoria. Coming off of it, I would sit and ponder simple things in solitude. Contemplate my fate, as it were. I realized then that the world is just as devoid and dispassionate as I claim to be. And that to truly separate myself from humanity and sever any connection I had with it, I would need to destroy my soul.


Yeah, I know. But I never had no problem with alcohol/Ouch! Look out for the wall aim for the couch I'm about to fall/I missed the couch and down I go looking like a bouncing ball/Shit must have knocked me out ‘cause I didn't feel the ground at all.

Wow what the fuck happened last night? Where am I? /Man, fuck am I hungover, and god damn I got a head ache/Shit, half a vicodin. Why cant I? /'All systems ready for take off -- please stand by'.



This task is daunting, however. Where exactly do you start? How exactly does one mutilate the soul to the point of non-existence? In order to destroy, like God before me, I needed to create. And create I did based on the simple premise that those with true, intact souls experience dreams. They experience random fluctuations in mood based on their external stimuli. I couldn’t exactly find subjects that were like me, of course. I’m one of a kind. But animals? Animals are basic, rudimentary, and simple. In lieu of this, I made them more complex with careful experimentation. They needed to be able to distinguish truth from lies. Love from hate. Fear from courage. Community from anarchy. So I segregated one grouping and dosed them with some of this. And I segregated a different grouping and dosed them with some of that. And then there was a grouping that wasn’t dosed with anything at all. And finally, my pride and joys…well they were dosed with everything I had been to see if they reached the same conclusion that I did.

(to be continued)

Apathy: What…y’all are still here looking for some sinister coda or forebodingly symmetrical piece of imagery? That would have required me to have actually tried on this one. I’m really confident I can win this match, guys. So confident, in fact, that I didn’t once mention my opponent by name in my promo. I’ll giveya that I did the same for my debut and that time I didn’t even try to even give an allegorical reference that would go over your small, infantile fuckin’ skulls for you to sift through with a finely sharpened scalpel. And it wasn’t that the quality of opponent on this one was any better. I was, again, informed via management that I need to make more of an effort to promote and showcase the other talent no matter how worthless, insignificant, sniveling, simpering, spineless, disgusting, irritating, fallible, ambiguously queer, and truthfully frightened at the prospect of facing me at full strength I find them to be. Luckily, me being the genius that I am, I found a loophole. So long as I dedicate a portion of my allotted promo time to a depiction of how I feel/what I’m going to do/how good my opponent is, I can score pretty high with the producers. Though I’m inclined to say fuck them and say what I was going to say anyway which is that in my state of confidence, I could utter the word “poop” four-thousand times just to pad the length of this sumbitch out a bit and still come out on top. Now now. I know it’s juvenile, irrational, irrelevant to the context of the contest, slightly out of character, and an unnecessary homage to toilet humor that has no place in a massive entertainment conglomerate.

But then again I wouldn’t exactly be me if I entirely gave a fuck what you or anyone else thought, would I?

Apathy would adjust his clothes as he attempted to smarten up for the camera. He would produce a black fine toothed comb to tend to his lion’s mane, addressing every careening, errant lock with tenderness and poise not yet seen of the brute. With nimble, lithe, flexible digits that snaked and coiled around his scalp, he massaged and kneaded it like dough, erecting what was to be a passable imitation of vanity in a short period of time. Apathy preened himself like a strutting peafowl, nursing a massive ego as his mangled knuckles dropped flaccidly back to his sides, shuffling the comb neatly back into his trouser pockets. His sinewy throat rolled with the direction of his head as he mockingly tossed his hair to catch a glimpse of his reflection inside the camera lenses. Enamored, Bill the Butcher would step closer whilst he bore fangs and checked disturbingly straight bicuspids for plaque or remnants of food particles .

Apathy: Ahem… poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop.

Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. 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Post edited at 1:17 PM on May 14, 2010 by S. Striker. Reason: flaming and/or flame baiting human excrement and not having enough focus on me (read: I’m censoring you because I’m an anal pube).


Now that, ladies and something close to gentlemen, is what we call “shitting on an opponent”. Clear enough message for you there, son? Yeah? Good.

Smoke’em if you got’em. Your career’s just been shortened. Y'should be thanking me, really, that I took the time to actually address you and your wicked ways. But in continuing the trend of not particularly caring about you or giving you any sort of rub from being mentioned in my work, we shall keep this nice and anonymous as if you were the hooker and I your gentleman caller. See, you suffer from addiction. An affliction of the flesh and spirit that causes you to cluck for a fix. Scratch yourself and claw for this thing that you think you need or benefit from. In truth, you do not. This addiction you suffer from is that you are addicted to the concept of your own humanity. You dream a fool's dream, speak with a fool's words, think a fool's thoughts. In the end, you are only human. So very basic and so very frail in your construct, to destroy you physically wouldn't really be palatable to my immense and epicurean tastes. The point I was trying to illustrate is, like the swine, you can be herded and controlled into doing my bidding. Becoming a creation of my own ingenuity and loins and efforts. In this, you have no identity. No sense of purpose. No soul. No being. You are an irrelevant byproduct of my achieving greatness and a failed experiment in excess.

And here is where your addiction comes into play. You cannot, will not, must not quit. For some reason, even if you are horribly and woefully overmatched, you persist as if it is admirable to continue to fight although you know what the results will be. You've already lived through failure and strife. And we all well know the definition of insanity is a person who repeats the same thing, expecting differing results. Unfortunately for you, the results will be the same. You will still be just as irrelevant, useless, spineless, and inadequate as you've ever been. You will learn nothing from being defeated, glean no wisdom or power from being broken, accept no reality but the falsehood you've created in your own troubled, drug addled mind.

I cannot help you, son. So instead, I will simply release you from your misery and scatter your nameless corpse to feed my creations so that they can take from you the overwhelming failure that comes attached to your festering carcass.

Sometimes I feel so alone/I just don't know, feels like I been down this road before/So lonely and cold, it's like something takes over me/Soon as I go home and close the door.


Kinda fels like Déjà Vu/I wanna get away from this place I do/But I can't and I won’t say I tried but I know that's a lie ‘cause I don't/And why I just don't know.....

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru




Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo




Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru


Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo


Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru




Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo




Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

The Comeback Kids
Calvin X Carter
The Broken Saints
Kaoru

The Celt
Apathy
David GS
PX
Romeo

MASS Caesar
Jason Krow
Jaro
Leon Caprice

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters)

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels




Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
"The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint




Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury)

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Ugh…what the fuck?

He rolled over in bed, away from Rachel and onto his stomach, and forced his left arm to the edge of the mattress and over, where it fell limply to the hardwood floor below with a ‘thud’. His eyes creaked open, and in the 4 AM darkness of the bedroom he could see the display of his cell phone, glaring at him from the nightstand and blurring a little around the edges as it continued to announce the incoming call with its incessant vibrations.

Movement at his back; he felt a groping hand scrape lightly across his right arm. “For Christ sakes,” Rachel moaned incoherently, “answer the damn thing.”

With a reactionary grunt of his own, he forced himself closer to the edge of the bed with his right arm, and lifted his left to the nightstand, where his fingers closed around the small, vibrating piece of hardware.

A bit of fumbling with his thumb convinced it to flip open and he brought it to his ear. “Hello?”

There was nothing at first, but in the silence, he thought he could hear a faint rustling on the other end of the line, and he envisioned the caller’s phone jostling around in their pocket as they walked, or maybe jogged, or maybe

fled

ran. He listened to this for several seconds, blinking the sleep from his eyes and slowly raising himself up into a sitting position. Suddenly, a sharp ‘crack’ buried itself deep within his eardrum, and he felt cold all over as terror slid into the pit of his stomach and coiled there, warm and hissing. It had sounded like a gunshot.

“Hello?” he asked again, this time more urgently. “Is anyone there?”

The worry in his voice must’ve startled Rachel into the waking world, because she suddenly sat up next to him. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He ignored her, instead keeping the phone pressed to his ear. He heard another crack, this one louder than the last, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He got to his feet, flicking on the lamp on his nightstand and beginning to pace about the bedroom. Rachel watched him from the bed, her face slowly darkening with worry as he continued to make appeals for a response into the phone.

Suddenly, he heard the distinct sound of a slamming door, and the rustling sound ceased. What replaced it was, in a way, worse – shallow, labored breathing, at first relatively distant, then directly into the phone.

“D-D-Dave…”

His blood ran cold. “…Keith?” he whispered into the handset.

“Dave…I think I’m in trouble…”

He stood there, in the center of their bedroom, wearing nothing but his red-plaid boxers, for a long time; when he spoke, which wasn’t often, his voice was one of shock, and of awe, and of muted fear. From her place on the bed, the off-white sheets tangled around her legs, Rachel watched his face carefully and tried her best to discern what was being said.

She could not.

Finally, after twenty minutes had ticked off the clock, David lowered the phone from his ear.

“Well?” Rachel asked anxiously. “Who was it? What did they want?”

He ignored her for the time being, instead staring down at the phone in his hands. The display glared up at him, announcing in big black letters against a white background:


David frowned, the light from the bedside lamp casting odd shadows across his face. There was no name in the ‘Call from’ space. A few quick button presses brought him to the phone’s ‘Add Contact’ menu, and he summoned up the number that had made the call. David went to enter the name into the contact, and his frown deepened as he slowly, methodically typed the name in.

Keith Smith…

“David,” Rachel said, getting out of bed and crossing the room to stand next to him, “I’m not asking again. Who was that?”

David lifted his eyes to meet hers, and Rachel was stricken speechless by the conglomeration of emotions that swirled within them: the indescribable pain of losing a loved one, the fear for the safety of that same loved one, the knowledge that said fear was in all likelihood justified and that there was nothing he could do so save the loved one from their fate, and, permeating it all, a black anger that was so powerful, so depthless, that Rachel couldn’t help but wonder how loved the loved one really was.

David spoke, his voice a hollow whisper: “It was my brother.”



Full Metal Wrestling presents…

David GS in
To Hell and Back


The midmorning sky was a dull, lifeless gray, and as he and Kyle packed their things into the backseat of the latter’s 2005 Ford Mustang, David couldn’t help but wonder if it was some sort of omen. “You sure that’s everything?” he asked, leaning on the hood and watching as his childhood friend struggled to cram an olive-green military cot into the backseat.

Kyle pushed hard, and with an annoyed grunt managed to get the cot in to the back, which was already filled to capacity with all manner of other stuff – food, drinks, another cot, blankets, et cetera. “Let’s hope so,” he replied sardonically, stepping back from the ‘Stang and admiring his and David’s handiwork. “Because believe you me, we aren’t gonna get anything else in here.”

David said nothing, and continued to regard the overcast heavens above them.

Kyle regarded him worriedly. David had told him very little, other than the fact that his little brother, who Kyle himself only remembered vaguely from their childhoods, had run into some trouble in Kearney, Nebraska, and that the two of them had to go and pick him up before the situation, as David had put it, got any worse.

A seemingly benign explanation, but Kyle had seen something in his friend’s eyes as it was offered – a nameless fear of something that Kyle doubted his mind could even fathom.

“Looks like rain.”

Kyle blinked, and then nodded in hasty agreement. “Yeah,” he said, turning his gaze skywards along with David’s. “Yeah, it does.”

After several straight seconds of silence, Kyle lowered his head back down to find David staring at him, a stony expression that betrayed nothing etched into his facial features. Looking into that expression, he couldn’t help but wonder what was eating at his friend; for as long as he could remember, David Gideon Smith had been one of the must light-hearted, fun-loving people Kyle had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

And yet, this look…

Kyle was again brought out of his reverie by the abrupt slamming of the apartment building’s front door, and he and David both turned to watch Rachel and Nikki, Kyle’s girlfriend, as they descended the front steps. The former looked as if she had been crying – hard – and Kyle didn’t blame her one damn bit. Out of the four of them, only David had any inkling of what he and Kyle were getting into, and Kyle very much doubted that even he knew the full extent of it.

“Ready to go?” Nikki asked softly as she and Rachel approached.

Kyle nodded. “Yeah,” he said, and turned to David for some sort of reinforcement. But the Phenom said nothing, simply staring at his wife with something like regret simmering behind his eyes. “We should, uh…we should go,” Kyle said uncomfortably, wishing somebody would say something.

David nodded stoically, his expression never wavering. “Okay.” He pulled open the passenger’s side door as Kyle circled around to the driver’s side and got in, pausing before closing the door to give Rachel one last look. This time, though, his face softened somewhat, and he forced himself to adopt a soft smile that he hoped would soothe her fears, even if just a little. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “It’ll be okay.”

This time, it was Rachel’s turn to say nothing.

David pulled the passenger door shut as Kyle got in beside him, inserted the key, and started the car. He barely felt the vibrant tremor as the Mustang roared to life, instead focusing all his attention on not looking at Rachel, not giving her any reason to believe that he was doubting himself or his cause. He would find Keith; damned if he wouldn’t.

“You ready?” Kyle asked.

David nodded, eyes faced straight ahead, and they pulled away from the curb.




Driving.

If one was observant enough, one would be able to detect a rather consistent progression while leaving the downtown Omaha area. Skyline gave way to industry; industry gave way to suburbia; suburbia gave way to corn.

Lots and lots and lots of corn.

At times, it grew right up to the side of the road, lining it with stalks towering seven feet or more on both sides and obliterating any sense of open space, despite the fact that there were, in some places, no manmade structures for miles around. David had never liked being in the corn. It wasn’t the vegetable itself – no, he was just as likely to be seen munching on a buttered-up cob as the next guy.

No, what got to him was the isolation, the crushing sense that when you entered the rows, you were cut off from all existence.

David didn’t care for that. No, he didn’t care for that very much at all.

So he dozed, his head lolling against the passenger seat headrest, passing in and out of consciousness as the Mustang sped along down the otherwise-abandoned state highway.




What is this?

…it’s nothing.

*SLAP*

Don’t FUCKING lie to me, Keith, now WHAT IS THIS?!

………

WHAT IS—

YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS!

Just…just get it out of here, okay? If Mom or Dad catch you with this shit, they’ll kill you.

Okay.

I’m serious, dude. Go get rid of it, right now. Pitch it, flush it, burn it, whatever you gotta do, just…I want it gone.

All right, all right, I’m goin’… sheesh.

And Keith?

*sigh* Yeah, Dave?

Stop it. I mean it.

Yeah…yeah, okay.

“Dave. Hey, David, wake up.”

He came awake groggily, grunting ‘What?’ in annoyance and stretching in the passenger seat. When his eyes came open more fully, he saw that they had pulled off of the road and into the parking lot of a gas station. “What’re we doin’ here?”

“Gotta take a leak,” Kyle said matter-of-factly. “You good?”

David nodded, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and Kyle got out of the car.

He hadn’t stopped. No matter how many times he’d told him, Keith still hadn’t stopped. And now here he was, nearly a decade later, hunting the junkie bastard down to save him from whoever the fuck he owed money to and in all likelihood hadn’t paid. There would be guns, and there would be knives, and there would be drug lords, and God-knows-what else.

But David had to save him. If anything happened to Keith, it would be 100% his fault.

“Drugs are bay-ad, mmmkay?” he said to the empty car, and loosed a shrill laugh from within his diaphragm.

Mr. Mackie. Funny guy.

David leaned back in his seat, mulling over how little time he and Kyle actually had to find his brother. Like it or not, he had a job to do; he had a match to compete in on the upcoming taping of Corruption, and he had a matter of days to track down his brother, save him from whatever he needed to be saved from, and make it to Washington DC to wrestle Alistair Wolfe and keep his undefeated streak alive.

His eyes slowly eased shut, and his brow furrowed in his state of semi-sleep.

But I don’t WANNA wrestle…

Shut the fuck up, you big baby.

YOU shut the fuck up.

David’s self-argument was interrupted when Kyle opened the driver’s side door, and he turned to look at his friend as the latter stepped into the car and pulled the door shut. “Have fun in the bathroom?” he asked stupidly.

Kyle cast a sidelong glance in his direction. “Maybe. What’s to ya?”

David shrugged, settling back down in his seat and closing his eyes again. He waited for the car to start…and waited…and waited…but nothing happened. There was no ‘snik’ of the key in the ignition, there was no throaty roar of the engine starting up, and there was no gentle motion as the Mustang pulled out of the parking lot, back onto the highway.

He opened his eyes to find Kyle looking at him intently from the driver’s seat, his eyes dark with concern. “Lemme guess…”

Kyle nodded, unblinking. “We’re not leaving. Not until you tell me every bit of what’s going on with Keith.”

David sat forward in the seat, staring into the empty space in front of him. “You sure you wanna hear this?” he asked contemplatively. “It ain’t pretty.”

“I figured; now tell me.”

David took in a deep breath of air and let it out. He had known this time would come sooner or later; Kyle had never been one for beating around any bush of any kind. But, he supposed, the guy was his friend, and he had agreed to accompany him on this insane little search-and-rescue. Kyle deserved a more detailed explanation than the one he had offered up front.

So, like a good friend, David gave it to him.



OUT! GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS HOUSE!


No! I don’t wanna hear it! I’ll not have any of that SHIT in my house!


I…said…OUT!!!


…..


…..


…I told you to stop…




They arrived in Kearney around midnight, and headed directly for the area of town that Keith had described to David over the phone. It was an abandoned apartment complex, one that had gotten the shit beat out of it by time and the elements.

They pulled into the parking lot on the north side of the complex, which spanned most of a city block, and got out, wielding flashlights.

“This the place?” Kyle asked, playing his light off of the dilapidated buildings before them.

“Yup.”

“And you’re sure he’s in here somewhere?”

“Yup.”

“Alive?”

David said nothing and trudged off across the parking lot, towards the nearest building. Kyle followed, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a shroud.

He caught up to David at the base of the first apartment building, right outside what appeared to be one of the main access doors. David shushed Kyle before setting his hand against the door – a heavy, rusted slab of greenish metal – and pushed. The door eased open silently, exposing the bottom of a stairwell to their eyes.

David entered first, swinging his light around the square column of a stairwell erratically as Kyle followed him in.

The staircase ran all the way to the top of the building, running upwards in a square spiral above them. An open door gaped at them from off to the right, and in the unpleasant silence of that abandoned, forsaken place, they could both hear movement, curiously stealthy, coming from the pitch-black hallway beyond.

“What was this place’s nickname again?” Kyle asked, in a voice that was just barely a whisper.

“Junkieville.”

Kyle gulped. Of course that’s what its nickname was.

Slowly, stealthily in their own right, the pair began to ascend the staircase. Why they chose to go straight to the top of that particular building, which in itself they had chosen at random, neither one could really say. Keith hadn’t specified where he was hiding out in his phone call to David, and subsequent attempts at reestablishing contact had proved fruitless. Regardless, they climbed, passing many more darkened doorways and many more strange noises before finally arriving at that place where there were no more stairs to be climbed, only one last pitch-black edifice in the wall to be entered.

Loathe to leave the stairwell, which was at least sort-of lit by the light pollution outside shining through the windows, they both directed their flashlights down the hallway.

It came at them out of the darkness before either one could really register what it was.

David and Kyle both stepped to the side of the doorway as something that perhaps used to be human – hunched and pale, with very little to no hair on its head and huge, light-deprived, sightless eyes – exploded out of the doorway, crashed into and through the metal railing of the upper landing, and fell, shrieking in some insane litany that neither of them could understand, all the way down to the bottom, where it landed with a meaty thud.

They looked at the busted opening in the railing and then at each other, and ducked through the doorway, suddenly very eager to get away from the sanctuary-turned-tomb.

They peeked in every unlocked room; most were empty, revealing nothing but the signs of intense wear and tear, but some contained sights – ghastly, gruesome sights – that each would carry with him until the day he died.

The hallway was a dead-end, marked by one last door.

David directed his light towards it, and saw a dirty piece of looseleaf paper tacked to the door with his name written upon it. “Hey,” he whispered to Kyle, “I think this is it.”

As his friend came up behind him, David reached for the doorknob, and saw that it had been obliterated, that the door had been forced open quite recently. Even in the dim glow of their flashlights, Kyle could see the look of blind horror on his face.

No…

Slowly, almost fearfully, David nudged the door open.

The room was empty; no murder had occurred here. David took a step inside, playing his light up and down the walls, looking for indentations or blood splatters that would have indicated a struggle of some sort and finding neither. This was clearly where Keith had been holed up...so why wasn't he here? Why did the place look clean (by the complex's standards, anyway)?

"Hey, Dave, check this out." Kyle's voice pulled him away from his search and led him over to a table on the far side of the room, upon which sat another tattered piece of paper.

He picked up...read it...and set it back down on the table. "Let's go; we're done here."

Kyle looked at him long and hard; David didn't return his stare, instead keeping his eyes locked on the note Keith had left for him. "So that's it?" he asked. "You're just packing it in, huh? After driving all the way out to this hellhole and almost getting killed by some psycho junkie, you want to call it a day now?"

"Yeah. For now."

After what seemed like a long time, Kyle nodded. "Okay. Let's go."

The two of them turned on their heels, crossed the room and went out the door, pulling it shut behind them. Their footsteps faded off down the hall, and the echoes bounced around for a while before returning to the nothingness from whence they came.




David,

Thanks for coming. I wish I could've been here to say all I need to say in person, but I couldn't. They were getting too close; I had to move.

I'm going cold turkey - did I tell you that on the phone? I can't remember. The days and nights have been running together, lately; I don't like what this stuff's doing to me, Dave. I gotta get off of it. I think if I don't, it'll drive me mad.

But I wanted to tell you that I don't blame you for what happened. I wasn't your fault.

I'll see you when I see you, or I might call you if I can find a way to charge this goddamn cell phone.

Keith

P.S. Tell Dad I'm sorry, okay?

The voice on the other end of the phone was distorted and weak. Butters is standing in the middle of what looks like a small airport.

"Sleg... don't worry... I'm not bailing at all. My flight has been delayed, and this is after I got a ride back from the keys. I'm in Daytona Airport now... No, I -WILL- be there... I'm aware it's pretty weak I'm not there now to start planning, but seriously... We're the COmeback Kids, we can think on the fly... Sleg, chill... I'll see you at the show."

Butters hangs up as he paces in front of the departure and arrival board. Every single flight is followed by a green "ON TIME" indicator as his mood stays hopeful.

"SO, yeah... trapped in Florida. Long story short, people bailed on me, I was stuck a few hundred miles away from my hotel, and am just now headed back to meet up with my fellow Comeback Kid. Don't worry, I may be late as hell, but I will be at FMW 11.1... I will not have this team fall apart like BUGGERS. I will have us start on the correct path to becoming the biggest story in FMW history."

Butters smiles as he turns, checking his flight one more time, then back at the camera.

"This is the time for the two men everyone counted out to make their comeback. This is the time we prove we have always been worth our wait. This is our time... by the way... Don't Call It A Comeback..."

Butters starts to walk towards his gate as he looks up just in time to see one single flight status flash from green to a red "DELAYED" status.

"Oh tartar sauce..."

Ammunition vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs. Christian Moore and Cole Dragos

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Abel Steele vs. Calvin X. Carter

Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Special Referee: Nick Bryson
Alex O’Rion and Chris Austin vs. The Broken Saints (Seth Omega and Mark Johansson)

MAIN EVENT, C-4 Championship:
Drew Michaels vs. Gabriel Crow vs. Kaoru


-Corruption 11.1 LIVE from Washington, DC-



Corruption vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
The Celt vs. Andy Savana

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Apathy vs. Axel Van Osbourne (w/ Trey Spruance)

Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
Alistair Wolfe vs. "The Undefeated" David GS

Television Championship/Corruption vs. Distortion Draft Selection Match:
PX vs. Syanide

MAIN EVENT, Ultraviolent Championship:
Harley Quint vs. Romeo


-Distortion 11.1 LIVE from Buffalo, New York-



Distortion vs. Ammunition Draft Selection Match:
MASS Caesar (w/ Flavius Mercury) vs. TyranT

Distortion vs. Ammunition vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
MC Steel vs. Didier Diamant vs. Jason Krow

Distortion vs. Corruption Draft Selection Match:
Dunnwood vs. Jaro

MAIN EVENT, Abandoned Championship House of HavOc Match:
Hannibal Frost vs. Leon Caprice

Sorry, have read very few promos, so only voted on those I have. Sorry again guys.