FMW MT. VESUVIUS VOTING AND PROMO THREAD

Starring...

Nick Webber





Kayla Frost





The sound of thunder permeated the silence with authority. A subtle quaking, deep within the structure of the building, tore away the rest of the comfort that the world had to offer. Only the darkness beyond was now deserving of any merit; for it was stable. The inky blackness never wavered, not once, in its attempt to blind Hannibal Frost to the path that lay before him.

Which, in retrospect, the path that lay behind him was just as muddled with uncertainty.

After trying, and failing, to destroy Frost, Kayla had fled. Never one to leave business unfinished, Frost took to the open road in search of her. At first, clues to her whereabouts had been sparse, but finally... the trail had begun to warm up. Bodies littered the way like breadcrumbs, until the search came to an end.

The empty, albeit infested with energy, three story building was a known haunting ground for various bogey men. The spectral energy encasing the place acted like a beacon in the night, drawing all sorts like moths to a flame. Kayla would've found this place comforting, welcoming.

Frost wasn't so sure he agreed.

The shadows that played across the barren walls seemed to watch his every move, follow his every step. Even the fifty caliber hand gun nestled in his palm felt like dead weight when compared to the evil embedded in every fiber of the building. No amount of mental reassurance could persuade Frost to walk any faster. Kayla had once fallen from the grace of God. And now, with the power of Hell kneeling at her side, she could wield limitless power.

Frost had once been possessed by a demon; he knew quite well the agenda they adhered to. This late in the fourth quarter, the mind games were over. The exquisite fuck festivals were no more. With the seconds ticking down, it was do or die time. And ironically, demons weren't afraid of the famed Hail Mary.

This is what had Frost so on edge. The power ebbing throughout the building was something Frost had never experienced before. Kayla had something in the making that would undo Frost's entire world. Something so powerful, so destructive, that the world itself might have to bow down to it.

Frost was hoping to God himself that he was wrong.




The pale lighting did nothing to bring Frost from his self imposed near coma. The alcohol coursing through his veins was punishing his nervous system, inhibiting his motor functions. Even a task as simple as sitting up straight seemed near impossible. So, he just laid on the cold tile floor of his office, the ceiling above spinning in seven different directions.

A new light, a brighter one, flooded the room from the direction of the front door. Frost tried to shield his eyes from the illumination, but only managed to slap himself in the face. The fact that he couldn't feel it was neither here or nor there.

A shadow finally crossed over the threshold, blocking out the light Frost so feared, and hurried in his direction. The relentlessly wavering form of Leon Caprice knelt over him, concern in his eyes, and began to drag him over to the wall.

"What have you done to yourself?" Leon asked, his voice thick with a condescending sympathy.

Frost situated himself against the wall, struggling hard to remain upright. "Just... too much."

Leon snorted a snide little laugh. "I'd have to agree. You're about half dead."

"I can't... handle it all. The title... her eyes..."

Leon caught Frost before he fell over again. His brow was pinched, his confusion showing. "You're not making any sense."

Frost turned his attention away from Leon. Even through his drunken haze, he remembered that this secret would have to be kept. Even if he were to open up, the kid wouldn't understand. Hell, he probably wouldn't believe him. Demons? Vampires? Bogey men? Who in their right mind would accept that at face value?

Still, Frost had to say something. He couldn't just leave Leon, his stable mate, in the dark like this. They were friends.

"Leon..."

The kid immediately replied. "Yeah?"

"Get me..."

"Yeah?"

"Another beer."




Finally, after slinking down the fifteenth hallway in a row, Frost found himself at the end of the maze. He nudged open the wooden door in front of him, and found that it opened up into a cavernous room. The air was thick, pliable almost. Unchecked power surged like lightning through every fiber of the room. Their was no light, but the shadows were kept at bay by the sinfully beautiful woman in the center of the room.

Kayla was slacked on her knees, in the center of a pentagram, heaving tired breaths. Black candles, each one lit, sat at every corner of the pentagram. Inside the symbol, energy crackled off of the girl like lightning.

"You ran. Why?" Frost asked, his voice booming in the empty room.

If Kayla had heard him, she didn't act like it. The demon didn't move, didn't even budge at the sound of his voice. Of course, she had probably keyed into his presence the moment he entered the building. Nothing could surprise her anymore.

"I asked you a question..."

Still nothing.

"Fucking answer me-"

Flames rose up around Kayla, the candles exploding where they sat. She finally turned one cheek to Frost, and let out a whimper. "You were stronger than me. Stronger... than a demon."

Kayla sounded confused, like she couldn't believe her own words. Still, Frost had no idea what she was talking about. He fell for every one of her tricks, every last leg of her game.

"What do you mean?" Frost asked.

"I used to love you, when I was human."

Frost had heard this line before, and tried his best to think his answer through. He didn't want to fall into another trap, because it was entirely possible. Demon or not, he couldn't leave this girl alone.

But Frost was pulled from his thoughts, as Kayla went on.

"Demons, on their own, have no emotions. They can't feel. They only remember what it was like, when they were once human, and do their best to imitate it. Fear, happiness, love; they're never real," Kayla explained. "But with you, I feel every last one of those!"

Lightning ruptured the sky as the words left her lips, the white light flooding in through the barred windows. Frost didn't know what to do, or say, so he stood silently still.

Kayla, actually shedding tears, quickly resumed.

"I don't why. I... don't know how. But I fear you."

She paused for moment, before turning just enough to look Frost in the eyes.

"I love you..."

Frost felt the lump in his throat grow so tight that he almost choked. He knew what he wanted to say, what he had to say, but it didn't feel like it'd be enough.

They were almost married, years ago. They were in love, happy, and ready to face the world head on. Frost was wrestling the independent circuit at the time, making just enough money to get by on. But she never cared. She only supported him in everything he wanted to do. It was a beautiful relationship, but one that ended all too quickly.

Frost was in talks with Full Metal Wrestling, a booming wrestling company out of Canada. After a meeting that had Frost on top of the world, he received a phone call. Kayla had been in an accident. Her car had been t-boned by an eighteen wheeler, completely destroying the vehicle. The only good news to come out of it, was that her death had been quick and painless. She had suffered a blow to the head so hard that brain trauma didn't even begin to describe it.

Frost was devastated.

But then, through a ridiculous turn of events, Frost had discovered that Kayla was alive. Though, in typical fashion, that hadn't lasted very long either.

"I'm so sorry..."

Frost was pulled from his thoughts as Kayla's beautiful voice echoed throughout the room. She was standing now, her eyes darting across the points of the pentagram. Even with her true presence dominating the room, her true demon self, Frost still found her captivating. He could see the woman that she used to be, and vowed that he would die a hundred times over just to have the real her one more time.

"You have to leave..." Kayla said, her gaze flicking towards the door.

Frost stumbled over his own words. "Wha- Why?"

"He's coming."

"Who?"

"The man who summoned me to kill you."




The effects of the near alcohol coma had worn off a couple of hours ago, but Frost still couldn't find the will to move. The best he'd managed was to get to his seat behind his desk, and lazily slump himself into it. Even the cold leather of the swivel chair did nothing to rouse him from the numbing after effects of being so intoxicated.

Leon had left a little over an hour ago, not bothering to mention where he was heading. To Frost's knowledge, Celt was out as well.

That left the man alone with his thoughts. Those dangerous, self deprecating thoughts.

For all his trying to be the hero and the good guy, it just seemed to pull him farther apart. Every path, every door, led him down another broken road. He could feel pieces of himself crumbling to the floor, eroding away against the winds of opposition. Even surrounded by a great group of guys did nothing to submerge the feeling that he was alone.

Nick and Gwen, on the other side of the coin, still weren't enough. Nick had been his friend for quite some time now, helping him through some of the darkest of days. But it still felt like Nick was on the outside looking in, always separated by words and feelings that Frost would never express.

Then there was Gwen, that beautiful girl. Frost truly liked her, but relationships were never his best friend. The last time he had truly dedicated himself to one...

Fuck that.

Frost couldn't think about it, he wouldn't think about it. Every time Kayla wrapped her icy tendrils around his thoughts, everything went to hell. He had slept with her, told her once again that he loved her. But she really wasn't the girl he loved. Kayla was a fucking demon.

If Gwen were to ever find out, that partnership would be out the window. It'd break her heart, and Frost didn't want that to happen. He didn't love her, but he liked the hell out of her. If there was anyone that Frost could move on with, it'd be Gwen Richards.

An unexpected knock tore Frost away from his thoughts and to the door. It quickly opened, and spit a plastic bag at him. Frost peered inside and found a multitude of headache medication and system cleansers.

"I guess I wrong when I thought you didn't care," Frost quipped, knowing that it was Leon standing in the door.

The young man rushed in, almost slamming the palms of his hands on the desk. "You might be jaded, you might be cynical, but you mean the world to alot of people."

Frost cocked an eyebrow, wondering what the point of the little speech was.

Leon quickly obliged.

"The Sons of Attrition didn't come together because you're a pompous jerk. The fans don't cheer for you every time you step into a ring because you're a failure. And, to sum it up, Gwen doesn't keep coming around because you're... you're an asshole."

Everything Leon had said really hit home. Frost turned away, unable to manage a face to face. The kid was right, but... he had gotten the problem all wrong.

"I see what you're saying, but-" Frost didn't get to finish.

"But what?"

This time a swell of anger caught Frost right in the throat. "It's tearing me the fuck apart!"

Leon hesitated with his next words, but firmly held his ground. "What is?"

"I wasn't made for this," Frost replied, softening his tone before continuing. "I was a wrestler, damn it. That's it. I wanted to be a champion, a husband, and one day a father. But all that shit was taken from me the day she died..."

Leon bowed his head, most likely unsure of what Frost was talking about. But he did the noble thing, and pressed the common issue.

"You are a wrestler, and you can still be a champion," He said.

"But now it's coming with a price that I never fucking wanted."

Leon's eyes swelled with confusion as Frost went deeper and deeper into his second life.

"What price?" Leon asked, exasperated.

Frost only shook his head, recognizing one of the prices right there. He couldn't tell anyone about how hard it was for him. He could only keep it bottled away, like he'd been doing for so long now.

"I can't... Look, I'm sorry I even brought this up. Just leave it alone," Frost replied, sucking air into his lungs just to keep him sane.

"I'll leave it alone if you man up and accept the price."

Frost whipped his head up to gaze head on at Leon, but the kid wasn't backing down. Of course, why should he? That's what Frost should've been doing this whole time. Instead of shunning the life given to him, he should've been taking responsibility for it. He should've been glad to atone for his mistakes, to fight for the lives of others, and to give people something to believe in.

It was time to stop living in the past, permanently.

The future was calling.




Kayla had told Frost to leave, but of course... he wasn't going to. The man that had made Frost's life a living hell for the past month was going to show himself. And Frost was going to greet him with the barrel of his Desert Eagle.

Solemn steps began to emerge from the darkened silence. The rhythmic heel-toe of a determined gait quickly gave way to a soft clapping that made the whole moment feel eerily ominous.

"Bravo my dear demon, bravo..."

The voice that escaped the doorway behind Frost was none too lacking of bravado and pompous arrogance. The man that followed embodied those two traits completely. Blond, close cropped hair crowned a chiseled face with eyes hidden behind black shades. A black suit, seemingly purchased in the Matrix, covered a muscled frame that looked lethal.

Frost only scoffed, and brought his hand cannon around to bare.

"What're you smiling about? I'm not dead," Frost pointed out, but was happy to know that the point was painfully obvious.

"Oh, but you will be."

"Really? By you?" Frost asked.

"The great Vincent Von Thorn doesn't bloody his hands personally."

Frost huffed, his patience wearing thin. "Are your nuts big enough yet? What are you talking about?"

Vincent calmly stepped past Frost and over to Kayla, his focus never leaving her. He gently set a hand on her shoulder.

Frost didn't like that at all.

"How about you step away from her," Frost demanded, the barrel of his pistol still trained on the blond headed bastard.

Vincent turned his attention to Frost. "Her? You mean the demon that tried to kill you?"

"As you can see, it didn't turn out that way. So... if you'll kindly-"

Vincent held up a finger, silencing Frost.

"All good things come with patience. I could feel the final piece of the plan falling into place as my team and I arrived here," Vincent explained.

Frost immediately felt uneasy as Vincent spoke of this unseen team. He was sure they were staying hidden for a reason. Probably waiting outside, poised to strike if the need arose.

"What plan?" Frost asked.

"The villain doesn't reveal his master plan until the climax..."

If Frost had tried to aim the gun any harder, his arm would've snapped in two. "I'm fixing to kill you. I'd say that's climax enough."

Vincent laughed, all snide arrogance and obnoxious confidence. "It wouldn't matter. This demonic little vixen has hammered the last nail into your coffin."

"Keep going."

"Supposing she couldn't finish the job herself, which I feared would be the case, I put a failsafe into the contract."

Frost felt uneasy, all of his bad feelings about the future finally coming to a head. "A failsafe?"

"If she couldn't kill you, I ordered her to summon something who could."

Frost felt all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A fear, primal and wretched, slithered like ice through his veins. All the power he felt earlier... the pentagram and the candles. This place was a conduit, needed to summon something with unworldly power.

Vincent laughed at Frost's fearful expression. "The icing on the cake? She's human now."

Frost felt everything go numb, all of his emotions overloading in a single second. HumanAliveReally?ItCan'tBeItHasToBePlease

"I- I don't..." Frost tried to speak, but he couldn't form the words. His mind just wasn't working.

"Understand?" Vincent finished for him. "To summon this creature, from the depths of hell and its prisons, she had to expel every ounce of her power. And since this plain is quite mortal and corporeal, she's had to become that to avoid withering into nothing."

Frost, finally finding the power to speak, licked his lips if only to make the words come easier. But Vincent wasn't finished. He mock slapped himself on the forehead while donning a sarcastic expression.

"Silly me. She's not actually alive. One must have a soul for that," He said. "She's mortal, she's your love once again, but she doesn't belong on this plain of existence. She actually doesn't belong anywhere now. A human being without a soul? Such an abomination belongs in oblivion. Which is where she'll go supposing she dies again."

Frost just couldn't comprehend anything Vincent was saying. His mind couldn't process the endless change, the constant variables. It was all too much.

"And now that she's outlived her usefulness, I suppose she'll be on her way."

And with the knife that Vincent produced from his jacket pocket, Frost's clarity returned in a single wicked moment. Protect...

The pistol seemed to raise all on its own, one thought driving it to fulfill its man made purpose. With a squeeze of the trigger, a single round erupted from the barrel and dug a home in Vincent's chest.

But that wasn't enough.

The gun bucked as another round, and then another, tore into Vincent's body. Gore sprayed all over the surrounding area, staining everything crimson. Vincent, unable to hold himself up, collapsed in a heap of blood and bone.

But that wasn't enough.

Frost stepped over to Vincent, and looked down on him with hate filled eyes. Then, with a single movement, Frost brought the pistol to settle over the man's forehead.

It was the easiest thing in the world to pull the trigger.

The hole in Vincent's forehead oozed blood, forever hiding his chiseled face behind a crimson mask. The empty pistol clattered to the floor, just a symbol now. Frost had killed a human being, but he didn't feel the least bit torn over it. The man had tried to hurt the person he loved. And that, he realized, was what being a champion was all about. Sacrificing yourself, for those that deserved better.

"Hannibal..."

Frost glanced up, his eyes finding Kayla's beautiful face; her human face. As the last of her otherworldly power and appearances dissipated, she looked back at him with watering eyes. Confusion, deep and visceral, clouded their emerald depths.

"Go," Frost said, and that one word just about destroyed him.

"Wha- what?" She stammered.

Frost dug the keys to his '69 Camaro from his jeans pocket and carefully placed them in Kayla's hands. "If you stay here, around me, you'll die. I can't let that happen. Not again."

Kayla couldn't take her eyes off the keys. "But... we can-"

Frost cut her off mid sentence. He died inside as his lips embraced her own. Then, having to force himself, Frost pulled away.

"Leave. Now," Frost ordered, his voice stern this time.

And as if Kayla needed a push out the door, a chorus of footsteps echoed in the silence behind them. Frost, taking hold of her hand, turned to face the oncoming threat. Then, as a dozen men entered the cavernous room, the warmth of Kayla's hand slipped from his own.

He didn't turn to watch her go.

"This is the cavalry?" Frost asked, a smirk finding its way about his lips.

The lead soldier, dressed in pitch black BDU's like the rest, motioned for the rest of his men to stow their guns. They obliged, if a bit hesitantly.

"The boss wants him alive."

Frost cocked an eyebrow, now unsure about the man who lay dead at his feet. But he didn't have time to think as the dozen men began their assault.

The first one approached, making the slightest mistake in leaving his gun open. Frost heaved a stiff kick to the man's knee, bringing him to kneel on the floor, and struck him with a palm strike to the nose. Crouching down, the man's unconscious body slumped against Frost as he pulled the submachine gun from his shoulder.

Two other soldiers were already just inches away, moving in too fast to shift momentum. Frost gunned them both down behind a deafening rattle of automatic fire.

“Enough.”

The single word echoed in the cavernous room, stopping everyone in their tracks. Frost, his gun still trained on the remaining men, smiled as he recognized the voice.

“Nick...” Frost remarked, pushing himself into a standing position as the man walked up beside him. A transmitting device, no bigger than a cellphone, was nestled in the palm of his hand.

“If I so much as twitch my thumb, we all die.”

The leader of the opposing group snorted, obviously unimpressed. “You don't have the balls.”

Frost's heart skipped a beat as Nick flipped a switch on the device, bringing forth a rhythmic beeping.

“Ten seconds, cock.”

Every remaining soldier scrambled backwards, bumping into each other whilst trying to escape. Six seconds in, and they were gone, leaving Nick with a smile spreading from ear to ear.

“You gonna' shut that off?” Frost asked, slowly inching towards the back door.

“Meh, it's fake. I found it at the bottom of a Fruit Loops box.”

Nick began to laugh, before turning to walk towards the back door himself.

“Nick?”

He looked towards Frost, a big smile on his face. “Yeah?”

“Don't touch my Fruit Loops.”




Tired, from what seemed like an endless list of struggles, Frost had to will himself from the bed that brought him so much comfort. It was only a cheap motel mattress, housed inside a cheap motel room, but it felt so damn good.

Walking to the bathroom, just a few feet away, Frost hit the sink and let the cold water run. He dipped his hands under the running water and splashed his face a few times. The stubble on his cheeks and chin grazed his hands ever so slightly, reminding him that he needed to shave.

But that would have to come later, as a soft moan drifted through the air, quickly pulling him back to bed.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Frost said, apologizing. Gwen, her naked form hidden beneath the sheets, smiled at him.

"Doesn't bother me. I'm ready for round two," She replied, pushing the sheets off of her in a display of seductive sexuality.

Frost, clad in only his boxers, slid on top of her and kissed her with an unyielding passion. Gwen reciprocated, pressing herself into him with a matching desire. They stayed locked in that kiss for moments that seemed to stretch into hours, before Frost began to roam with his free hand.

Skin, as soft as silk, greeted Frost's callous finger tips as he massaged the length of her body. He started just above the back of her knee, caressing the back of her thigh, and slowly moved upwards. The crest of her pubic bone gave way to abs just south of being toned. The perfect balance of healthy and happy, Frost had always thought.

Then, as Frost reached for her breast, the image of Kayla struck him so hard he had to pause. This exact scene had played out just weeks before, albeit a dash more violent. Guilt rushed in, blanketing the desire that had been there moments before.

"What's wrong?" Gwen asked, after breaking their kiss.

Frost took in a deep breath, before moving to sit at the end of the couch. "Just can't concentrate..."

"Is it because you're actually sober, or is it the Kayla thing?" Gwen asked, the intonation of her voice indicating annoyance.

Frost felt his nerves biting at him as Gwen hit on the Kayla issue. He'd only get through this by being honest... while omitting certain sensitive information. "Probably both. Seeing her again, like that, has me spinning in every direction."

"I can't imagine what it must be doing to you," She said, her tone gaining sympathy. "So I'll let you slide on this one."

Frost exhaled, a beautiful sigh of relief, and fell back to rest on the bed. As Gwen left towards the bathroom, Frost couldn't think of anything other than alcohol. Once he got back to the Asylum, he'd drink until nothing mattered. Then, he'd track down Kayla and kill her.

After that, he'd move on with Gwen... and turn towards a future with at least an inkling of hope. A hope... for happiness.




With Nick behind the wheel of his Mazda RX-8, gleaming with a new coat of silver paint, Frost had some time to think before they were to reach the asylum.

Whether it was coincidence, or a run of bad luck, that had everything coming to a head at once had Frost on edge. Soon after the prophecy, in its entirety, was translated... everything had gone to hell. Kayla had come back, brandishing a new appearance and even deadlier powers, while The Agency had begun to play the other side of the coin. One was trying to seduce him, the other trying to kill him.

That, in the end, both forces were one in the same only added to the confusion. The prophecy had vaguely hinted at a betrayal of sorts, but this wasn't what Frost was expecting. The Agency meant nothing to him, and Frost had figured Kayla for a villain from day one. But with that behind him, his fears were now placed in the trembling hands of the future.

Kayla, frightened and confused, had unleashed something terrible upon the world. With the last of her demonic power, she had uncaged a beast that Frost couldn't begin to fathom. He'd been there, he'd felt her power coursing through everything. Even now, he was afraid for his life and the lives of so many others. The beast would reveal itself soon, and it was a fifty fifty bet on which future would come to pass.

"We're here," Nick announced, pulling Frost away from his thoughts.

"Good. It's time to load up."

Just moments after parking directly in front of the asylum, Frost and Nick were already entering the second floor warden's office. Frost quickly passed through the room, and upon stepping up to the glass cabinet, hit the small green button on the wall. The cabinet immediately slid to the side, revealing another cabinet. This one, though, seemed straight out of a James Bond movie.

Frost quickly punched in his pin number on the pad to his left, and sat back as four drawers of weaponry displayed themselves to him. Frost scanned the selection, all fit inside foam molds, before doling out the goods.

Two Desert Eagle fifty millimeter hand guns went on the desk in the corner. One Mossberg M590A1 tactical shotgun went back to Nick. Then, Frost's baby, a TAR 21 assault rifle went on the desk to accompany the pistols. Lastly, Frost handed Nick two Beretta PX4 handguns.

"Taking on an entire army?" Nick asked, loading shells and magazines into his small armory.

"Probably. My luck is shit," Frost replied, doing the same.

Within minutes, the guns were loaded and strapped for easy carry. Frost grabbed some extra clips, slipped them into his tactical belt, and then headed for the door. Luckily, the rest of the Sons were heading for Circus Maximus, so this scene couldn't freak out a damn soul. Which was convenient, because Frost was gettin' a feeling.

That feeling didn't take long to manifest itself.

What felt like an explosion quaked the floor underneath, but Frost quickly found its focal point.

"What in the hell was that?" Nick asked, his bewildered eyes darting around the hallway.

"Whatever it was, it's on the roof," Frost replied, before heading to the stairwell.

With caution, the duo made their way to the roof. And then, with only a single door in the way, Frost kicked it open.

Terror, true and visceral, greeted him.

Flames snaked their way across the roof, each fiery line reaching out from the cracked and scarred center of the roof. They tried mightily to reach the night sky, but still did nothing to hide the beast that stood in their wake.

A black, flowing coat; pristine royal garments straight from the eighteen hundreds; smoked, wire rimmed glasses; and a black bowler hat, perched right at the top.

Sinius...

"You remember my name. How touching."

The demon spoke, his royal English accent sending an electric shock of fear straight down Frost's spine. The fact that the beast had just read his mind didn't even register. This was... apocalyptic.

Frost, long ago, had once called out to this demon. He had been confused, so very lost in his way. With his career at FMW drowning in losses, Frost had tried something straight out of a movie. Of course, it hadn't seemed so strange at the time, with his dead girlfriend speaking to him on a daily basis. But, nevertheless, Frost had called upon a demon for strength and guidance. He felt it was his only option, as God had saw fit to burn his life down around him.

So, astonishingly, Sinius had actually come to the rescue. Though, with the losses still piling up, Frost was too distraught to realize the demon's true intention. Just before Frost had won the C-4 title, he had been possessed by the wretched beast that now stood before him.

Chaos ensued. Under Sinius's command, Frost had joined Havoc and eventually set fire to FMW. Inside and outside of the squared circle, Frost was ruining every life he came across.

But the demon was growing weaker.

Soon, Frost managed to break free of his hold... and at the same time had his neck broken at the hands of Skyler Striker. It was months before Frost would return, a new man. He was now fighting for himself, and making amends for the lives he had destroyed.

"Are we done with the tired old trip down memory lane, guv'?"

The demon's question tore Frost from his thoughts and back to a stark, frightening reality. Confidence and swagger, born from limitless power, stood smirking just a dozen feet away.

Frost didn't answer. He only looked to Nick, who caught his gaze with a nervous smile.

"The future is in your hands, Frosty."

Frost answered in a hushed tone. "What are you getting at?"

"Allow me to be the hero for a second."

Nick, hands shaking, cocked his shotgun and rushed forward... too quickly for Frost to stop him. A shot went off, echoing in the night, but the demon wasn't effected. He simply waved his hand, as if swatting a fly, and sent Nick barreling off the roof without even touching him.

Frost cringed inside, fearing the absolute worst, before turning his hate filled gaze to Sinius.

"So, you're my big surprise?" Frost asked, venom dripping from every word.

Sinius smoothed out the leather gloves covering his hands and shrugged. "Personally, I can't think of a better ending to this story."

Frost battled himself, searching through every possible option at his disposal. He couldn't let his emotions take over. He had to keep the demon talking.

"How? Why?" Frost asked.

"After you sent me back to hell, I was imprisoned. Bloody Lucifer and his gang of henchmen didn't want me roaming around."

"So you struck a deal?"

"I've been in the loop for fifteen minutes now, guv'."

Frost processed what the demon was saying, all the while readying his trigger finger.

"So you had no idea?" Frost asked, now wondering if any of this had been truly planned out at all.

"Along with enormous power and cunning, I was gifted the knowledge of everything that's transpired upon being summoned. Your demon lover, the prophecy... everything."

Frost hissed, not liking this at all. "So, I'm assuming you have a plan in place?"

"Quite right. I plan on killing everyone you care about, as you watch, and then taking your body for my own."

Frost now had his index finger fully curved around the trigger to his rifle. "Fuck you."

"Don't get snippy with me, you insignificant roach. Or I'll make poor Gwen Richards suffer before I condemn her soul to hell."

Logic had now flown straight out the fucking window.

Frost rushed forward, the rifle in his hands bucking as rounds tore through the air, and aimed down the sights at Sinius.

But the demon had power.

Flashes of o-zone and ruptured reality danced across the roof as Sinius teleported from place to place. Frost couldn't hit him, couldn't even place him, until the demon settled right behind him. Feigning ignorance, Frost used the moment's opportunity to fall to his haunches and spin one hundred and eighty degrees. Sinius didn't see the it coming until the rounds were tearing into his stomach.

Frost exhausted the clip, each round finding its mark somewhere on the demon. The tables had turned, if only for a second, and Frost was using the moment to reload.

Sinius, only dazed for a second, growled as he picked at the torn material that used to be his vest and shirt.

"It would seem I underestimated you," Sinius said, while surveying his own flesh repairing itself.

"Yeah, people seem to do that."

Sinius laughed, a snide little sound, before turning his attention to Frost. "Well, no matter. I won't make the same mistake twice."

And with that, Frost was being lifted into the air. Sinius, still feet away, didn't even have to raise a finger to render Frost immobilized. With only his mind controlling the events taking place, Frost was being levitated inches above the floor.

"Now, how about we give your little friend some company?" Sinius asked, a devilish smirk contorting his lips.

Frost immediately began to struggle, every muscle in his body working to escape, but nothing was working. As Frost moved closer to the edge, his rifle clattered against the roof, and his body grew even more paralyzed. The feeling of helplessness was growing, clouding everything.

Then, Sinius raised his arm.

"And... off we go."

Falling.

Free falling.

Sailing downwards.

Anti-flying.

Cement diving.

No 'chute.

Failed cord.

Whatever you wanted to call it, nothing could stop it. Eighteen feet for the first story, fourteen for the second story... and the raised roof would have to account for at least five feet.

With nothing but concrete below, Frost could only stare up at the night sky as the seconds stretched into hours. Each star cast its gaze upon him; some sympathetic, some only saying "I told you so". But, in the end, it was the brightest of the bunch that got his true attention. Two or three stars, each one blazing bright with his failures held high.

He had failed to protect the ones closest to him. Nick was probably dead, his spiraling fall even worse than Frost's current one. Gwen would certainly die, after Sinius came down to fill in his broken bones with an evil presence. Kayla was clueless, powerless. And now, it would be Frost's own fault that a bleak future would come to pass.

And then, after all this hell, Frost still wouldn't get his shot at being a Champion. Kind of selfish, shallow maybe, but it meant so much more than a gold plated strap to him. To have his hands held high would mean that he had succeeded in doing all the things he had previously failed to do. Righting all the wrongs, protecting those that needed it, and securing a future with hope... for humanity as a whole.

But, as the weight of the world bent and warped underneath him, one single thought tore through the darkness to end his last second on Earth.

There are no happy endings.




Pain.

So much of it.

But, pain meant life. Pain meant that Frost could feel.

A nauseating, vomit inducing pain washed over Frost as he tried to move. Every fiber of his being ached and throbbed with the threat of death. Nothing seemed to make sense. The world was a blur, but nothing was moving.

Frost tried to move, every muscle protesting, but he finally managed to prop himself up on an elbow. Blood trickled down from somewhere atop his head, staining his face. The sheet metal under him strained and groaned as he shifted his weight again. Not only is Nick dead, but so is his car. Great.

Frost went to move again, but stopped as the front doors to the asylum opened. Sinius, cocky and sure, stepped briskly in his direction. But, before passing Frost, he let a smirk contort his lips... and spoke.

"Meeting adjourned."

And a Bang, Bang, Bang.

The asylum exploded.

Hell, and all its fury, rushed forth from the windows in plumes. Fire swallowed the building whole, eating it alive, as debris rained down upon the surrounding area.

Frost was thrown from the Mazda, the force of the explosion too great, and tumbled to the concrete. A new pain, relentless and visceral, coursed through every fiber of his body. Frost had to grit his teeth against it, but the waves kept coming.

Finally, the world was as quiet as it could be. Frost staggered to his feet, slipped a Desert Eagle from one of the twin holsters strapped to his chest, and aimed down the sights frantically. He was alone. Sinius was gone, and with him, Nick's body.

Which meant... the little shit was alive.

The demon had no use for a dead body. He could posses it, yes, but that would require too much power. It'd take at least a decade, in the mortal world, for that power to be restored and Nick wasn't the target. And a geriatric Frost sure as hell wasn't going to do.

Shit... Gwen.

Frost slipped the Desert Eagle back into its holster and went to searching his tactical belt. He pulled from it his cellphone, the one that always survives, and slid up the screen. Yet, nothing happened. That's when Frost noticed the spider web crack trickling out from the screen's center.

Damn. If that's not a bad omen... I don't know what is.

Frost tossed the phone aside, trying to pick through the list of places that Gwen could be. He had gotten her a plane ticket to Mount Vesuvius, one where the flight left out today, but she wouldn't have gone. Frost had been out of contact for too long now.

She would've gone to Denisoff.

Luckily, the boss man had set up a new base of operations here in the City. In fact, it was only a few blocks away. The wards and spells in place to dispel unwanted visitors wouldn't hold Sinius for long, so Frost would have to get there fast.

And... impossible.

As Frost tried to move, his legs went out from under him. He crashed to the ground, unable to will himself back up. It wasn't just the pain, Frost could fight through that. It was the exhaustion, and the sobriety. All of those elements together were one hell of a free fall hangover.

So, once again, failure. At least with dying Frost could be remembered for going out fighting. With this? It was just pathetic. But as hard as he tried, there was nothing he could do. No way to get there in time and win the day. Everyone would die and-

A low rumble, a familiar one born forty years in the past, tore Frost from his self pity and to the end of the street. Headlights came into view, that of a '69 Chevy Camaro, and headed slowly towards him. Frost felt a flush of relief blanket the pain and misery swelling inside his body.

That is... until he remembered who he last gave the keys to.

The Camaro rolled up beside him.

"Why are you here?" Frost asked, the words growled through pain and frustration.

"I owe you a favor," Kayla said, as she exited the vehicle and began to help Frost to his feet.

They quickly headed to the passenger's side door.

"You shouldn't be here." Frost grumbled, but Kayla didn't respond. She only sat him in the passenger's seat and walked around the car to enter from the driver's side.

They sat quietly for a moment, before Kayla finally broke the silence.

"You never gave up on me."

Frost laughed, a low and weak sound. "I was going to kill you."

"And I was going to kill you," Kayla replied.

"Glad it didn't end up that way," Frost said, and this time it was Kayla's turn to laugh.

They made eye contact, for a moment that Frost would have to keep locked in his memory forever. He'd give anything to be with Kayla again, to just throw it all away and start anew with her. But he couldn't do that. Being a champion meant sacrifice, and Frost had sacrificed too much to give up now.

"I'm moving on... with someone else. I wasn't lying when I said it was too dangerous to be with me. You'll die," Frost said, just about breaking his heart.

Kayla bit her lip, but the tears still came. "And she won't die? It's too dangerous for me, but not for her?"

"I love you. And I won't see you hurt. Not again. Not because of me."

Kayla nodded. She was still hurt, and confused, with a new life suddenly being thrust upon her, but there was finally understanding just beneath the surface of her eyes. "I believe you. It hurts, but I believe you. I guess I need time to figure things out anyway."

Frost nodded slowly, but couldn't bring himself to say anything more.

Kayla, though, didn't waste any time.

"Don't you have a demon to kill?"

Frost steeled himself, his voice becoming more assertive. "Right."

Frost immediately went to the glove box, where he pulled out an emergency flask filled to the brim with whiskey.

Quickly, he unscrewed the cap, and drank the entirety of it in seconds.

Tires tore against asphalt, echoing into the night. Unfortunately, yet hopefully, Kayla was gone for the last time.

Frost now stood, alone, at the sidewalk in front of Organization headquarters. The massive, four story building loomed over him. Its shadow blocked out the moonlight, surrounding Frost in an eerie darkness. Then the wind picked up, if only for a second, and ruffled his blood caked hair.

All was quiet, and there was a lone guard at the door, which rang of good news. The presence of life meant that death had yet to reach this place, and dig in its venom soaked claws.

Frost was relieved, but only until a familiar stench curled around his nose. Death had been here, and the guard at the door was one of its henchmen. One of the undead. A vampire.

Sinius would've had no time to come in, kill everyone, and place a guard at the door. Which could've only meant one thing. Sinius was let in, and most likely welcomed with open arms.

That was what did it.

Hurt, drunk, and pissed... that was what did it.

Keep stacking the odds against me, you assholes. I love a good upset.

And then Frost pushed forward.

He didn't motion for his pistols, though. He only readied his hands. The weapons that were covered in scuffed fingerless gloves. The ones that were begging for justice.

The guard at the door finally turned his attention towards Frost, swished his emo hair to the side, and hip aimed a submachine gun at him.

Frost wasn't impressed.

"Your hair looks stupid."

And then Frost snapped the vampire's neck, effectively ending his afterlife and turning him into a plume of fiery debris.

Pushing open the front double doors, Frost briskly stepped inside to find the main hall of the building. The room was open, cavernous, with two staircases curving up the walls on either side. Ancient artifacts covered the walls where the book cases wouldn't reach, and expensive furnishings garnished certain corners of the room like a five star meal.

Unsettling enough, the place appeared to be empty. All except for a lone sound echoing somewhere in the distance. The rhythmic heel-toe cadence of a polished step soon rounded a corner at the top of the stairs, where Denisoff finally came into view.

Frost could see the betrayal just under the surface of the man's eyes.

"I knew you'd figure it out," Denisoff said, a smidgen of pride dancing over his graceful tongue.

Frost spit a wad of saliva and blood on the floor. "But lemme' guess, it doesn't matter."

"You were always so bright. Such a shame it had to come to this," Denisoff said, shaking his head as he stood to lean against the oak railing in front of him.

"Where's Gwen?" Frost asked, his tone demanding.

But Denisoff obviously wasn't interested in answering any questions. "As soon as we discovered that the prophecy was truly about you, we just couldn't let it continue. I mean, how can one man decide the fate of an entire world? Sure, the consequences of your actions won't be seen for decades, but... we just couldn't let it all start with you."

Frost decided to play the man's game. "Why not?"

"Because, I'd like to live to see the human race die out completely."

Frost snarled, completely ashamed that he'd believed in this man for so long. Snide little prick.

"And you think, that when darkness prevails, they'll still have a use for you?" Frost asked.

"Of course they will. I will be made into a God. A being of supreme authority and power. I will lead armies across the scarred remains of this planet and into the horizon!" Denisoff was raising his arms now, preaching to an audience of one that couldn't give less of a shit.

Then, he his hands beckoned forth an unseen presence. "Kill him."

Vampires, snarling and obedient, swarmed the upstairs balcony. Then, en masse, they began to leap over the railing and down to Frost.

No time to waste.

Frost pulled the twin Desert Eagles from their holsters and began to fire. Four, five, six of them erupted into hellfire before the guns went dry. Two approached on the left, each delivering a kick to Frost's chest, and sent him sailing into a bookcase against the wall.

The force of the contact rattled the wall, sending a roman short sword clattering to the floor next to him. Frost snatched it up without a second thought and pushed himself to his feet. The two vampires within striking distance were immediately decapitated, each one bursting into fiery debris.

Now sprinting across the floor, Frost ducked an incoming round kick and decapitated the culprit. Without warning, an elbow smashed into his jaw to almost send him sprawling. But, in a stroke of luck, a foot collided with his sternum. It hurt like hell, but it kept him upright.

With his equilibrium saved, Frost hacked and slashed the last remaining vamps in the room. As nothing but dust covered the floor at his feet, Frost turned to Denisoff, and pointed the sword up at him.

"You're next, asshole."

Denisoff began a slow clap, a smile spreading from ear to ear. "You are just too good at what you do. Unfortunately, I'm better. And if I could say something here, I-"

Denisoff didn't get to finish.

His chest, suddenly and spectacularly, erupted. Bone and gore sprayed the air as he fell to his knees, a look of shock displayed on his frozen face.

From behind him, Sinius appeared, looking all too pleased with himself.

"That man just loves to hear himself talk," Sinius said.

Frost shook his head. He was done talking, done playing games. It was time to end this, all powerful mega demon or not.

"I don't give a damn who loves doing what. Get down here so I can kill the shit outta' you," Frost demanded, the sword in his hands shaking with the need for vengeance.

"Quite right, but first... I have a surprise for you, guv'."

Frost's heart fell, crashing into a thousand pieces, as a vampire rounded the corner at the top of the stairs... with Gwen in tow. She wasn't restrained in any way, only hurt to the point where moving was too much of an effort. Blood stained her tattered clothes; bruises showed prominently on her face; and her eyes were devoid of all hope.

Frost clenched his fist around the handle of the blade, his fingers cramping with pain and anguish. Gwen didn't deserve this, not one fucking bit. Sinius would pay, dearly.

And then the bastard spoke.

"Such a lovely girl," He said, while stroking the back of Gwen's head with mock sympathy.

And then, he swatted her over the railing.

Gwen fell, but Frost was fast. Dropping the sword, he burst into a sprint and slid to the ground as Gwen collapsed on top of him. He cradled her, brushing the hair from her eyes and cupping her cheek.

She didn't even seem alive. Just, broken and hollow inside.

"Gwen..." Frost whispered, beckoning her to talk to him.

Her eyes fluttered, signs of life finally blushing in her cheeks. "Nick's... dead."

Frost tightened his jaw, pushing back the anger that was trying to take hold. He'd feared the worst, and consequently, had prepared himself for it.

But Frost had no more time to mourn, as Sinius's voice echoed from behind him.

"You will suffer, you will die, and then you will be reborn..."

Frost gently laid Gwen against the floor, and then pushed himself to his feet. He turned to Sinius and clenched his fists.

"I've been down that road before. I learn from my mistakes," Frost said, quickly eying the distance to his sword.

"Oh, but like the last time, you don't have a choice," Sinius replied, a smirk crossing his lips. And, with the stink of o-zone and the rupturing of reality, his cane blinked into existence. Then, he unsheathed the blade that was held within it.

"You still know how to use that thing?" Frost asked, his familiar arrogance trying to battle through the fright.

"Bloody right I do."

And then Sinius rushed forward.

Frost dodged the first strike, rolling forward and to the right. He grabbed for the short sword laying on the floor, but another strike had him rolling away from it.

Back on his feet, Frost was now dodging vertical and horizontal slashes that he couldn't keep up with. But, in a moment of frustration, Sinius presented an opening. The demon raised the blade high, for a decapitating strike, and Frost moved in. An elbow in the stomach, a chop to the wrist, and the cane blade was falling from the demon's grasp. Frost snatched it from the air, pulled back, and struck.

But Sinius wasn't about to lose.

Frost couldn't move now, his body frozen. Sinius smirked, a display of twisted sickness, and glanced down at the blade. It was a mere inch from his sternum.

"So close, guv'."

And then Sinius snapped his fingers, before spinning Frost around to let the strike play out. Oh god... no. Fuck... nonono.

Frost, wide eyed, stared at the half of the blade that was still visible. Then, slowly, he raised his eye line until two watering emerald depths were locked on him.

Gwen...

Frost couldn't speak, couldn't even fathom what was happening. The blade... was embedded in her stomach. And her eyes were on him, pleading for an answer. Her lips were trembling, trying to bring forth words that just weren't coming.

Frost couldn't look away.

"Please, stop this. Please!"

No one answered.

Frost struggled to move, struggled to pull the blade from Gwen, but it only slid in another inch. Gwen gasped, blood now dribbling from her lips.

"For fuck's sake, please. She doesn't have to die. She doesn't deserve this," Frost yelled, begging for Gwen's life to be spared. The dying girl's right hand, trembling and cold, cupped his cheek.

"God please... no."

And now Frost's eyes were watering. He tried, once again, to pull the blade from her. His muscles ached, resistance tension pushing against them.

And then Sinius appeared behind Gwen.

"Suffer... my dear Frost. Watch her die."

Suddenly, the sword was pulled forward... and buried to the hilt inside Gwen. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing happened. Blood dripped down her chin. Tears flowed from the corners of her eyes. Her breathing became shallow.

And Frost cried.

There was nothing he could do. Strength, skill, arrogance, snarky comments... none of that shit could save her. Frost was powerless to do anything. He could only stand there, frozen, and watch her die.

Which she did, as her body slumped against his.

Frost screamed, a primal and bloodthirsty sound, before the paralyzing effects of Sinius's power shut down in the blink of an eye. Gwen crumpled to the floor, leaving Frost to stand over her. She didn't deserve this...

"And now that you've suffered, it's time we joined forces again."

Frost glanced up, his teary eyes filled with hate and malice. Sinius just stood there, the cane blade now in his hands, still stained with Gwen's blood.

"You'll fucking die a thousand times over for this."

"I bet."

And that finally set it off.

With the hurt, the pain, the agony, and the sorrow biting at Frost like a pack of blood thirsty dogs... he sprinted forward. Reeling back a fist, Frost put all of his strength into this strike and lashed out.

It didn't even connect.

Sinius simply waved his hand, just a slight gesture, to send Frost sailing to his left and through the wall impeding his path. Sheetrock and plaster erupted as the jarring impact put a hole in the wall, and left Frost dazed on the floor in a new room.

His vision swam in circles, every fiber of his body ached, and the lights seemed to dim with every passing second.

That's when Frost noticed the scroll lying amidst the rubble. It was the one that held the prophecy, which meant... that the Trinus Oculus was in this room. The artifact is alive, and it thirsts for power...

Frost moved quickly, searching the rubble for the artifact, until finally he came across it. The thing felt like it was squirming beneath his touch, yearning for energy.

So Frost eyed Sinius as the demon stepped through the jagged hole, and threw the artifact at him.

A blast of noise deafened Frost as the artifact reached the demon. Reality shuddered as the two forces collided, and suddenly, Sinius was thrust from the room.

Frost pushed himself to his feet and staggered into the main hall. Sinius was a dozen feet away, struggling to stand, with the Trinus Oculus laying just a few feet away. The artifact crackled with energy, like lightning, until it finally went dormant... its lust sated for the time being.

Sinius was now on his feet, wild eyed and bewildered.

"What did you do?" The demon asked, his voice a seething rage.

"Evened the playing field."

Sinius clinched his fists, his entire body trembling with anger. "My power is gone. How is this possible?"

Frost smirked, a gesture filled with vengeance. "For everything we've done, for all the innocents we've murdered... I'm righting this wrong."

And with his fists clenched, Frost sprinted forward. Sinius did the same, not about to stand there and be beaten.

Both forces collided.

Frost threw the first punch, swinging with everything he had, and connected. Sinius's flinch was barely noticeable, but it gave Frost hope. Now that the demon could feel pain, the future looked just a little bit brighter.

But the look on Sinius's face said that he didn't agree. The demon struck back, and then, both fighters were locked in a stalemate of exchanging jabs and kicks. Neither man would back down, both of them giving it there all, and for a moment it looked as if the fight would go on into eternity.

Until Sinius presented an opening.

Frost took it. He kicked the legs out from under Sinius, and as the demon fell, Frost brought a haymaker around to whip into his jaw. A crack of bone echoed throughout the main hall as Sinius hit the ground.

Frost stepped back, shaking the pain out of his knuckles.

Sinius pushed himself onto his elbows, before slamming his fists against the marble floor. The demon was seething; drool and blood spatting the floor as it fell from his lips. Then, he looked in Frost's direction.

"You can't do this. You can't win, you bloody failure!"

Frost took another step back at the outburst.

"The prophecy is mine. I was supposed to take your body, your soul, and bury this miserable little planet in darkness!"

"Too bad. That ain't happening," Frost said. Then, his heart skipped a beat as he eyed the roman short sword just a few short feet away from him.

Sinius was now standing, anger causing his body to tremble. "This world is mine. I am the dark champion the prophecy spoke of. I am this world's future!"

And, suddenly, the ground began to quake. The lights above flickered with each shudder as books and ancient trinkets fell from the walls. Jolts of electricity began to crackle around Sinius, as he pulled a new power from somewhere deep within himself.

No... Impossible...

The marble flooring underneath Sinius began to crack and chip under the weight of his power. Frost was frightened now, the Trinis Oculus being the last of his exhausted options. If the demon still had this much power, then nothing would stop him now.

"You are not a hero, Hannibal Frost. You are not worthy of fulfilling that prophecy. This world is mine for the taking! And nothing will stop me!"

Sinius then fell to a knee, palm striking the floor underneath him. Marble flooring began to erupt around Frost, pockets of fire and debris reaching for the ceiling. Frost felt the floor under him quake and quickly dove to the side. The floor, where he had been just a second before, was now a smoking crater.

That's when Frost spotted the roman short sword just feet away. He was hoping, deep down, that this display of power was the demon's Hail Mary. He was praying, to anyone that would listen, that Sinius was still vulnerable. Because, if Sinius was back at full power, the entire world was at risk.

So, with the last of his hope pegged on this, Frost snatched up the roman short sword and turned towards Sinius. An explosion rocked the floor behind Frost, but he was already sprinting forward. Fire and marble erupted around him, threatening to deter him from his goal. Luckily, Sinius was still trying to destroy him from afar.

Legs pumping as hard as they could, Frost pulled back his sword and readied it for an impaling strike. Sinius, at the last second possible, locked eyes with Frost and pulled himself into a standing position. Energy, white hot and crackling with power, began to form in the demon's right hand.

Both men collided in an explosion of steel and magic.

Nothing seemed right at first. The world had become different somehow. Like... the same view, but through different eyes. Frost could see hell and all its furies marching across a scorched planet laid to waste by a war long past. Bodies littered the cracked and scarred ground, each one screaming silently for help that had never come, or... had come too late.

Creatures fed on those bodies. Ugly, grotesque beings that couldn't possibly exist, and yet, there they were. Each one had eyes more lethal than the rows of razor sharp teeth housed inside their elongated jaws. Dripping from those jaws was the blood and bone of the innocent, never having stood a chance.

And for all Frost's fighting, it appeared that the worst would still come to pass.

Until the demons started falling, the life taken from them without mercy. Scores of them began to die, withering away into nothing, as a blinding white light blanketed the world. Hell's army, with all its power and might, seemed to stand no chance against this attack.

Then, as quickly as it had come, that blinding light retreated.

Frost could see again. He could see the cracked walls, the ruptured floors, and the smoke filled air of the building he'd been in just moments before.

His hands were gripping something... the handle of sword. His sword. And, on the other end of that steel blade, stood Sinius. His mouth was agape, his eyes searching for an answer.

"Checkmate."

Sinius found Frost's gaze, the single word etching his demise in stone. The demon tried to speak, but Frost was done listening. He pushed, with all his might, and buried the sword in up to the hilt.

Frost then stepped away, letting Sinius collapse, and turned his back to the demon. The sounds of hellfire and damnation roared behind Frost, but he didn't care to look.

He was solely looking towards the future now.

Frost's arch nemesis, so to speak, had been defeated. And after exhausting all of his otherworldly power, Sinius wouldn't be back for decades. This chapter in Frost's life was almost coming to a close.

Everything that Frost had ever done was now on trial. All the selfishness, all the innocents killed, and even all the innocents saved was now being tunneled into a single focal point.

Sacrifice.

The future that Frost had planned out for himself was dead and gone now; taken from him by Heaven and Hell alike. In turn, Frost now had the chance to secure a brighter future for everyone.

He now had to become the hero that everyone needed him to be.

To become a champion, standing tall for those that needed him.

He now... had to beat Tyrant.

We enter the scene backstage at the arena the preshow scrambling of the companies lackeys to get the place prepared for the show that evening. People are hustling and bustling about their business with little, if any, regard for others who get in their paths. This is where we find Nick Bryson, backstage near the cluster of locker rooms designated for the on-screen talent. It is also here that Nick Bryson bumps into the man sometimes known as Chris Austin.

Bryson: Hey, Hoodie, I left my hoodie in the car, do you happen to have a spare?

Austin, sometimes also known as Hoodie McGee, looks at Bryson casually.

Austin: Yeah, here.

Austin unzips his black hoodie quickly pulling it off to reveal another hoodie on underneath it. He hands the folded up piece of clothing to Bryson, who looks on intrigued.

For a moment there is nothing but silence, then Bryson reaches out and unzips the hoodie Austin is currently wearing to reveal another hoodie underneath. Austin looks at Bryson, puzzled.

Austin: What the hell was that for?

Bryson: Dude, how many hoodies do you have on.

Austin: That’s for me to know only.

Bryson: Ok, well… this is weird.

Austin: Yeah.

Bryson: I’m gonna go get dressed in my room now…

They cease formalities as Bryson enters his locker room. He pulls up an aluminum folding chair to a duffel bag on a bench and proceeds to quickly tape his ankles.








He slides on a knee brace and pats it, the synthetic making a small thud. He stands very abruptly and slides his arms into the sleeves of the black hoodie and throws the aluminum chair to the side of the room.








Bryson then begins to pace, gradually picking up speed, punching empty lockers and jogging in place, slapping at his head. His breath grows louder and shorter simultaneously.

CAUSE IM HAVIN’ A GOOD TIME. HAVIN’ A GOOD TIME!

With a thrust Bryson kicks his locker room door open, the sound of steel snapping out of place echoes through the large backstage hallways of the arena. Bryson shoots out of the doorway like a comet, running full speed down the concrete corridor.








The look of determination on Bryson’s face is as serious as ever as he parades through the commotion. He puts his hand out as he passes a table lined with documents, probably important, and creates an elegant explosion of paper in his wake. A smirk on his face he goes back to waving his arms up and down in almost an overtly obnoxious pump.








Bryson turns a corner and proceeds to run up a ramp, the large metal doors at its peak slowly begin to open and the light shining from beyond them are almost enough to blind. Bryson’s silhouette casts a shadow where he just stepped, however, and he reaches the top of the incline sharply turning left and running in the parking lot. The wind blows through his hair and against his skin as he passes rows upon rows of cars.









Suddenly a horn can be heard, along with the screech of rubber on asphalt, as a large, white, horned vehicle emerges from the columns of cars. Bryson quickly reacts as he leaps up, sliding across the hood of the car, as the driver, Christian G. Smitten, looks on in some awkward comination of Startled Awe. Bryson seems to almost lay casually as he slides across the hood, until his sleeve is caught on one of the horns, and he rolls to the ground. Quickly, as if unphased, or perhaps more embarassed, he shoots up and continues his run.








Quickly Bryson makes another left down another ramp and back into the halls of the building, just squeezing through the small opening of the large metal doors. Onlookers stare as he blazes past them at full speed. Making a sharp right, he proceeds down the large hallway when an unaware Bobino enters the hall from behind a closed door.

Don't stop me now ('Cause I'm having a good time)
Don't stop me now (Yes I'm having a good time)
I don't want to stop at all

As Bryson speeds towards the unsuspecting Bobino, he reaches out and grabs the red plastic cup he was holding in his hands, the clear liquid nearly spilling past the rim of the cup. In true marathoner fashion, Bryson wastes no time in leaving a startled Bobino in his wake, pouring the beverage over his eyes.

However, it stings like hell, causing Bryson to stop dead in his tracks. A confused Bobino continues to look at Bryson.

Bobino: Are you ok?

Bryson: NO, IM NOT “OK”! WHAT THE HELL WAS IN THAT IT STINGS LIKE I JUST RUBBED A BEEHIVE INTO MY EYES!

Bobino: Well, it was a Sprite…

Bryson: SPRITE!? SPRITE!? WHAT ATHELETE DRINKS SPRITE?!

Bobino: Well I’m sure the ones who get payed to endorse them do and-

Bobino is cut off as Bryson hurls the empty cup at him.

Bryson: ARE YOU ENDORSED BY SPRITE, BOBINO!?

Bryson replied shortly.

Bobino: Well, no but-

Bryson: THEN WHEN THE HELL! SERIOUSLY MAN I THINK I JUST RUINED MY EYES!

Bobino: Look, I was parched and Sprite is refreshing, ok!? Its not my fault that I like to be refreshed by a cool beverage every now and then, ok!?

Bryson sighs heavily as he wipes the last of the Sprite from his eyes and Bobino reenters the refreshment room. The music starts up again and once more Bryson is running down the concrete halls at full speed, now seemingly unaffected by the Sprite.








Bryson continues his mad dash down the hall. Very quickly he approaches another set of metal doors. Reaching out his hands he uses his momentum to push the bar and thrust open the door. Bryson pauses for only a second to look both ways before darting to his right. The hallway gradually curves to the right and Bryson continues to zoom through the near-empty corridor until he reaches another set of metal doors. Not wanting to stop, Bryson again uses his momentum to thrust the door open.

His eyes grow wide and the rubber soles of his shoes squeak against the smooth cement as he desperately tries to stop his momentum. After he is able to regain his footing he bends over and begins to dry heave.

Male Voice: HEY! A LITTLE PRIVACY DUDE! YOU SEE SOMETHING YOU LIKE OR WHAT!?

Bryson covers his mouth and tries to avert his eyes as he has stumbled across Seth Omega, with his pants around his ankles, receiving a hand job from a local girl. Her cheeks were painted pink to accompany her false pig ears and nose. The two of them stare idly at Bryson, who cant help but stare at the two for a brief second, as if he had just come across a train wreck. When he does come to his senses, however, he turns back and runs the way he had come from. Omega‘s voice can be heard fading away.

Omega: Hey, get back to it

The sound of the doors being thrust open are accompanied by the high pitched grunts and squeals of the girl as one can only assume she goes back to her employ. Bryson stumbles a bit after exiting the doors before regaining his footing and running full speed in the direction he came from.








Bryson follows the hall as it turns slightly to the left now and back through the large metal doors. Once again Bryson is running down the large main corridor when, as before, an unsuspecting Bobino exits behind the closed refreshment room door and, as before, Bryson rushes up to him.

Bobino: Hey!

Bryson grabs the cup from his hands and this time stops to directly pour the liquid into his eyes. Bryson lets out a scream of perhaps both joy and pain in his attempt to remove the image from his eyes. Bryson sticks out his arm and grabs Bobino’s shoulder, leaning up against his coworker for a brief moment taking short breaths.

After a few short seconds, Bryson hands Bobino his cup again, pats him on the side, stands upright and again bolts down the corridor, turning right into the nearest entrance to the main stage. Bursting through the curtain Bryson enters the empty arena. The lights are set on the empty ring as he runs down the short flight of steps and slides through the bottom rope, runs over the ring, and out the other side back to backstage.








As Bryson reenters the backstage area, he blazes past more of the stagehands and talent alike, shooting past Trey Spurance and Axel Van Osbourne, both of whom are quietly enjoying their sandwiches prepared for them. As Bryson shoots past them, similarly as before, he grabs Treys sandwich and runs down the hall at blazing speeds before the two of them can even gather what is going on. They stand and shout at Bryson as he storms down the hall, a smile on his face and bits of sandwiches falling in his wake.

As Bryson tears into the soft bread of the sandwich his eyes tear up. Again his sneakers squeak on the cement as he abruptly comes to a halt, coughing and spitting out the sandwich in disgust. He turns and walks back to the two partners, who are still coincidentally staring at Bryson. An angry look accompanies the lasers Bryson shoots out of his eyes as he thrusts the sandwich back into Trey’s arms.

Bryson: Seriously, Trey? Is that seriously Tuna, Worcester sauce, and tomato ? Seriously!?

Trey and Axel stare at each other for a few seconds silently.

Trey: Well, I happen to like-

Trey is cut off as Bryson raises his hand and closes his eyes. Silently he looks at Axel and then back at Trey.

Bryson: You don’t mix Worcester sauce and tomato. I’m disappointed in you, Trey. That’s rookie. Next time, get a better sandwich.

All three men exchange glances before the music kicks up again. Without word or warning, Bryson grabs Axels sandwich instead and bolts like a panther down the corridor. He takes large bites from the sandwich as he runs, discarding at least half of it into the trash after he has filled his mouth. Bryson sharply turns a right and stampedes down. His arms thrust fervently as he bends forward to increase speed.

Unaware of the oncoming tornado, Alex O’Rion smiles as The Celt hands him a case of his favorite brew, Keith’s, off the bed of a large pickup truck. As O’Rion turns and steps once into the hallway he collides with Bryson. O’Rion looks on in horror as his case of Keith’s is thrust into the air and, almost in slow motion, falls to the ground. The shatter of dozens of bottles of glass and the womanly screams and cries of Alex O’Rion, as he kneels next to his puddle of beer and broken glass, accompany Bryson’s footsteps as he continues his mad dash.

Don't stop me
have a good time good time
Don't stop me don't stop me
Ooh ooh Alright!

As Bryson seems to have hit the home stretch, an almost entirely straight path, his breath is sharper and heavier the camera focusing on Bryson from all different corridors and angles. Bryson zooms past a sleeping Jeff Watson, slumped over in a chair in a small hallway. The camera stays focused on Watson as Bryson jogs backward and in place at the mouth of the hall. Deviously, Bryson walks over to the sleeping man and pauses a group of passerby’s with a whistle.

In a quick motion he calls them over. In a quick motion Bryson unzips his pants and slaps his balls against the head of Jeff Watson. Watson tries to shoo off Bryson, what little of his natural reflexes working for him, but Bryson again flops his testicles on Watson’s forehead, much to the giggles of the onlookers. Bryson looks up at them, a smile on his face until Watson suddenly wakes up. There is a literal moment of silence until Bryson, for a third time, slaps Watson with his nuts and bolts. The chair Watson was in scrapes against the ground as he storms up to chase after the speeding Bryson, who has already turned the corner he came from and has booked down the hallway once again.

I'm burning through the skies Yeah!
Two hundred degrees
That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I'm trav'ling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic man of you

Bryson roars like a cannonball down the hallway and thrusts his hands out at one final metal door. The door shoots open and the music comes to a sudden stop as Bryson has entered the dressing room of Drew Michaels, his cousin and bitter rival. Drew has been obviously cought unawares as he stands licking an ice cream cone. Vanilla, two scoops for those of you wondering. Bryson's knuckles whiten and tighten as he clenches his fist, an evil glare in his eye.

Drew and Bryson both pause for a moment before Drew tries to speak.

Drew: I don’t think you’re supposed to be -

Drew is cut short however as Bryson jogs over to Drew and slaps the ice cream out of his hand.

Bryson: AH HA!

Don't stop me now I'm having such a good time
I'm having a ball don't stop me now
If you wanna have a good time
Just give me a call

Before Drew can comprehend what is going on, Bryson does a quick shuffle of his feet and bolts again out the door and down the hall, his arms up in the air as if he were a champion. The music accompanies him as his final stop is finally in sight. The door he came out of, still nearly off its hinges.








Bryson begins to slow down gradually as he unzips the black hoodie he is wearing. As he finally slows down to a walk, he enters his dark dressing room. As the song begins to fade Bryson closes the door, the click of metal softly fading into black.

Chapter One: Make War, Not Fun...

And... Wesley Hollywood

...and many others

The story begins with J.L Anwyl sitting in a rehabilitation clinic; the room is icy cold sending a chill down Anwyl’s spine. As Anwyl looks around the room he quickly scans the cheesy low budget posters on what drugs do to your body, J.L looks around the room quickly taking into account how many people are in the room


Anwyl makes eye contact with a few "ex-junkies" who either stare down Anwyl or shy away quickly. Anwyl looks directly across to a man who is about to talk

[color:d362=# c69c6d] Ted- Hi y'all I'm Ted and I am an addict. It all started about, when I was fourteen or something...

Anwyl begins to lose concentration, something he does often when he get bored.


Ted is still explaining his excuses for his addiction to drugs while Anwyl, who is fed up with the words out of everyone’s mouth, begins to trail off thinking about FMW, a day dream in which Anwyl is holding up a torch looking down on the broken bodies below him.

Therapist- Jacob, Jacob, Mr. Anwar!!

Anwyl is still day dreaming, this time Anwyl pictures himself holding the Full Metal Championship above his head taunting the demolished and broken TyranT. Anwyl begins to smile as he hears a familiar voice yelling. As quick the day dream began it was cut off.

Therapist-Jacob, Jacob, Mr. Anwar!! WAKE UP!!

Anwyl springs up from his chair straight to his feet, in a stance showing his ready to fight.

Therapist- Please Mr. Anwar, you are falling asleep during our sessions, this is not what this is used for

Without saying a word Anwyl slides back into his seat, he stares down the therapist as the session begins to close.

Therapist- ...people like Ted are good examples of someone trying to turn his life around...


Anwyl begins to laugh at the comment made in his head, a way of coping with the absence of family and friends. The therapist is cut off by the snickering of Anwyl

[b] Therapist- ... Do you have something to say Mr. Anwar?

Anwyl glances around the room; he looks at the many faces, Ted’s in particular

Anwyl- For a matter of fact I do

Anwyl pulls himself out of the chair, and begins to pace the room, he stands behind the small and skinny Ted.

Anwyl- You see our upstanding Ted here is actually a lying and cheating motherfucker!!

Anwyl pushes the scrawny man out of his chair, sending him towards the therapist.

Anwyl- He is bribing you motherfuckers to get out of drug testing and all shit like that!! Ted here often sells drugs to teenager’s downtown. YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!!

Therapist- I think you’re being a bit skeptical there Anwar!

Anwyl's face and body stance shows he is angry but inside Anwyl but all he feels is fear. Anwyl scared and in pain, nobody in the last four months has visited him, except Wesley. Anwyl opens his mouth to shout out at his peers again but is distracted by the lighting in the room as it begins to flash colours of red, purple, green blinding and scaring Anwyl. Anwyl looks towards Ted, but Ted is slowly deforming, melting and disappearing into the room. All of a sudden a flash of white blinds Anwyl.

Anwyl- WHAT THE FUCK!!

Anwyl opens his eyes and looks around the room, he is notices that he is lying down on the couch in his living room with his mate Wesley looking straight down at him

Wesley- MATE!! Are you alright...

Anwyl is still confused. He tries to pull himself off the couch but is pushed back down by Wesley...

Wesley- MATE!! You were sleeping during the game and then you started screaming...

Anwyl- Just a bad dream, it’s just a dream...

Wesley walks to the fridge and reaches for a bottle of water. He quickly looks back to the couch Anwyl is sitting staring straight at the blank wall.

Wesley- Come on mate we'll go for a cruise, you have been stuck in this house all month.

Anwyl- Just please, get me out of here...

Anwyl murmurs under his breath. Wesley gives a smile and a nod as Anwyl slowly begins to stagger towards the garage. As they reach the garage Anwyl stops for a second and blankly stares at the off-white door leading to the garage. Anwyl closes his eyes and pictures his living quarters in the rehab clinic known to Anwyl as HELL!

Where are you guys, when are you coming to get me. HELP!! [/center] [/i]

Anwyl cringes and starts rubbing his eyes, Wesley looks at Anwyl with a concerned look on his face. With some quick thinking Wes starts talking about the basketball game.

Wesley- Mate, you should have seen it mate. LeBron had the final shot against Atlanta and missed. Fucking hack he is...

Anwyl- Mate, Are you high. Seriously Miami is going all the way NBA CHAMPIONS BAY-BEE

Wesley starts the car and smiles as he pulls his car out of the garage.

All he needed was a distraction, excellent!

[i] Wesley and Anwyl head straight for the city in Wesley’s imported Holden Commodore, a pride and joy to Wes and what Anwyl calls the “Shit-Box” as they drive into the city Anwyl notices the various billboards especially the massive billboard with the Full Metal Wrestling champions standing side by side advertising Ultimatum III with Full Metal Champion TyranT standing in the middle with the FMC sitting on his shoulder. Anwyl notices the billboard is out of date with Seth Omega still holding the Abandoned Championship, Anwyl witnessed Leon Caprice win that title at Corruption. As they move closer to the billboard Wesley notices the large sign and begins to mention FMW a topic that hasn’t been bought up since Anwyl got news of his acceptance for a trial match

Wesley- Mate, You looked good out there in Abu Dhabi. Jeff Watson got his arse handed to him. What was it... a minute or something you beat him, it looked like they were trying to put you over before Mt. V... Could we have a rookie as a Mt. V winner? I mean Alberto Del whatever won the Royal Rum...

Anwyl cuts Hollywood off

Anwyl- Come on, seriously! I’m J.L Anwyl mate; I was going to get that contract no matter what. In a minute or in fifteen... It just didn’t matter... And Mt. V, it would be handy to win that in only my second match... I hope FMW sets me up for bigger things in the near future, I am the fastest rising rookie in the business you know!

Wesley- Mate, your shit!!!

Wes laughs at the thought of his comment; Anwyl just looks at Wesley with a smirk.

Wesley- Remember that time with Earl and Jerry at, I think Brunswick when we were back home. It was like a four way match or some-shit and I kicked you fair smack in the teeth.

Anwyl cringes when he hears what Wesley has to say. Anwyl remembers the moment quite well; the pain involved and the taste of blood.

Wesley- ...And that old prick, Earl he was all like “keep the match going, it’s all part of the match boys” you remember. It’s a shame though...

Anwyl trails off and starts to lose attention. Anwyl begins to picture that moment, his mentor Earl Adams putting him into a submission move during the match and whispering his ear


Anwyl pictures the moment when Earl removes himself from Anwyl and starts to beat down on Jerry Anderson and Wesley Hollywood, Anwyl rises to his feet and low blows Earl dropping the old man, he follows that up with a clothesline to Hollywood sending him to the outside before hitting the Third Degree on Anderson. Anwyl’s face and chest was drenched in blood


The fucking tough old bastard Earl taught Anwyl everything he knows. Earl was the reason Anwyl went to America, the reason why Anwyl is here following his dreams. But as quickly as he remembers the good times and those great classic hits Anwyl pictures that moment when his life went into turmoil, a moment that felt so long. So much pain...



Anwyl runs through the time between the destructive impact of the crash and the time the ambulance reached them. He runs through the events in his head over and over. Could he have stopped it? Maybe, but at what cost?

Wesley- Anwyl, we’re here mate, I’ll just check the races mate and I’ll show you my surprise

Wesley pulls the car into the underground car park in inner-city Chicago. As Anwyl gets out of the car he feels the cold air rush around him. Bits and pieces of rubbish flutter and fly around the pillars and cars as Anwyl paces while Wesley continues to listen to the horse racing on the radio. Anwyl glances around the car park which is almost empty. Anwyl, with nothing to do as he awaits Hollywood’s appearance from inside the car begins to count all the motor vehicles


Anwyl stops, and realises that he is talking to himself. Wesley steps out of the car and looks directly at Anwyl who is pulling faces at the thought of himself talking to himself.

Wesley- ANWYL!!

Anwyl- Huh!!

Wesley- What the flip are you doing mate!!

Anwyl- Pfft, Nothing, mind your own business shit head!!

Anwyl and Wesley playfully push each other as they quickly move through the deserted car park, Anwyl quickly eyes off each car making sure he has counted them right.

Seven... seven... seven

[i] Anwyl repeats the number in his head, a way of remembering while Wesley tries to make idle chit-chat with the ever so distracted Anwyl.

Wesley- ... so mate the place I am showing you is my new investment. It’s somewhat of a... a new hobby of mine.

Anwyl nods and continues to follow Wesley down the busy street. As the duo move closer to Wesley’s “new hobby” they hear a homeless man in the distance ranting about his religion. Anwyl and Hollywood continue to push their way through the masses of people who have formed a circle around the quite smelly but well spoken homeless man. Wesley continues to walk as Anwyl stops and listens to what he has to say.

Homeless Man- ... and, and as the apocalypse approaches...

The homeless man stops talking as he looks straight at Anwyl. The man moves closer to Anwyl staring right at him making eye contact, as the man gets closer his steps become more gingerly as he moves within three feet of Anwyl. Anwyl thinking the homeless man has seen him wrestle before goes to reach for a pen inside his jacket

Anwyl- Do you want an autograph mate?

Homeless Man- Oh my god...

Anwyl smiles at the fact the man is taken by his presence, but as he looks up at the homeless man Anwyl notices that he has a genuine look of concern on his face. The homeless man quickly murmurs a prayer and looks straight at Anwyl, making sure he makes eye contact for the whole time

Homeless Man- And ANARCHY! Are upon us folks, Anarchy!!! Destruction, of everything as we know... It’s all you Mr. Anwyl, Mr. Anwyl it’s all you. It’s our new gods, your new gods. Everything that is established is destroyed. ANARCHY!

The homeless man continues his rant towards other people in the crowd and Anwyl quickly backs away and starts walking in the opposite direction, completely distracted on why he was even in the city in the first place. As Anwyl walks towards the underground car park he hears footsteps moving quickly behind him, as quickly as Anwyl could he turned around and into a stance ready to attack, but he was only looking at Wesley.

Anwyl- Sorry, where are we going again mate? I am lost.

Wesley- What? Come on mate I was showing you my investment.

The duo walks towards a large ghetto looking apartment. The doors and windows are boarded up refusing entry to everyone. The building is scattered with graffiti, some not as good as others. Wesley leads Anwyl down an alley way, as they move through the narrow alley they sidestep around rubbish bin and the debris left from the derelict building. As Anwyl and Wesley reach the back they are confronted by a large flight of stairs leading down to large red door with the words


The words are printed in large white block letters on the door; they’re clearly visible to everyone who looks down to the bottom of the stairs. Anwyl and Wesley quickly step down the cold cement stairs to the door below. Wesley grabs a small golden key out of the inside of his large overcoat and fiddles with the lock until he hears the familiar “click”. Wesley drags open the door and leads Anwyl through a dark hallway. Anwyl closes his eyes for a split second

FUCKING HELP ME!!! SOMEONE SAVE ME!!! [/center]

Anwyl opens his eyes again and continues to follow Wesley

Anwyl (whispers) - Only a dream, only a dream!

As they reach the end of the hallway Anwyl begins to hear music behind the door, it is loud and obnoxious


Wesley pulls open the door and reveals a small gymnasium. Anwyl looks around the room and looks at the state of the art equipment. In the very centre of the gymnasium is a wrestling ring with two men throwing each other around, the smaller man bounces off the ropes while the bigger man power slams him, a trainer climbs into the ring and starts discussing the last few moves. On the far wall there are various weight machines and other devices for muscle building, Anwyl notices a few men using the bench press alternating between spotting and lifting.

Anwyl (whispers) – Is this meant to be great?

Towards the wall on the left of Anwyl there are various bags of different shapes and sizes as well as speedballs hanging from the low roof; one man is using the heavy-bag leaving a THUD! Every time he contacted with the blood red bag, Anwyl was impressed. This bloke hit the bags with his rights and lefts and mixed it up with some low and high kicks. To the right Anwyl notices the bay of lockers; some are open showing the bare insides of the cold, metal shell that protects ones belongings. As Anwyl looks at each locker he notices one with a familiar logo on it with some words underneath. Anwyl moves closer to see what this locker has to say


Anwyl glares at the inscribed locker and turns to Wesley.

Wesley- What do you reckon mate?

Anwyl - You actually bought this?

Wesley- Shit yeah mate, I bought this so you don’t have to train across town or go to the Canada to get some training in

Anwyl – Really, You bought this?

Wesley- Yes I did, now meet your new trainer mate, this bloke is an old friend of some sorts

Anwyl is stunned and thrown back by what Wesley had to say. Wesley points over to the bloke hitting the heavy bag.

Wesley- OI! Jack over come here mate

Jack stops hitting the bag and walks over to where Wesley and Anwyl are standing. Wesley puts his arm around Jack.

Wesley- Jacob, meet Jack Benson, your new trainer. Jack here is going to put you through your paces mate.

Jack puts out his hand to shake Anwyl’s, but Anwyl refuses to shake hands.

Anwyl- First of all Wesley, I don’t need your charity! It is a nice gesture but I don’t need this, not now! Second of all I have been fine all by myself! And lastly Jack, your no longer needed in aiding me with training, not that I needed you anyway.

Anwyl turns to walk out the door, back to the outside world. But Jack calls out to Anwyl in his heavy southern accent.

Benson- Excuse me Mr. Anwyl! You have failed in every kind of wrestling in the mighty USA! Last time I checked you were a jobber at VCW, TWR you couldn’t stop sticking needles in your arm and well at FMW you failed once, you are likely to fail again

Anwyl turns back around to face Benson. Anwyl is angry; with fist clenched he walks right up to Benson standing only centimeters from each other

Anwyl- Such the nerve...

Anwyl takes a step back and goes to strike Benson but Jack quickly blocks the punch, delivering a fierce jab to the chest of Anwyl knocking him backwards. Anwyl and Benson stare at each other trying to gain an advantage.

Anwyl- Let’s make this interesting...

Anwyl walks to his bag and pulls out a purple envelope with the FMW logo on it in gold.

Anwyl- How about I put my FMW contract on the line, Winner gets the contract to perform on Ammunition and loser gets jack shit. Are you in, or what?

Benson- You has got you a deal.



Anwyl and Benson are standing across each other in the ring. Benson walks to the centre of the ring and puts out his hand for a handshake; a sign of respect by Benson. Anwyl walks over and puts his hand on Benson’s before throwing Jack Benson into a DDT lock up and hits the “Ice Break” throwing the head of Jack Benson into the canvas. Anwyl wraps his legs around Benson’s body and continues to put pressure on his neck and head with his right arm. Anwyl begins to pull tighter and tighter causing Benson’s face to go a reddish hue.

Benson taps out but Anwyl continues to put pressure on, his body is going limp and the eyes are beginning to roll into the back of his head. The patrons of the gym are trying to pull the rampaging Anwyl off the helpless and now rendered useless Benson.

Anwyl- That’s why I am in FMW BITCH!!! J.L ANWYL!!

The medic is clearing out the ring trying to give Benson room; Anwyl is still yelling profanities at the beaten and battered Jack Benson. Anwyl pushes through the crowd of people in the ring and steps on the sternum of Jack before leaving the gym alone.

Anwyl escapes the gym up to the winter wonderland known as Chicago. He leans out and hails a cab, as a few pass and continues driving off into the distance as Anwyl begins to think about what happened. At the first sign of remorse Anwyl yells

Anwyl- Prick deserved, that son of a bitch...

Anwyl finally hails a taxi cab and climbs in

Anwyl- I need two trips outta ya mate

Taxi Driver- Alright, where we off to bud

Anwyl- Oak Park then the airport mate

Taxi Driver- Alright then buddy, you’re the boss

Anwyl puts his iPod into his ears, away of drowning out the outside world and begins to listen to Kings of Leon. As cab drives to his house (or Wesley’s as a matter of fact) nears to an end Anwyl feel as though he had been in that car for an eternity. Anwyl was receiving phone calls from Wesley but he kept ignoring them. Anwyl felt it would be for the best if he cleared out for a while, maybe a few weeks. As Anwyl reaches the first destination of two Anwyl jumps out of the cab and runs inside picking up his pre-packed bag and plane tickets.



Voice Over Man- As our anti-hero, J.L Anwyl takes a break from facing his own personal demons, problems and triumphs he will draw your attention towards a few words he has prepared at an earlier date.

J.L Anwyl is sitting behind a large oak desk; he is wearing a beautiful white suit with a black shirt and no tie. Anwyl is surrounded by papers and a laptop; he is happily typing away on his computer as he stops with the rapid finger movements and turns toward the camera, who is sitting directly in front of Anwyl. With a cheesy attempt at sounding elegant Anwyl begins to talk

Anwyl- Oh sorry I didn’t see you there

Anwyl rubs his chin and taps a few keys before closing the laptop and shuffling the papers into a neat stack.

Anwyl- *ahem* I J.L Anwyl, the fastest rising rookie to hit the FMW ring would like to take the time to point out why the torch will be held firmly in my hands after the “cluster-fuck” known as Mount V is finished

Anwyl shuffles his notes back into a similar mess as before. He pulls out a yellow tatted piece of paper, on the back of it are some small hand drawn pictures. Anwyl quickly reads over the paper.

Anwyl- The ten reasons why, I J.L Anwyl will win is... Number ten, after setting me up for the win last week I feel as though I could do it again, and I did it in record time might I add. Number nine, my technical ability along with my somewhat “dirty” tactics offer an interesting offence not matched by many.

Anwyl turns the yellow paper holding on a different angle

Anwyl- NUMBER EIGHT! After being stuck in a tree for a night when I was eight years old it has gotten me over my fear of heights, that also brings me to number seven, after falling from the same tree only minutes later has re-alliterated the fact that I am still not afraid of heights. Number six, replay the last four reasons.

Anwyl chuckles before adjusting his chair into a different position

Anwyl- Number five, I like seeing others feel the PAIN especially when they fall fifty-five feet.

Anwyl folds the paper over re-reading in his head what he had just said.

Anwyl- Number four, I mean who doesn’t like fire and heights at the SAME TIME. Number three, I would lo... I would... umm...

Anwyl stutters and loses his place his runs his fingers through his hair as he reads up and down the sheet of paper making sure in the next sentence makes sense before reading it.

Anwyl- Oh, yes, I got it. Number three, I would love to be the one to throw an established Full Metal Wrestler off the top

Anwyl (whispers) - Maybe, Drew Michaels or Chris Austin, What was even radical about that bloke anyway?

Anwyl continues to look at the piece of paper

Anwyl- Number two, is it a coincidence or why would FMW bring me in one show before Mt. V? I mean one match to build up heat, then BAM!!! Have him win Mt. V! Nobody watching at home will see it coming!

Anwyl then stops with the cocky smirk and glares directly towards the camera sitting right in front of him.

Anwyl- And the number one reason why J.L Anwyl will win the Mt. V match is... well I am J.L Anwyl! Simple as that mate!

Anwyl jumps out of his chair and raises his hands above his head, posing down to the cameras before picking up his laptop and walking to the door...

Anwyl- Oh and before I forget, FMW there are something’s that are known, then some that are unknown... And in-between there is J.L ANWYL!

Anwyl slams the door closed behind him and leaves the room which was full of life only moments ago.



(OOC: I am considering this my first promo as that my last was more of an in-ring segment than a promo. I am happy to say that I did get this to 11 pages in word (MY LONGEST PROMO EVER, 4131 Words), Thanks for the advice by many and this is also the first promo I have ever written in this style... )

Good afternoon, class.

Today’s lecture will cover two topics: One, the Mount Vesuvius Match and Two, the C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Championship match. Both are staples of Full Metal Wrestling and some of the all-time greats have competed in and won both. At Mount Vesuvius, the event, I will be winning that match and beforehand I will have retained the C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Championship against Alex O’Rion, the last man to hold the torch that is at stake in the first match.

I do not wish to hold you longer than I need to, so I will tackle the longer subject first. That is Mount Vesuvius. Then, I will wrap up with my lecture on the C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Championship match with Alex O’Rion. Do pay attention to both, as elements of one will tie into the other and because when the Mount Vesuvius lecture ends, it should be clearer why I tried to avoid such a situation with Alex. Understand? Good, now let’s begin.

As most know, Mount Vesuvius is a 30-man Battle Royal held on top of a triple cage which comes together as the match progresses. I’ve never seen the point of this when, you know, the object of the match is to retrieve a torch at the very top, not eliminate people. Wouldn’t it make more sense, from a financial, story, and health standpoint to have the match inside the ring and then allow the match to get more dangerous when the stakes grow higher? As it were, I first approached this match hoping for a good showing, nothing more. A part of me was thinking, ‘I wonder if I could go coast to coast with this thing.’ How stupid I was for thinking those thoughts.

So how can I, the master strategist, prepare for a match knowing that this is the most unpredictable match in the world? I can’t make it predictable, can I? One slip can equal elimination. Hell, the only way not to get eliminated is to never stand up and fight. So, how can you win? You just win it by fate. You win it because you’re the guy that is needed to win. The first Mount Vesuvius match was won by the self proclaimed Chosen One.

Drew Michaels entered from number eight and JUST snatched the torch from John Derrick in a classic visage in FMW lore. Derrick had long been considered one of, if not the best, to do this thing we call wrestling and Drew Michaels was nothing more than an ultra violent specialist that just so happened to give his life to God. The champion at the time was Ethan Black. The most dominant champion in FMW history and yet the sorriest excuse from what I heard but he was omnipresent. He was the man everyone wanted to shut up.

Applying ‘Occam’s Razor’, no matter what you are or how terrible you may be if you’re champion, you’re doing something right. If he was such a terrible champion he would’ve lost the title early on. In short, people didn’t have the balls to show him any different. I remember during my freshman days when I’d bury myself in the history of FMW and I’d listen to the veterans’ accounts about how Ethan Black politicked his way to 340 days of terror over FMW. I heard about how RAMPAGE was going to win the title at the first Lethal Injection. But Ethan had the match changed, then Alex O’Rion was going to win, yet backstage dealings went down and boom, Black retained. The directly involved parties seemed to have let it go but little of the others have. At least that’s how I remember it, could be wrong.

I heard about how he thought cYnical was washed up and figured he’d be an easy defense. Then cYncial, or Daniel to those who know him well, handed Black his ass in a non-title affair. Rumor has it that Black had one hell of a backstage fit. He punched walls, had a drunken fit and claimed he’d even rape Daniel’s mom. Still, he went on to defeat cYnical at Ground Zero. Makes you wonder why he did all of this whining to start with. It was like he began to find that wasn’t that good, even if others already knew but were too cowardly to speak up. They were right though. He lived off of shock value, corruption, and brainwashing. Many say he was the devil incarnate. All of FMW ate it up too, despite bitching about it now. So, with all of this said, FMW needed to be saved from the devil himself. Who do you send to do the job? The best FMW has to offer or a man whose entire point of existence is to be God’s soldier?

Though I can make a much better case for Doc since Drew LOST to Ethan Black during the Road to Glory tournament, it was always going to be Drew who went on and defeated Ethan at Ultimatum’s battle of Good versus Evil. But from day one, Drew Michaels reign atop FMW was doomed. He had lost so much in order to get there; the ability to raise a child, to see with pure intentions. Original Sin formed to mold FMW in their image but the FMW championship then began to be passed around and thus it lost prestige. Every show was dedicated to getting the title from Michaels and thus he as did almost everyone after Ethan became a ‘transitional champion’.

By the time Circus Maximus rolled around, John Derrick had finally become champion and at the pay-per-view before he saved Full Metal Wrestling by avenging an earlier loss to Jaro. As I touched on in a past promo, chaos needs to be balanced with order. What better way to do that than have a man that epitomizes law do so? John Derrick was a known womanizer and filled his life with drunken nights, unpredictable, charmed chaos.

It just so happens that at Mount Vesuvius two a chaotic womanizer faced law and order right when FMW was in complete disarray. There’s no way that all of these things work out as they did…yet they did. The stars aligned and a new champion was crowned. Granted, Christian G. Smitten showed promise as champion but given the buildup to the match itself was clear to see that he wouldn’t last long as champion if he were to actually win it.

Meanwhile, Mount Vesuvius two happened and FMW is now in need of the stability that it had grown accustomed to. Yes, as bad as Ethan Black was, you can’t deny that he was a dependable hand as champion. Then fate happened upon TyranT. TyranT was no nonsense, backstage everyone raved about him, hell even I was in awe. Either way, think to yourself and apply ‘Occam’s Razor’ as I continue.

The most consistent of us all at the time, who is also the oldest, gets number 25 out of 30 when FMW needs a strong champion. The man he last eliminated was Skyler Striker. I know, you’re saying he entered at number 30 but there is only one man that has ever had Striker’s number and it is TyranT. So TyranT gets a number way better than the rest of the favorites and the one person standing in front of TyranT and that torch is a man that TyranT has made a career of dominating. Fate and Mount Vesuvius two chose TyranT to win.

Sadly, no one could have foreseen what would happen. TyranT’s health grew worse and RAMPAGE won the torch in a grueling match and immediately vacated it as TyranT took some time off. The torch was eventually won by Alex O’Rion. People missed the old Alex O’Rion, the champion that was never crowned when he should have been. Mount Vesuvius thought that Alex would be that steady hand, despite his shaky past. He had seemingly gotten it together, he was showing up to the arena on time and his in-ring work was marvelous.

That nostalgia proved to be an ultimate temptation, one FMW indulged in freely until Ultimatum 2, and then the main event began to fall apart. Then champion Nick Bryson, who had defeated Smitten in yet another end of a transitional championship reign, had grown tired of FMW taking him for granted and he began to mentally check out of FMW right as Alex fell into old habits. Yet, Alex defeated Bryson. Then to give Alex a close call, Flare went to cash in his Gold Card that night.

As fate would have it, Alex’s foot was underneath the ropes after he suffered the ‘End of the World’ maneuver and was counted out. Now, INSTEAD of having the match continue as things normally would, Smitten ruled that the match was null and void and the decision was reversed. Why? Flare wasn’t disqualified, he didn’t cheat. Despite Alex O’Rion’s issues, he deserved better than to be violated like that and Flare got the shaft unfairly.

I know, this sounds like a conspiracy theory but it’s not. This is just how the world of FMW worked out. It makes Full Metal Wrestling, Full Metal Wrestling. It is a federation that just so happens to have some of the best collection of talent in the world and at times, some of the most ass-backwards decision making in the world. Also, note that TyranT, the ORIGINAL winner of Mount Vesuvius two, did go on to be that strong champion that was needed and is to this day. Fate always gets its way, class. Remember that.

So now, it’s time for Mount Vesuvius three and people are clamoring for making a title worth garnering. People miss the omnipresence of Ethan Black as champion. We’ve got main eventers holding titles that other believe them to be above. FMW is now in need of a true champion and not just a formidable belt holder. FMW wants a champion that doesn’t mind letting people know that he is in fact, the Man. They may find that in Hannibal Frost for a short while but Frost, despite his immense talent, has always been nothing more than a transitional champion that always seems to falter at the height of his momentum and rise.

Now, had I never joined the Innovative Initiative and things happened to me as they did, Mount Vesuvius three and fate would have chosen me as the winner, without a shadow of a doubt. But the choices I made set into motion what you see of me now. I snapped for lack of a better term. Was it because the extenuating circumstances became too much to bear? Because I deep down had grown crazier by the moment and it was a matter of time before I snapped? Why? Because I want to be world champion and nice guys historically finish last in that race?

No, it’s because I’m ready. Being World Champion in FMW changes you. You become a totally different person than what you used to be. Drew went from God-fearing Christian with everything in his hands to a bitter, jaded, gold-whoring mongrel who feels that anyone deserves a title shot so long as it means a title defense, all the while losing sight of what’s important. TyranT went from a no-nonsense grizzled veteran who worked in order to provide his daughter with care to a heartless, cowardly maggot that not only stepped on his daughter to get the belt, but since then has devalued the championship with his “un-champion-like” behavior. Alex O’Rion went from Good Old Bye living his dream to a jealous, crazed madman who felt FMW needed to die in order for him to make it the federation he thought he was signing up for.

I went from a hard-working man who tried to do the right thing, one of the last real chances for a hero in Full Metal Wrestling, to a ‘psychotic’ prodigy driven to misogyny and is hellbent on some idea of perfection that to some, is utterly unattainable. I’ve already gone through the changes fitting of a Mount Vesuvius Torch winner that goes on to be World Champion in this place. I’ve lost a family, my moral fiber, some say my mind. Only thing missing is my reign on the throne as FMW Champion. It starts with the torch and rest assured one way or the other I’m going to Ultimatum.

There’s a reason why I am the current C-4 Heavyweight Champion, one-half of the current FMW World Tag Team Champions, a TWO-TIME Hayabusa Cup Champion, and the current champion of that and the King of Full Metal Wrestling. There’s a reason why Christian G. Smitten, Leon Caprice, Skyler Striker, Abel Steele, Butters, David GS and the like all wrestle the match of their life against me and fail. Why?

It’s because I’m that good. Mount Vesuvius is looking for a man that won’t hesitate to tell you he’s the one; Someone that’s beaten some of the best and will embarrass the rest with a smile. That person is me. TyranT, Hannibal Frost, Harley Quint, Jaro? None of them are in the match. Skyler’s taken his ball and gone home, I’ve annihilated the only other person to ever win this match in Drew Michaels, and almost everyone else worth a damn in this match at some point or another. Deep down, I am that person who you want to hate and target. I’m the best in the field in that match and most of you know it. It’s time to accept it.

Class, realize that destiny is going to happen to you. I cannot argue with destiny. I won’t do metaphors that’ll go over your head or long-winded messages pertaining to God, self-sufficiency, this being the right choice for a better future, it’s what I do, or it’s what FMW needs and stupidity like that. You know what’s coming. I know what’s coming. So let the inevitable instance that is me standing as FMW’s supreme happen. At Mount Vesuvius, I will win and there is nothing you can do except to bow down.

It’s that simple, that obvious. Your eyes will be opened to the truth and your ill-conceived thoughts of actually having a chance to win Mount Vesuvius will die. You’ve had your chance and instead of cramming as you did, I’ve sat down and studied and pored over the information given to me and gained an understanding of how this structure works. See you in Italy for the next exam and don’t worry; whatever you will learn about Mount Vesuvius by that time will be obsolete. It isn’t on the test.

Take one thing from this lecture. Fate has dictated that I become the next dominant FMW champion. Whether or not I win Mount Vesuvius, and I will, Fate ALWAYS gets its wish. I’m going to win because I am the best. I am the King of FMW, I am the Shit. I am the One.

I am the Leader.

And honestly, class? That’s the best reason anyone could ever give. It’s just a shame that it’s only true when I proclaim it. My legacy will be cemented when I hold the torch high into the air and look down towards every broken body I leave in my wake.


Fuck Alex O’Rion.

This assclown has the nerve to make me drop him off at the entrance of the hospital while I go find a goddamn parking space. As if I’m Driving Miss Daisy or something. Anyway, after a good 35 minutes of finding a nice, protected parking space…

What? I don’t want anything to happen to my baby. You’ve seen my ’67 Impala.

But yeah, I walk into the hospital and I go to the desk attendant and quickly ask “Where’s Karma Jones’ room?”

Of course this not-so-appealing broad interrogates me a little, asking how I know her and all of that. Lucky for me I’m the Student of the Game. So, after said crusty bitch wastes my time, I take off looking for her room. I bet you’re wondering why I give so much of a fuck.

Well, apparently Karma had an allergic reaction to something. I want to be sure she’s OK. I’ve taken a fancy to her as you all know. On top of that, I hope it’s not something that belonged to me which caused this. Lately she’s been all in my shit so it’s a possibility. Besides, I can’t nail my best friend’s niece if she’s really effed up. That’s just wrong.

I know, that’s a little selfish but I’m up front about mine. You should be grateful. Ah, here’s her room. I enter, and to my surprise, she’s alone. I wonder where Miss Daisy is but I am sure he’s not gone far. He’s still that same reckless daredevil but he’s become a little more responsible from what I’ve seen.

Yeah, and Drew Michaels is a Satanist.

So I inch closer to Karma’s sleeping form, and deduce she looks a little cold. Anything to get near her, I guess. I mean think about it. She’s attractive, athletic, and ripe, barely used (fucking Syanide)…and she’s a little damaged.

She fits my qualifications, you know?

Meanwhile, some chick flick is playing in the background. I’m not sure what it’s about but one of the characters says something that stops me in my tracks.

“We can’t do this, ‘you know who’ wouldn’t approve.”

I chuckle. That melts into morbidity as I hear the TV blare “TO HELL WITH ALEX!”

“Alex?” I think to myself. Am I hearing things? But the next line in the scene quells my doubt with a “What about Alice?”

“You know she’d flip if we did this and she found out.”

“I’ve covered for her plenty of times, I can cover this too.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear this was the exact same situation I’ve found myself in. After a defeated sigh of admission upon realizing that my life has seemingly become some fucking Hallmark channel movie I get to Karma’s bed-side. I brush her hair from her face as she rests on her side. She looks so peaceful when she rests; so inviting.

I lean in to kiss her. Just to sample what it is I’m trying to round up…but I stop short.

I can hear Alex’s voice in the back of my mind. I can hear myself saying “Don’t do it bye, Alex would lose his shit.”

Bye? I don’t fucking say ‘bye’. The hell is wrong with me? Anyway, after a few seconds of mulling it over I decide it’s best to just tuck her in and make sure she’s warm. After all, I’m a good friend and tag team partner.

I do what Alex asks me to do. No matter how ridiculous I may see his requests. I do them because it makes him happy and keeps him content.

I wish I could say the same for him but in the end I’m starting to realize that you can’t fight instinct. You can’t change who you really are. This makes me think that I was always such a misogynistic deviant with a penchant for knowledge seeking and a lethal gift for wrestling. I just needed the proper traumatic situation to awaken the beast.

Eh. Having a son become a brother in a matter of minutes was a bit harsh, though.

I wonder if Alex would change for me. Maybe he has and I just can’t see it… nah, he’s a flashy type. If he was turning over a new leaf, he knows I’m the type that needs to see change to acknowledge it. It’s a shame I have to whip his ass because of something he asked me to do which was be the champion I could be…but I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t oblige him.

Oddly, the scene on TV fades to commercial with the two kissing deeply. You should do the same Chris, no one’s gonna find out. No. I won’t fall off the wagon. Like I said, I’m a good friend that honors requests of those I care about. I've grown a little soft outside the ring, truth be told.

Besides, it’s only a matter of time. My only hope is that I don’t toss her aside like I did Kylie. Then again, to quote Alex O, it’s what I do.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

Then Alex O walks in and sees me hovering over Karma. “God dammit bye I can’t leave you alone for shyte,” he says.

“I haven’t done anything wrong.” Yet. I haven’t done anything ‘wrong’, yet. The rest of this ‘lover’s quarrel’ you’ll see at a later time.

Go away.

No seriously, go away.



Now I will begin to cement my legacy by defeating the last torch holder before hand.

Which brings me to Alex O’Rion.

Alex, you told me that I was spitting on the legacy of the C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Championship by attempting to vacate it. You promptly kicked me in the face when I decided not to listen. Alex has no idea why I tried to vacate that title. Let me explain my actions. I know for a fact that at one time, the belt was respected to a point where some held it in higher regard than the FMW Championship. It used to stand for pure wrestling ability, toughness, intelligence, strategy. It sounded like a title I would be perfect for, a title that I would need in order to further validate that I am the best pure wrestler in FMW. But someone, somewhere, decided that it deserved to have its legacy stripped away.

It started with the signature match type being a de facto Armed Forces obstacle course. Then we saw the title be defended, won and lost in ‘Kiss My Foot’ matches and ‘Capture the Flag’ matches. None of these things exemplify what it meant to be champion. But the final straw was when the rules of C-4 were changed so that the belt would be defended in a de facto UFC match. It was already bad enough that the Abandoned Title and the Ultraviolent title were quickly becoming mirror images, but to see the last pure thing left become bastardized to satisfy the bloodlust of FMW was more than I could take.

So I tried to bury it in order to do away with the hypocrisy and lies that had been heaped upon what was once a proud accomplishment. I can knock some one out with ease, I can submit anyone, but the real satisfaction I gain would be to methodically and surgically dissect opponents to show off how my knowledge had increased my skill. But they took that opportunity away from me and I’ve been relegated from cerebral assassin to brutish savage. There’s not much fun in that for me.

I am not surprised that Alex took a stand. After all, he was the last man to spit on the legacy of anything that mattered in FMW. I am sure that most of you remember his untimely failure as Full Metal Wrestling Champion, but most people forget the Mount Vesuvius Torch which he won without ever stepping foot into the structure itself. He was able to take a shortcut to a position of honor. He took the easy way out. Hell if it wasn’t for Romeo’s interference against me Alex would not have won the match to begin with.

So, having spit on TyranT, Drew Michaels and everyone else that risked their lives to win that torch, I find it ridiculously funny that he has the gall, the audacity to try and stop me from doing something that would have bettered FMW in the long run. He may not have wanted me to make the mistake that he did, but the fact is that he did make that mistake and everyone allowed him to get away with it. They were too caught up in the charming allure that is the tortured enigma named Alex O’Rion.

Well I’m not going to be that same coward, Alex.

Alex, this is the last in a long line of transgressions that I allow you to get away with. You have been the foil to my every nefarious deed, well as you see them. You’ve become too caught up in being the hero that Drew Michaels never allowed you to be that you forget to be the wrestler that I know you can be. Your ‘heroic, honorable actions’ have resulted in you seemingly trying to break apart our tag team. You have looked past the things I ceased doing in order to make this work. You have ignored the fact that I secretly wanted nothing more than the person everyone compared me to, to be the man that I would WANT to strive to be. Instead you seem OK with being that Good Ol Bye that likes a good barfight, when I know you are a technically sound competitor with more that meets the eye.

As your partner, roommate and friend, I’ve always looked past your idiocy to see your best because I knew better. But it seems like you are scared to embrace it. You behave as if you’re OK with FMW mislabeling you. Why are you shitting on yourself, Alex? It's as if you WANT to be that guy that the insignificant maggots always joke about. Do you want to be the constant self-saboteur? Do you want to wallow in the muck of your own reckless behavior? Well, I can't let you do that because it makes me look bad, and it's time you were exposed as the one who is irresponsible, the one who needs constant watching as if the simpletons didn't know it already. I have tried to ignore your various acting out. I've tried to turn the other cheek but…

I refuse to be your enabler, Alex and it’s become clear that I have to take drastic measures.

The biggest mistake you’ve made, and probably FMW has made was actually believing I didn’t care about the C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Championship. No, I cared enough about it to end its suffering. I cared enough about my sport of kings to try to restore it to glory and start anew. You spit on that legacy by not allowing me to go through with it. So I am going to let you be the change you wish to see.

You're going to have to show me that you do in fact, want to change. At first, I was going to allow you to continue your devil may care rewarding life and gift you this match, but I couldn’t forget when you stepped out of line during a moment which had nothing to do with you because in your only opportunity at the title against Dr. David Diabolical you chose a woman you had already lost over a title that needed a hero that you could’ve been. I realized that you shouldn’t be rewarded for that, but rather punished. That punishment could not be avoided any longer.

Alex, I wanted an equal partnership without issues but I guess the one who puts more in it should get the most out of it for once and I guess no relationship is complete without a little infighting. Your actions have led fate to dictate that tonight will be a night where you finally realize that not everything can be fixed, not everything can be saved.

Fate dictates you will lose this match because one, I’m that good and two, when fate called upon you your reply was ‘No, I love Teresa more.’ But you claimed to love wrestling first and every time you’ve had to prove it, it turned out you were lying. You remember FMW Lethal Injection, don’t you? You turned on the Resistance, almost taking our careers away. And I don’t give a shit if we would’ve gotten fired; your piss poor effort cost Ammunition War Games. Now you tell me that if I don’t deserve to be champion because I see the belt for what it was, when FMW was just a place for you to try and kill because YOU couldn’t get it done until the competition grew weak enough to take advantage of? Bitch please.

You and fate will have a C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Champion and a Mount Vesuvius winner it can be proud of, someone who understands the legacies that should be upheld. I am going to restore them tonight, starting with defeating you. This is for our own good. This is for FMW’s own good. I will annihilate you, Alex. This is in the best interests of the belt, our team and you.

When you wake up, I want you take one thing from it; you asked for this. You asked for a champion worth a damn and I promise you, Alex…you will get it. It will hurt. It will not be pretty. What happens will be the reality of what happens when you are faced by someone who is that good; someone who’s the best pure wrestler in FMW, and someone who actually sees through your façade and treats you like the great competitor you could be if you wanted to.

Oops. There goes your ace in the hole, Alex. Sorry, bro but it is time to follow the Leader, just like the rest.

Class Dismissed.

Stained

I cross the oceans/I cross the seas
I cross the mountains/like a new disease
I cross the borders/I cross the line
Never to see the light/’Til the end of time

We start in a dimly lit bar. The darkness outside of the clear windows towards the entrances reveal that is most certainly quite late. Well-dressed and attractive waiters bring drinks to circular tables of mostly smiling faces. A man in an expensive-looking tailored suit appears from the kitchen, overlooking the bar and its patrons. One of the bartenders turns his gaze to him, and begins speaking in French.

Bartender (In French, subtitled to English): Good evening Mr. Oliver.

Mr. Oliver (In French, subtitled): Good evening. How is everything?

Bartender (In French, subtitled):Good so far, money is being made. However, I think that the fat man at table 4 might be an issue. I told him he was cut off, but he has requested drinks from his waiter several times regardless.

Mr. Oliver looks at the man, who is swaying back and forth in his chair. The man is looking around the bar, presumably looking for a waiter, but the simple act of looking around throws his balance off.

Mr. Oliver (In French, subtitled): Is Alex aware?

Bartender (In French, subtitled): Even if I didn’t tell him, he would be.

A waiter comes to the table and hands the fat man’s friend a drink. The waiter is seen explaining something to the man, who looks confused. The waiter points out the bartender, and the fat man gets to his feet and begins to wander towards the bar.

Fat Man (in French, s/t): What the hell is this? Is my money no good here?

Bartender (In French, subtitled): As a matter of fact, yes

A well muscled hand grabs the fat man’s arm before it can be rested on the bar. The man stumbles, not anticipating this shift in weight. Soon he is hanging by the arm of a black-and-grey-bearded man in a red dress shirt and sunglasses.

Fat Man (in French, s/t): Unhand me, you thug!

The older man pulls up the fat man, and puts his other arm around his back. He looks towards the bartender.

Mr. Oliver (In French, subtitled): I think Alex believes that it is time for you to go.

Alex drags the fat man to the door slowly and with a slight limp. He places the fat man, who is too far gone to put up much of a struggle, just outside the door. At this point, the fat man’s two friends, a female and a male, both have risen from their seats to protest.

Female Patron (French, s/t): Hey, we’re drinking with him. We can’t drink with him when his ass is on the pavement. It’s unsightly.

Alex waves his hands in front of his chest, trying to talk down the two friends.

Male Patron (French, s/t): Are you this bar’s bouncer or something? You’ve got a damn limp! How is that intimidating?

Alex: Oliver, what’s he saying? I don’t understand… he’s talking to fast.

Male Patron (French, s/t): What, you don’t speak French or something? What kind of French bar employs an old, crippled bouncer who doesn’t even speak the language?

Bartender (French, s/t): I wouldn’t mess with Alex if I were you. He may not look it, but he can certainly kick your ass.

Female Patron (French, s/t): He’s not tough. Americans are pansies.

In her rant, the woman has been waving a martini glass around. She stumbles and her hand flies towards Alex’s head. Alex quickly moves his head, grabs her arm and allows the glass to fly to the floor, where it shatters.

Female Patron (French, s/t): What the hell? I was drinking that!

Mr. Oliver: Sacrebleu…

The woman shoves Alex, who hardly moves. Alex lowers his shades to reveal his old, blue eyes surrounded by deep-set wrinkles. He glares at her, and she recoils in disgust.

Male Patron (French, s/t): That’s it, old man. You don’t get to touch her!

The man cracks open his beer bottle. Before he can even think to swing it, Alex has grabbed him by the wrist with his left hand, hooking his right arm under the man’s throwing arm until pain forces the man to drop the bottle.

Mr. Oliver (In English): Throw him out!

The man cries in pain, but Alex ignores it. He grabs the man by the shirt, pulls him over his head and throws him all the way to the ground, by the door. He then glares at the woman, pointing her towards the exit. As the man recovers, he decides not to push his luck and does as Alex suggests.

Mr. Oliver (In French, subtitled): Goodbye now!

A crimson tattoo of the letter “T” is exposed on the right wrist of Alex. After the patrons leave, Alex walks back towards the bar

Bartender (In French, subtitled): Thanks, Alex.

Alex nods to the bartender, and re-adjusts his sunglasses and his sleeve.

Alex: What did he say to me?

Mr. Oliver (In English): Said you were limping and old, and the usual anti-American stuff.

Alex: I was limping?

Bartender: Un peu…

Alex: Hard to hide when you’re dragging a guy that fat.

Mr. Oliver (In English): Yes. Well, thanks again Alex. You’re a tremendous help.

Alex: Just doing what you pay me to do. Anything else?

Bartender (In French, subtitled): The guy over at table six has been sitting there all night, hasn’t said a word to anyone.

Alex: Something about table 6?

Mr. Oliver (In English): Depressive, I think.

Bartender (In French, subtitled): American, I think, because I’ve never seen that logo before. It looks like a jersey.

Alex: Yeah, American. That’s a Cleveland Indians jersey. I guess that explains the depression.

Mr. Oliver (In English): What’s that mean?

Alex: Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it.

Mr. Oliver: Tres bien

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

I’ve seen the canyons/I’ve seen the cities
I’ve seen the prisons/that take such pity

So much has changed, and so little of it by my hand.

I feel as though… everything slips away from me before I even have the chance to catch it. Maybe if I was swifter, maybe if I was more perceptive… I could have changed things. Perhaps the Broken Saints wouldn’t have died if I had done something… anything, really… about it. Perhaps if I had tried harder, prepared better or… something… maybe I would have cashed in on one of my so many opportunities.

I lost the Gold Card Gauntlet… twice. I failed in the ring of Wire, and wasn’t even a factor in any of those matches. I’ve had opportunities to win title shots. And they’ve all gone for nothing. Worse, I feel my own motivation slipping away from me. I expect to be enraged by all this losing, all this loss… and I’m not. I’m not angry, and I’m not motivated. Just like Edible Smith, just like Edible Matthewson and just like I feared. The cliché is that winners are never happy with losing, that the fire of competition burns hottest in them. But, I don’t feel that fire.

What else do I have to go through? I’ve been through physical pain, and that wasn’t so bad. I’ve now watched two brands that I’ve belonged to fold out of existence. I’ve seen my trainer turn his back on me. I’ve seen the Broken Saints dissolve. I had almost no say in any of this happening, but I could have… at least in theory. But I’ve let it all slip away from me. All the while, I’ve squandered every real opportunity that has come my way.

Then, out of the clear blue fucking sky… this happens. When I defeated Nick Bryson in the House of a Thousand Shards of Glass match, I thought it meant almost nothing. The people I were protecting ended up apart. The brand I was fighting for ended up being dissolved… in part thanks to me. I thought that I had, once again, won a match that meant close to nothing. As it turns out, the match was meaningful, but for entirely different reasons. Winning that match, and helping with the destruction of Distortion got me a title shot at any title I should want. I chose the Abandoned Title.

This isn’t out of any ill-will towards Leon Caprice. Truth be told I hardly know the man. It’s because out of all the titles that I could have for myself, which could be more appropriate than the Abandoned Title? Abandonment is familiar territory to me. My parents died when I was young, abandoning me through no fault of their own. My trainers both abandoned me, for entirely personal reasons. My group is gone, my brand is no more, and after this all I am left with only myself. If there was a god, I might even think he had given up on me.

It doesn’t matter though. I am still here, and I still have this shot. Edible Smith couldn’t help me during this match even if he wanted to. The Broken Saints wouldn’t have interfered on my behalf. This is me, alone, against a respected champion. A man that everyone knows well enough. Perhaps some might have discounted my chances because of my mettle, my apathy, my lack of “fire” or some other intangible pejorative. There is only one thing that matters. I am facing Leon Caprice. If he should, at any time, fall into the Apathetic Choke… I will walk out of Mount Vesuvius as a champion. You can speculate on my desire all you want, but that’s the only truth that exists. Because nobody has gotten free of the Choke yet. I’ll be damned if Leon is the first.

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

When it comes to you/When it comes to me
It's just money that will set you free

Alex walks, without limping, towards a young 20-something blond man in a Cleveland Indians #24 “Sizemore” jersey. The man is slouched over his table, looking pensively at his nearly empty glass.

Alex: Tough times being an Indians fan, huh? What’s your name?

Patron: Sam.. you speak English?

Alex: Yep. Cleveland sports fan myself.

Sam: My condolences.

Alex: Funny. So what brings you all this way?

Sam sits up and takes a deep breath.

Sam: Running

Alex: Long way to run. How did you get across the ocean?

Sam: I was in Paris for my wedding.

Alex: Oh… so… cold feet?

Sam: Yeah

A long silence follows, as Sam finishes his drink

Alex: So why Paris?

Sam: She thought it would be romantic. I don’t know, she just… she was so different before. And then this wedding, and living together… I just… I felt that I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

Alex: Have you spoken to her?

Sam: No. My phone doesn’t even work here. I… I don’t even want to go back. I just feel like… there’s nothing to look forward to if I go back. Things won’t be good with her, obviously. Her family probably hates me, and… I don’t have a family of my own. I don’t even have a good job to go back to. Being a writer these days is like being a living dinosaur.

Alex: Sounds like you’re scared.

Sam: I guess that’s the word for it.

Sam tries to signal over for another drink, but Alex shakes his head.

Alex: Mr. Oliver has decided to cut you off.

Sam: Figures. Nobody wants my sorry, drunk ass around.

Alex: Hey, if we wanted you out… you’d be out. Did you see what I just did over there?

Sam: I didn’t.

Alex: Wow… you are out of it. Listen, I’ve seen my fair share of troubles, and I’m here to help you if you want.

Sam: How can you help me?

Alex: I’m… uniquely sympathetic to your situation.

Sam: How’s that?

Alex: Some could say I’m on the run myself. Though, nobody is looking for me at this point. Far too much time has passed now.

Sam: What were you running from.

Alex: A job, and some friend I’d betrayed.

Sam: Well, seems to be working out for you.

Alex (sarcasm): Yes, the shame and guilt I wake up to everyday is surely what I had in mind.

Sam looks down at the table, and pushes away his glass.

Sam: Why don’t you go back?

Alex: See, that’s the thing. The longer you wait, the harder it becomes to go back. The longer you stay in exile, the more of a coward you think you are.

Sam: I could just wait until it blows over…

Alex: That’s not how it works, not for us. You’ll sit here and wallow, unable to forgive yourself. You’ll come to doubt everything about yourself, and you’ll tear yourself down. Whatever you could have had will be gone forever, and you will be worse off for it.

Sam: Why can’t I just sit her for awhile, and gather my courage?

Alex: That’s just not how it works. You see, we all start out wanting to be many things. We want to be president, or an astronaut, or whatever else. Slowly, over time, we lose our opportunities to do these things. Then, eventually, you are stuck with yourself. You’ll be 30, or 40… and you’ll be too old to change anything meaningful.

Sam: That’s bleak

Alex: That’s the truth. The funny thing is this, when you’re young… you’re plastic. You can change everything. You can change the way you think. You can change your body. You can change your friends. But you have to make sure you’ve got it all worked out before you get older. Because eventually you’re just… yourself. You’re done changing. There’s no more opportunity.

Sam: C’mon, give me a break.

Alex: Sorry. You’ll understand that it’s a touchy subject for me.

Sam: It’s okay. You’re just doing what you think is best.

Sam gathers himself and stands up. He tosses some cash on the table for his drinks, and begins walking out. Alex follows him out the door.

Sam: I… I need to think. Thank you so much for talking to me... I don’t know your name…

Alex: The name is Alex

Sam: Alex. Alex, what exactly is it that you were running from again?

Alex takes out a paper pad and begins scribbling on it.

Alex: Not a lot of time to talk about it now. Tell you what, I’ll tell you the whole story tomorrow afternoon if you swing by my place. Here’s the address.

Sam thinks for a minute, before taking the paper.

Sam: Sure. Though, Ammunition is on tomorrow, so I might head back to my hotel room.

Alex: I’m a wrestling fan myself. You can watch it at my place if you want.

Sam: Sounds good… see you tomorrow, Alex.

Alex nods, and heads back into the bar. Sam walks off with a puzzled look on his face. He pockets the paper.

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

Hey, my children… what seems important to you
Won't last forever
Hey, my children… what seems important
Won't last forever

I’ve fought with myself over and over on this. Do I have the drive to be a winner? Do I have that competitive spark? Or am I just too content to finish a close second place? Then I think to myself, pressure is all in my head. I don’t need to worry about what this match means, long term. I just need to win this match, here and now. I know I can win matches, I’ve done it before. It’s so simple to win… I have the skill and the moves to do it.

And what happens if I win? Quite simply, it means that all of this talk is stupid. It means that all of the people that think I can’t do it were full of shit. It means that I’ve been worrying for nothing. It means that I’ve been worrying about become just like my predecessors – mediocre wrestlers who never won a title – all for nothing. I will have accomplished more in my short stint here than either of them did for their entire careers.

Ultimately, that’s what they both wanted in me. I was supposed to be the next generation for them. I was supposed to be just like them, but with one major flaw corrected. I would give a shit, where Edible Smith just didn’t. I wouldn’t back down from failures, like Edible Matthewson did. In some ways, I think this is my destiny. And yet in others…

I’m reminded of the last time I saw Edible Matthewson. He was trying to teach me the Dream-Cutter, his finishing move. But I couldn’t lift him. I was too young… I wasn’t strong enough. I snapped at him, and I saw this look in his eyes… it haunted me for years. I told him that I couldn’t do it, and that we should do something else instead of wasting our time. He looked as though I had confirmed all of his worst fears. He tried to hide his face. He said that he was wrong, and that he was sorry. But I knew better. He had been an emotional wreck over his falling out with The Misfits. He couldn’t bare to see what he had left behind.

The next night, I watched him reunite with Mass Chaos. I saw him cry, in the middle of the ring. I saw him break down in front of a live audience. This was not a man who liked to show his emotion. I knew that at that moment, he truly wanted to be just about anywhere but in front of a camera. So when nobody heard from him again… it wasn’t a surprise to me. Guilt is a powerful thing.

I remember when he first took me under his wing, he was taken with this idea of destiny. He felt that for some, destiny was “deliciously toxic”. He explained that sometimes our destiny was like a bottle of anti-freeze to the thirsty. We know that it is deadly, and that allowing ourselves to give in will be fatal. And yet… we all give in under enough pressure. Everyone would eventually eat the poisoned apple, drink the spiked beverage or succumb to lust… in different ways. For Edible, he thought he would overcome it. He thought he would restore the “Real American Dream”, or that he would die trying. For a guy who grew up with nothing, you would think he might better appreciate the somethings that he had. But he threw it all away, because what he wanted to be wasn’t going to be. Ultimately, his pride was his poison apple.

In that moment, I knew what temptation I would eventually succumb to… apathy. Eventually, I know I will fail to care enough. Eventually, I will either become a mid-carder, or I will simply fade away. Maybe I will even quit. But I also know what will stave off my thirst for a little longer… this title. You see, no man would knowingly drink antifreeze if he isn’t dying of thirst. So as long as I remain content and fulfilled in these athletic endeavors… I know that I won’t succumb.

I know that if I do, it becomes that much harder in the future. This label that others have applied to me, that I’ve applied to myself… I can only fight so hard to remove it. After awhile, it becomes stained into me. Eventually, I will be too old to fight it anyway. In life, we start out with so much potential. We feel that we can be any number of people. As time goes on, we miss key opportunities, and our possibilities dwindle. At the end, we are all distilled to one form: one man. We are who we are, and we can only hope to like that man when we meet him in the mirror.

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

Take a look at the Earth/From a plane
You'll see the earth/Cut up and in pain

Alex limped around his apartment that night. Without anyone around to see, he felt free to limp as he so desired. While a limp would draw puzzled looks from many patrons at the bar, the walls of his tiny apartment were less judgmental. He didn’t have to maintain an intimidating presence to his television, or his furniture. Alex welcomed his time at home, especially on this night.

In his mind, he wondered if he had come across as a creepy old man to Sam. Alex hoped not, but in the back of his mind he feared that Sam might not come over the next day. Perhaps all his effort had been for nothing… or perhaps that conversation had pushed Sam even further into isolation. Alex thought that perhaps he was too nosy, and shouldn’t have been so personal with a near complete stranger.

Alex walked by the mirror on the wall, recoiling in disgust. He thought of how much he disliked the way that his reflection glared at him with contempt. He quickly put it out of his mind, and approached the hot tub on the porch of his apartment. The hot tub was essentially the only reason he had chosen this tiny apartment. The tub would help soothe his aching muscles, and his perpetually achy leg. Alex hoisted himself into the tub almost entirely by his arms. Despite his older age and beaten up body, Alex remained in fairly good physical shape. In isolation, with no friends to speak of… Alex reasoned that he had nothing better to do but keep himself buff.

As the warm, pulsating water blasted away at Alex’s worn skin, his mind began to fade away. All of his cares seemingly left him, a comfortable numbing of the brain. However, on this night, this relief would be short. Suddenly, his phone rang, returning his mind to the dimly lit world of his tiny white-walled apartment. He sighed, and hoisted himself out of his watery haven.

Alex stumbled down the hallway, towards the ever-ringing phone. He couldn’t think of who exactly could be calling at this hour. Trapped in thought, he slipped on the polished hardwood floor. His wet feet slipped out, and his old knee gave out. His head was propelled forward into and through a glass side table. The floor and walls shook, unhooking the mirror from its place on the wall. Alex’s reflection came tumbling down on him, adding to the shattered glass that now encased his body.

Blood flowed around him, and pain overtook his senses. He had been cut all over, as the phone was going to voicemail. Alex looked at his arms, and the words tattooed on them. He crawled towards the phone, feeling his life slipping away from him. He put his left forearm out, with “Toxic” tattooed in large green print. He pulled himself forward with it, and reached out his other forearm. In crimson, the word “Misfit” attempted to pull his body toward the phone. Alex knew that if he didn’t reach the phone, he would certainly bleed out and die.

It was not the most peaceful way to go, he thought.

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

Take a look at L.A./from the sky
What you see/should make you cry

Sam arrives at Alex’s apartment door, and knocks. He receives no answer.

Sam:Alex? Are you there?

Sam whips out the piece of paper Alex gave to him. He reads over the scrawl, and confirms that he is, in fact, in front of apartment 64.

Sam: Figures, I guess.

Sam starts to walk away, but seems to have a change of heart. He turns back, and knocks once more. After he hears no response again, he tries the door. For some reason, the door is unlocked. Sam walks in cautiously, his shoes are greeted with broken glass stained red. He looks in, and recoils.

Sam: Oh, my…

Sam looks away, towards the kitchen table. On it, a letter is composed. It merely states “Too far, too high… too high to climb.” It is signed with a lime green “T” and a crimson “M”.

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

In his apartment, Apostasy looks over the “TM” letters. On each, he has scribbled the song that each letter quotes. The songs are all either by Filter or The Music. Apostasy can seemingly make no sense of the letters, and discards them.

Apostasy’s apartment is cluttered to the nth degree. Clothes, discarded take out boxes and dishes have overflown every tabletop and make walking difficult. As Apostasy gets up from his couch, he stumbles towards the kitchen area. He unwittingly trips over a pizza box, his body falls towards a glass table. Apostasy catches himself by holding onto the sofa with his hands. In anger, he kicks the pizza box aside.

Apostasy: I am a goddamn mess…

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

Hey, my children… what seems important to you
Won't last forever
Hey, my children… what seems important
Won't last forever

We go to a French police department building. An officer sits at a desk, as Sam makes his way to the chair across from it.

Officer: So, you’re the guy that found him?

Sam: That’s right.

Officer: What’s your relationship to the deceased?

Sam: I don’t really know him. He was a bouncer at this bar I was at last night. He wanted to talk to me this afternoon, so I came over to visit. I found him like this.

Officer: How did you get inside?

Sam: The door was unlocked, oddly enough. I don’t know why.

The officer nods, looking over a few files.

Officer: You identified him as Alex over the phone?

Sam: Yes. I don’t know his last name.

Officer: It’s Matthewson, but his first name isn’t Alex.

Sam: What?

Officer: Edible Matthewson is his name. He’s been living here under a false name. Apparently he was some sort of wrestler a few years ago.

Sam: I know Edible Matthewson! That couldn’t have been him! He was way too old!

Officer: Only 31, and already graying. And not in the best physical shape, from what I gather.

Sam: Are we talking about the same guy? Because Alex… Edible… whatever… he was ripped.

Officer: Muscles are one thing. But he had all sorts of scars, including what looks like a surgical scar on his right knee. Youthful people don’t die from tripping over their feet.

Sam: That’s so weird… he told me that he was going to tell me about why he was in France. I would never have guessed…

Officer: I’m sure it’s an interesting story to tell.

Sam: I am a writer. Maybe I should tell it.

Officer: Wouldn’t that be something?

Sam: Yeah. Do I need to stay in town or something? I have a flight to catch back to the states.

Officer: No, you’re free to go. Take it easy.

Sam: Thanks.

The officer nods, and waves him away. Sam walks out, clutching his suitcase.

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

I’m the scum of the Earth
I am a cancer

We go back to Apostasy, who is riding a stationary bike in his apartment, which is noticeably cleaner than before. His cell phone rings. Apostasy sighs, and reaches for the phone without getting off the bike. He answers.

Apostasy: Hello?

Voice Is this Heath Yates?

Apostasy sighs, somewhat annoyed.

Apostasy: Close enough, who is this?

Voice It’s Tony Carter, I’m a secretary in the PR department at Full Metal Wrestling.

Apostasy: That’s nice. Why are you calling?

Voice I just read something online that I felt I should pass on to you. Apparently Edible Matthewson was found dead in France last week.

Apostasy stops in the middle of a reply. He wrinkles his face, attempting to make sense of the news.

Apostasy: What? Are you sure? This isn’t like the Jeff Goldblum thing from awhile back?

Voice I called the authorities in Cergy, where his apartment was. They confirmed it.

Apostasy: He… he wasn’t that old.

Voice Apparently some household accident. I’m sorry for your loss. I felt it was appropriate to call you. We’re putting up a message on the website about it. Do you want to put a quote up there?

Apostasy: Uh… no thanks. I just… thanks for letting me know.

Voice No problem. Again, I’m sorry to break you the news like this. Felt you ought to know.

Apostasy: I appreciate it. Goodbye.

Voice Bye.

Apostasy turns off his phone and throws it to the couch. He dismounts his bike, and wanders into his bathroom. The look on his face is one of bewilderment. He washes his face in the sink. He looks to the mirror.

Apostasy: I didn’t see that coming…

Apostasy leers at his reflection. Seeing the emotion on his face just serves to anger him even further. After a minute, Apostasy reaches behind the mirror and pulls it forward, revealing a medicine cabinet behind. He slams the mirror against the wall, shattering it.

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

I’m the scum of the Earth
I am a cancer
I am humanity

Dear Mr. Apostasy

Is it Mr. Apostasy? Or do I address you as just Apostasy? In any case.

My name is Sam Rogerson. I am a writer for the Cleveland Scene, and I happened to meet Edible Matthewson on the last night of his life. I was thinking about writing a book about him, as he seems to me a slightly fascinating figure. I have been a wrestling fan for a long time. I’ve interviewed some people who knew him, including one Drew Michaels. I still would like a few more perspectives on the man, so that I could truly do his story justice. I’ve been told that you were his pupil for a few years, and I was wondering if I could interview you for this book.

Additionally, I do need someone to write the foreword. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do it.

If you want to know what the book is about, it’s essentially a biography of the man. A man who wanted so badly to inspire others, and yet was clearly filled with his own inner turmoil. I was thinking about calling it the Rise and Fall of the American Dream, given that he came from so little, did so much, and ended up living alone, avoiding his fame. Also, he was pretty big on that whole American Dream thing, being from an impoverished background.

In the end, I think Edible was a noble man. He knew his greatest enemy, and fought with it for many years. He tried so hard to be an example to others, and he honestly did much more than anyone could have reasonably expected from the son of a single crack-addicted mother. I find him very noble, which is why I feel the need to write his story. Your perspective would be appreciated.

Sorry for your loss,
Sam Rogerson, Cleveland Scene

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

Hey, my children… what seems important to you
Won't last forever
Hey, my children… what seems important
Won't last forever

I knew Edible Matthewson at his worst. I knew a tortured man, on the verge of cracking. I knew a man who was so angry at himself that he lashed out at others. It’s not the first time a person has done this sort of thing. It certainly won’t be the last. He made Drew Michaels his enemy, and ultimately ended up hating himself even more for it. The shame caused him to leave the country, in self-exile.

Even baring witness to all of that, I can still say that Edible Matthewson was a good person. Not just because he desired to do good in this world, but because he actually succeeded. He was a good man to me until the end. Even when he left me, I couldn’t be mad. Ultimately, he took so much on his shoulders. He took me in at the age of 16, and taught me to wrestle. He taught me to be a better person. Ultimately, he taught me my greatest enemy.

His entire life was a battle. As much was reflected in his choice of profession, choosing to do battle against the people he felt would undermine his greatest desire. It manifested in his choice of allegiance, becoming part of the revolutionary group known as The Misfits. He knew only fighting, from his youth until his demise. The lessons I learned from him extend far beyond the ring, however.

Unlike Edible, I know that life is not always a battle. Our choices don’t have to be permanent, and sometimes we need to forgive ourselves for our mistakes and our sins. The true evil in life, the stuff that is interred with our bones, takes years to manifest – like a cancer. After reading Mr. Rogerson’s book, I have learned yet another lesson from this man. Ultimately, Edible so feared that he would have to regret his many choices in life. The anxiety drove him away from everyone he knew. I know that fearing regret is a bit like fearing the rain. You can try to avoid it, but it will come in some form or another no matter what you do. In the end, I wish that he had learned to love himself for the person he was. Perhaps that’s selfishness on my part… perhaps I think that he would have spent more time with me if he didn’t loathe himself.

I’ve asked myself what I would have said to him if I saw him one last time. What kind of knowledge could I have imparted onto him to help repay him for the vast amounts he had bestowed on me? The only answer I can think of is this: if the man in the mirror looks upon you with disdain, it is only because you have looked in the mirror with that disdain

OOC: Ok, I thought I'd promo for the Mount Vesuvius match anyway. If that's not coo', if this post could be moved to the trash talking thread, that would be appreciated. So would feedback.

[center]

There's a lady who's sure,

Full Metal Wrestling asks too much of her children.

Disgusting displays of cruelty against our fellow men have been displayed in promotional videos to hype matches; women have been raped, had their ovums torn out; property has been destroyed; people have been drugged, beaten, murdered.

Careers have been drastically cut short on regular televised events; Nick Rijkaard was buried alive by his former partner and Alex O'Rion was injured involving an incident with his brother Adrian and the Dogs of War, Tempests career was cut short in a barbed wire salt pit; he was mummified.

Vendetta lost his life in a barbed wire cage match in what is legally perceived as a 'stunt gone wrong.' All in an attempts to 'get over,' to entertain the fans with this barbaric display of bloodshed.

And of course, like Wolves, they lap it all up. I cannot blame them for doing this, despite the fact it enables and encourages the board of directors of FMW to continue to sign death sentances.

But at Gold Standard Wrestling, the mentality is different. We do not spend human lives as Full Metal Wrestling does.

This is not to say that things cannot get as physical as FMW matches, and rest assured, they do. But J. Wroland Williams, the CEO of GSW, and the rest of the talent understand the value of a human life, we understand that the fans develop attachments to the men and women they see on television, or at our shows. If these men and women are crippled, they cannot entertain.

If, for example, I were to end Jeff Whitts career in a match at a taping of Slaughter, then I would have robbed the fans of a truly talented up and comer. I'm not sure how Chris Austin can live with himself after breaking Romeo's back and ending his career, stealing Romeo away from the fans.

Because cheer us or boo us, love us or love to hate us, the fans want to see us all compete.

But how does one compete with FMW? It is a well established company, with ties and money to achieve, and in some instances, get away, with anything they want. Up to and including murder. The roster of FMW is filled with talented wrestlers who just don't realise yet.

And what they don't realise, is that their employers do not care about them, or their well being. The work ethic of GSW is not something preached in FMW locker rooms, and why would it be?

The powers that be thirst for destruction, obliteration, annihilation, and thus so do the talent. It is not enough to win a match and put on a good show for there people.

Which is why I pose the question; why? Why do what your employers want? They don't care for you at all.

These people enabled the Black Covenant, Original Sin, The Cancer, HavOc, Virus. Us.

Mount Vesuvius.

So I come back to how FMW can be fought by a company who is in her financial shadow. It's fundamentally simple. Let us take myself for example, a mystery player in this game. However, a mystery player who has more insight into the workings of the beast than say, Levi, or one of our commentators, FMW's own Scott Oliver Steele.

I am aware, in my short term here in FMW, I have butted heads with a fair few men. These men, I am confident, I am a better wrestler than, I am a better mic. worker than, and due to their choice of signing on with FMW, I probably have a healthier work ethic too, as was discussed earlier. FMW is a disease, and few are immune.

But these men, they do not recognize what I am saying; they see fear and embarressment as the justification for my mask, where in actuality, I would like my message, GSWs message, to be judged on its own merits, not my history.

I am aware of what I can do. I am aware of what my friends can do. I am aware of what the FMW roster can do, but you are not aware of us. And that's fine, that is how we fight FMW. You are blinded by almost three years of Jason Roys monster child. We are here to show you, to show the fans, there can be a different way, a better way.

Unfortunately, before our message will even be heard, we must make an impact; FMW is notorious for ignoring what they see as fresh blood, the NEWbs, if you will. So we must take to arms. To defeat fear, one must become fear, so to defeat Full Metal Wrestling, one must before Full Metal Wrestling.

Remember, I know how this place opperates, I even know where some of the bodies are.

And that is why Gold Standard Wrestling takes to the Dread Mount.

All that glitters is Gold.

Camera pans into a dark room with light seen flickering in the background from a candle. The camera enters the room and turns onto Andrews who begins speaking

There are five other men who think they are up to the challenge... Five other men that think they can surpass the Outlaw, what they don't know is this kind of match is right up the Outlaw's alley.

Some may say the odds are stacked against me. Some say it's bad karma. A six man over the top rope battle royal as a debut match. (laughs) I myself think the odds are in my favor. Here in Texas, we love a good ol' fashioned brawl, the more people involved the better! The promoters have done me a favor. I have come here to FMW to make a name for myself and win a title. By winning this battle royal it will prove I am a man of my word.

Right now anyone that holds a belt should be shaking in their boots and paying close attention because the Outlaw is coming after them. One by one I will go after each champion and take from them what they hold dear... Their precious title. Ya see every moment is an experience. Each match holds a value. You must earn your keep before you go onto bigger venues...bigger fish...the champions..(pauses) I have a feeling the fans of FMW aren't going to know what hit them when they see me in action. (smiles grimly) I've already been asked by several people in town "Well John we heard its a six man battle royal. How in the world are you going to over come five other men and win?" (laughs) What the towns folk don't know is I have an ace up my sleeve. It's simple. A battle royal is all about tempo not about the amount of men in it. The trick is to move with methodical patience, calculation you see. Let the other men tire themselves out, then lay a couple of them out with the Outlaw Drop and just heave them over the top shattering their hopes of victory.

Knowing the risk going in, it's five on one; I like the odds. (camera zooms in closer) Work the corners, let them come to me, lie in wait for the perfect moment to strike. (Andrews smiles coldly) You see i've spent my life preparing for this moment, for this challenge and I am ready to step up. The question is are them city slickers and do gooders ready for the night of their life? And most importantly... can they stand toe to toe with the Outlaw? The Outlaw will show no mercy at Mt. Vesuvius these boys are going to learn that first hand that things won't go their way... no... It'll be the Outlaw way.

Andrews walks out of view of the camera with the sound of thunder crackling in the background


It is night time, the camera pans to the right at a camp fire where a person can be seen throwing a log on a fire. The camera comes closer and reveals Andrews who begins talking

I have tried to put the past behind me but Ravish keeps insisting he knows me. He knows nothing of what I have done. He can only assume he knows the demons that lurk inside the Outlaws head, reminders of the days of destruction. I tried to put it all behind me but this stubborn mule is bringing out the old Outlaw... The Outlaw who only cares about himself, the one that will not stop until his opponent doesn't move and is a bloody pulp. Sunday night Ravish is going to realize he bit off more then he can chew he can use his city slicker edumacation and try to impress the camera but that's all he can do. Some say history has a tendency of repeating itself and by golly they just might be right, I am going to make an example out of Ravish Sunday... I am going to show him who I really am. After I do so I will throw his pathetic, worthless, beaten carcass over the top rope and ruin his chance of victory.

Andrews looks down and the camera begins to focus on the piece of newspaper in his hand as Andrews begins to read aloud

Wrestler's Dreams Shattered By Outlaw
By Jeremy Colarossi

The lights dimmed and I felt a breeze of cold air as Outlaw John Andrews entered the arena, his slow walk to the ring intimidating not only his opponent in the ring but the fans as well. Once he entered the ring he was all business, pummeling his opponent The Anti-Mime with a fury never before seen in the ring. The Anti-Mime had not moved after receiving a multiple punches, kicks, and a devastating DDT from the ruthless Outlaw, I peered closer and noticed blood pouring out of his forehead and mouth. As the referee tried to re-store order and keep Outlaw John Andrews back so he could check on the fallen and badly injured Anti-Mime, Andrews stared at the ref with cold jaded eyes and stood there. As the ref was looking over the Anti-Mime it was clear the match was over and that he needed immediate medical attention.

The ref signaled for the bell and declared the match over, it was obvious the Outlaw wasn't done with his opponent and became visually angry, screaming and shouting at the ref. In one swift motion he snatched the ref by the neck and set him up for his "Outlaw Drop" a devastating jumping DDT that just a few minutes ago had injured the Anti-Mime. The bell kept ringing as Andrews turned his attention back to the unmoving limp body of the Anti-Mime, he grabbed him by the head and picked him up setting him up for a pile driver. That is when another wrestler from the back ran out to stop the Outlaw, unfortunately his save only lasted seconds as he was greeted with a big boot to the jaw as soon as he ran towards the Outlaw. Andrews hoisted the Anti-Mime up in his self proclaimed "Last Ride" and delivered a powerful Crucifix Powerbomb, another rescue attempt was made bv "The Badd Boy" Jason Gant and "TC Lightning" both friends of the Anti-Mime and again Andrews kept them at bay delivering another big boot and a DDT. Andrews exited the ring as the time keeper was frantically ringing the bell, as everyone thought the Ragin Texan's destruction was over, he picked up a folding chair tossed it in the ring. He laid it in the center and grabbed the Anti-Mime and delivered a Texas Piledriver, the sound of bone cracking could be heard. After two more unsuccessful attempts to rescue the Anti-Mime the locker room cleared out and they were finally able to stop Andrew's rampage only after delivering several chair shots to Andrews head. Unfortunately the rescue was not quick enough for the number one contender for the MFW Heavyweight Championship which he won a chance at after winning a gauntlet tournament last show at "Summer Heat", his dream of being champion shattered by the Raging Outlaw.

Camera pans back onto Andrews

You see I can shatter dreams too junior (laughs wickedly) this Outlaw aint no joke and that damn Mime wasn't the first to find out! That is just one case from the archives Ravish. I suggest you do your homework boy and don't think that just because there is four other men in this battle royal that you will be safe. No Ravish they can't save you. Nothing can save you. I will deliver the same ass kickin to them as I will deal you except I am going to enjoy breaking you in like a wild horse even more!
Camera fades into darkness

Camera pans to the right reveling Andrews and the Roman Colosseum, Andrews turns around slowly

Five other men are after the same thing I am... Their first victory... Their first impact on this federation. Well I got bad news for them, the Outlaw has been in these kinda matches since he was causin bar fights back home in Houston. It takes experience and strategy to prevail in a brawl, although sometimes you can just go in and beat everyone down and hope you walk out. On Sunday, my strategy and experience will allow me to prevail against these city slickers.

Andrews begins to whisper

The voices are screaming louder Don't stop until they're bleeding..Don't stop until they don't move... enjoy the blood lust and power we give you... I've been tryin to shake the thoughts out of my mind, I wish Trinity was here. She always made them go away, she understood me. This will be my first match without her walkin me to the ring she was my real source of power and adrenaline. I don't blame her for leaving after what I did to that Mime, I damn near beat him to death and continued to shoot on others in the locker room afterward until he promoter fired me. Of course it was alright for me to become his enforcer...taking out whomever he deemed unworthy to be in the ring but after the voices took over he said he had to let me go..I was having too much fun ruining people's careers. Number one reason why you never trust a city slicker they always go back on their word.

Andrews turns around to face the Colosseum

The time for talk is over! It's time to put up or shut up either be shot down in flames or take it all with the winning hand. I know I will win this Sunday. It's all or nothing. The only question is do I allow the voices to take control and destroy my opponents or do I destroy them myself!

Andrews walks out of frame

We’re on a street, there are cars, strewn and wrecked all across the road, and walking down it, is Daniel Pleasant: with a hoodie and a face mask on, leaving only his eyes to be viewed

ow”

Daniel Pleasant:: Freaks, we all have one inside of us.

The words of Daniel echo through the cave he is in.

Daniel Pleasant:: We’re all hypocrites, liars, losers, fakes, bastards & bitches, assholes and jerks, but it all comes down to how much of it we let ourselves believe, to what extent can one find themselves before all they find themselves doing, is alienating everyone single one of their friends and allies, is their ever a point where one sees that thy have nothing left, having raped themselves of their dignity? Ones past always haunts them, but what if one chose not to have a past? To forget all the pain and sadness,and to come a new person, different, special, important. We all want that to happen, a second chance, a time to be normal again.

***

It is a sunny day out, in the happy neighbourhood we are in there are dogs running around with their masters, people washing their cars. Boats and homes. The grass is perfectly groomed and everyone is smiling at the lovely, bright and fun filled day, bar one man. We cut to a view of a young man in his prime sitting at the breakfast table reading the sports section of the newspaper while his wife brings out a newly baked batch of brownies.

Michael: Say Janice, does something seem out of place to you?

Janice: Why whatever do you mean Mikey?

Michael: It seems like, somethings off, I'm probably just imagining it though hahaha!

Janice: You, have been working to hard mister!

Michael: Yes, that's probably I honey.

Children: Daddy! Mummy!

Leah: Do you smell that awful smell?

Johnny: And hear that awful noise!?

Parents: Whatever do you mean!?

Suddenly the brownies begin to shake, and a single, long arachnid leg reaches out and puts itself on the table as the rest pulls itself out of the sweet dish, when fully revealed it is a massive black spider, with green markings on its back.

Janice: Dear lord! Michael, kill it!

Feeling threatened the spider launches itself at the family huddled together

***

The sun, looking somewhat darker as a small amount of cloud covers it partially as we see a large man wash his boat while biting into a sandwich

Tony:: Hmm, hmm HMM! Hmm, hm hmm HMM.

He bends over to inspect a particularly black spot and begins to scrath at it in hopes of getting it off.

Caleb: Say Tony, whats up?

Tony:: Oh, just trying to get this black spot off my boat.

The man approaches Tony and see his neat locks off blonde hair as he bends other and begins to scrath at it with his keys.

Caleb: What did you go through? Looks like oil or something!

Tony:: Just went for a small ride, nothing large scale, and it was just off the peir!

Tony bends down and touches it, feeling it through his fingeres, but as he tries to take his fingers apart, they remain in place as the substance slowly creeps up his wrist and arm.

Caleb: What the hell is that stuff?

Tony: God get it off of me!

Tony lungs at Caleb trying to wipe it off of him but the fitter manages to escape and heads for the fence with Tony in tow, and by this tim it was already spreading down his chest.

Tony:: HELP ME!

Caleb: NO! Stay away from me!

At the fence Caleb stumbles in an attempt to clinb it as there are no slats to help him and is subsequently caught up to by Tony, who's neck is beginning to change to black

Caleb: Stay away from me!

Tony:: Help! It burns!

As Caleb begins to pull himself up Tony makes a mad lunge at him and makes contact with his ankle but fails to latch on, only knocking his neighbour down onto him. As the two men lay unconscious, Caleb with blood streaming from his nose and mouth, the darkness begins to spread over them both.

***

Two ladies are walking the one dog, all of which have blonde hair, the dog being a labrador retirever.

Caylee: So, I heard the other day that Janice was showing a lttle bit extra off when the pool cleaner came across the other day.

Tiana: Oh really? Well yesterday I SAW Charlotte KISSING that young delivery boy delivery boy, on the LIPS!

Caylee: Oh, my god!

Tiana: I know! Unbelievable, but whenever have I lead you wrong?

At that the moment the dog begins to stray from them and stops to sniff at the base of a tree.

Caylee: HERCULE! Bad dog! NO!

Giving a sharp tug she pulls back the dog and continues her walk and talk with Tiana as they enter a park.

Tiana: OH! And did I tell you the story about Layla?

Caylee: NO, she's always does everything right, spill!

Tiana: I know right, ooh, lets sit down.

The two sit down and Caylee ties Hercule's leash to the seat as the dog strains at all the excitement away from the seat in hopes of running free.

Tiana: Well, I was over at her house talking, and then the doorbells rang and guess who was at the door with FLOWERS!

Caylee: WHO!?

Tiana: Guess.

Caylee: Oh I don't know, tell!

Tiana: Oscar.

Caylee: What? Didn't hey brake up?

Tiana: I know apparently not though!

Hercule starts to whine and barks at the two gossips.

Caylee: SHUSH!

Caylee smacks the dog over the nose and turns back to Tiana who's face is filled with a look of pure horror.

Caylee: What?

Tiana: Y-- You-- Yo-- Your, Your, YOUR HAND!

Caylee: What?

Caylee looks done at her hand and see's that it is covered in blood and lets out a high pitched squeal and turns to Hercule, who's leash has snapped and walks over to him where he is panting heavily with a highly arched back.

Caylee: Oh I'm so sorry, but you shou-

She's cut off by a stiff left from the furry hand off Hercule, as the once fun loving dog stands on its hind legs standing tall and rugged , hulking with mass as the horrid stench of its breath forces Tiana to gag as she tries to run but trips on her heels.

***

We view the sam view of the street, once filled with happiness again, but know the street is flooded with black ooze, large spiders swing from house to house spreading there webs, forming a word and large hulking werewolf-esque creatures crawl or walk down the streets and we see a single gondalier with a single person in it slowly float towards us. In it we see Daniel Pleasant:.

Daniel Pleasant:: A street full of corruption, torn apart by my mind, one can see this as either an act of pure evil, or as an act of good. But this story does not end, it ends the moment my flesh falls to the sand below, or when I retrieve that torch. But the question is, is this who I am? Are you who you claim, and want to be? Can you change it? My destiny, my fate, it remains unwritten, I hold the pen to the book that is me, and my job is to write these volumes.

Then
(14 years ago)

There was nothing quite like it, that pure pump of adrenalin that ran through your entire system. At first it was an intimidating experience, hearing the loud roar of some unearthly creature as the very ground shook under the immense sound of its cry. When one could endure the fear of the sheer magnitude of the beast, Intimidation turned into something else over time, it turned into confidence, and before you even realize it, you find yourself feeding off the unlimited energy of this once unknown being. The crowd of people that watched this sport could do amazing things to a man, they could energize him, motivate him, make him... they could also break him if such a man was not to their pleasing. To have thousands of people screaming your name, worshipping you like a god amongst the earth, was a feeling that could not truly be described by words, but they can make you feel like you were on top of the world, being gifted with a sensation that defeat was impossible. With an army behind you, chanting your name, there was no wrong that you could do. This was the feeling that Dirk Grinder was living, damn well breathing as he threw his arms up into the air, soaking in the energy that came from the crowd. He had been feeding from it since the beginning of his fight, even now when all could sense the end was fast approaching.

Every time he had knocked his opponent down, it gave just a new reason for the crowd to cheer out his name, praising their would-be champion on another inevitable victory. It was one thing to have the crowd beside you, that glorified beast you could ride to victory with, but it was something else when such a beast did not favour you, it was something much darker. TyranT lay on his back, the very foundations of his world turning in a blur as he struggled to even move after being on the receiving end of Grinder’s signature move. The crowd screamed in joy, because he had fallen down for what could be the last time in this battle. Victory was slipping from his fingers, a man just like you or I was left grounded after a vicious beating, and all those watching cheered, taking satisfaction in the fall of a man they deemed a villain. They didn’t know TyranT, they hadn’t experienced the same pain and hardships as he had, so why did they hate him so? He was not so different from Dirk Grinder, who received more favour from the onlookers as he put the boot into the gut of the downed wrestler. It was almost barbaric, likes the games of old when men used to kill each other for honour and glory.

This wasn’t quite the same as those old days; there was little honour in this sport, hardly any glory. Just greed and desire, along with extortionate money to be made from wrestlers and bookers alike. We do live in different times, but the watching crowds had remained mostly the same through all the centuries, fickle fools, judging the situation from what they see, rather then what they know, what they don’t care to find out. The noise that came from them, it was enough to shake the very soul of TyranT as he felt the malice against him, felt the joy from all those watching as he was viciously attacked. It was hard to fight such overwhelming power, when so many willed his fall. The great beast with many eyes was loud and powerful enough to drain the resolve of many, and right now, TyranT was feeling the glare of those thousands of eyes. A true beast manifested...

TyranT: No... can’t go down. She’s watchin’, ya’ can’t let her down Billy. Gotta’ get up ya’ useless bastard. Show her ya’ got what it takes, make her proud.

Unlike Dirk Grinder, TyranT did not need the great beast as he stared on at its many eyes all around him in the squared circle. In times of need, when all moral was gone, and the will to fight was lost, TyranT only needed to look one way. Through all the faces of anger that jeered against him, that called for his defeat, there was always one young face that held hope, one face that wanted to see the TyranT win. Her silent voice was forever drowned by the roar of the creature, yet TyranT always managed to hear her calling, a calling that told him to get up, never stay down... get up and win. TyranT would not deny such a request, not whilst the one person that mattered still believed in him. Whilst Dirk Grinder revelled in the power of the fans watching, TyranT found strength in a difference source, and slowly the giant of a man would rise to his feet. The intimidating roar would warn Dirk of the growing threat, but by then, TyranT had found a second wind, along with a new determination.

In the flash of a moment, Dirk Grinder was toppled, slammed down to the mat with brute force during what was supposed to be his moment, falling victim to a slam only the TyranT could muster in his time, never to stand again in the duration of their fight. Like with many creatures, kill the master, and the beast will lose its bark, and merely whimper in the corner. It was from that sudden shock, silence and disappointment from a once loud beast that the TyranT thrived from. Standing against so many, against so great of odds made enduring all the abuse worth it. The look on their faces when TyranT defied them, it was all worth reliving all over again. After a three count with TyranT placing a boot upon Grinder’s chest, the only roar that sounded through the coliseum was from the TyranT himself as he threw his arms up in victory, drowning out all those that had once called for his fall, which now mourned for their fallen champion. With his battle cry was the silent cry of joy from the only one amongst the thousands that willed TyranT to win, a silent voice that carried more strength than any other.

TyranT did not need the support of the beast, he never asked for it, never wanted it. All TyranT needed was Faith, and for the last few years, he always had her support. Even in this victory, as he dared to open the shell of the TyranT just for a moment, so that a daughter could look upon a victorious father. Faith was TyranT’s only ever real fan, the only person who knew who he was. Faith had become the world to the growing superstar, with her watching every battle, TyranT felt he could not lose. It was quite strange, how one person could have the same effect as a thousand upon the mind, how one person could drive you to do a great many things. With his arm raised in the air with his triumph, TyranT wore a condescending smile to those that had watched. They had been defeated along with Dirk Grinder, and what was once joy began to turn to rage. The beast began to rumble, and what was memory began to return to reality.

-----------------------------
Where was Faith now to will the TyranT up to his feet when he needed her? At what point did everything begin to change so much?
-----------------------------

Now

Billy could not recall how long he had lay on the ground when the memory of his victory against Dirk Grinder faded; he could barely remember falling when the tussle had come to an end. Everything had happened in one drunken blur, every bit of movement almost dreamlike, almost as if he had not been in control of his own body. The old war horse had been given time for his mind to clear since he fell, to let some of the influence of alcohol drain away from his system. He stared upwards with half glazed eyes, feeling a dance of light rain as it trickled down upon his aged face, becoming one with the mud and lifeblood that was smeared across his features. For a while he watched the vapour rise from his own breathe into the cold night air, each one as heavy, strained and hard felt as the last, brining a sharp sting of unbearable pain within his chest and the sides of his ribs from all the bruising. His knuckles were still numb, raw and torn of flesh from the physical abuse he had given them. His face felt like it was slightly swollen and somewhat numb; his left eye unable to open all the way past the mounds of flesh below and above is iris where he had been struck hard.

Despite all the pain and discomfort he felt, lying in the dirt of the car park, there was some amount of solace to be found in the song of rainfall. It was soothing, almost calming to the heart of Billy which beat loud and frantic within his chest. Even the light trickle of rain as it washed over his face, brought some comfort amongst the pain his body was slowly beginning to feel as the beer wore away. Memory returned to him all at once, discovering why he had fallen in the first place, what madness he had been involved in during the heavy course of his drinking session. With a heavy grunt, Billy turned to his side, placing a hand down firmly in the mud and rain to support himself. The ground was no place for a champion, he couldn’t remain there. As he lifted his head, he could see shadows in the floodlights, silhouettes slowly retreating away from him towards public house where they had come from.

Billy: C’mon, get up. Get up ya’ old useless bastard.

Billy whispered under his breath, bringing the strain down on his forearms as he began to lift himself from the dirt, it seemed so much harder to rise from the ground these days, ever since Faith....

No, he could not think about Faith right now. The old man knew he was on his own for this. He wasn’t finished yet, Billy was a World Champion, and he would not stop until he could prove to himself that he was still the fighter he was twenty years ago. He didn’t know Faith back then, he didn’t even need her support back then!

Billy: Where do ya’ think ya’goin’?! Ah’ ain’t finished yet! Ah’ was jus’ warmin’ up! Ain’t seen nuttin’ yet!

Billy called out to the silhouettes, shouting loudly so the rain did not drown out his commanding voice. The silhouettes stopped, no more than three faceless men, all who quietly had been enjoying a drink before a challenge from a champion came their way, now outside in the pouring rain, it seemed yet another challenge was called their way.

Man: Listen Hillbilly boy, you need to keep your damn mouth shut. Go home, get a shower and just call it a bad day. Me and the boys don’t like fuckin’ up old men, but you had that last beatin’ coming. Now get the hell outta’ here!

Billy: Heh, yer’ gonna’ have to make me son. C’mon, let me show ya’ what this so called ol’ man is still capable of.

Billy spoke, managing to struggle, or rather stumble up to his feet. The three men looked at each other in disapproval, nothing more than mere shadows to Billy with the floodlights hiding their features in the blinding light. Slowly the three began to approach the FMW Champion, a second fight within the last fifteen minutes ready to break out again. A second fight you ask? It all started in the bar, when an old man still fancied himself a fighter from twenty years long past. The TyranT could pick any fight he wanted, having once stood against four men when he was but one, and walked from the bar whilst the other four left in an ambulance. He could do these things as a younger man, yet he was no champion back then. Now a 50 year old wrestler, TyranT was known throughout the world when he won the FMW Championship. Like a fine wine, one could say he had actually gotten better with age, retaining his toughness and strength, defeating wrestlers half his age who had reached their prime. One could argue his career had become more refined.

In the bar, Billy had been all too keen to run his mouth off to three young men who drank quietly at a table. The beer had got to his head, the note from Faith plaguing his mind and his wits as he still held the piece of paper within his hand. The three men had all but ignored him, desiring a peaceful night amongst the pleasant company of each other’s friendship. All ill jests and threats from the TyranT had fallen upon deaf ears, and so the drunken champion did the next best thing to start a fight and release the anger and anxiety he was feeling. He hurled his bottle of ale full force into the back of the closest one, letting it shatter against his back before blood and alcohol soaked into the fabric of his shirt. Quite the commotion kicked off needless to say, and before long all four men were outside fighting in the car park, an ideal place for any kind of brawl, that was until it started raining. It did not stop the TyranT, who swung away at the three; landing in strikes that would make a professional boxer shed a single tear. It was hard to press on though, as one good punch from the TyranT never saw a follow up with a second when the two others would break into his path.

For all his greater strength, his fairly decent speed and all his resilience, the three men could land in a triple amount of strikes upon his aged figure for every one of his own punches he shared out between the three of them. Somewhere along the way, they shoved him down in the dirt, all but ruining the suit he bought since becoming a champion, giving the old man some swift kicks in the torso to make sure he wouldn’t rise again. The memory of Dirk Grinder all seemed to make sense now, except there was no crowd gathered around, no Faith to will him back to his feet. That was fifteen minutes ago... Though it took some time for Billy to stand again, he couldn’t help but feel some small sense of doubt, recalling the three he dared to challenge in the first place. Why did it take him so long to stand up? Where was that burst of energy he used to possess when he so often needed it? More importantly, why could he not dispatch of three nobodies. The TyranT used to be able to take four, why couldn’t he even deal with three of them?

Billy: Damn you Faith... damn you!

Billy couldn’t only utter under his breath as the three began to close the distance. Billy’s hands remained clenched the whole time, a note still in his right hand, crushed into a small ball he couldn’t let go of. His challenge had not fallen upon deaf ears when the three closed in to start another bout of fighting. Once more it stood as one against three...

Billy: C’mon! Let’s see what yer’ PunK’s have got!

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

Then
(Several Hours ago)

In truth, if there was truly a cause for Billy’s anxiety which lead to the fight he was in now, one would have to look back a few hours earlier. It all began with that piece of paper, a funny little crumpled up note with writing upon it. It was gently placed into the leather gloved palm of Billy McKenzie long in the aftermath of Corruption, when all was finally beginning to settle down for the night after what many would describe as another exciting show leading up to Circus Maximus. This note was given to him by a mute he knew all too well. The mute girl walked solemnly in the corridor backstage, looking more lost now than what Billy could recall in recent years. Her eyes revealed a weariness she hadn’t had to bear since her days in the asylum. The poor girl looked tired, no doubt lacking sleep, lacking trust. Faith needed guidance, but there was no one around to show her the way. As hard as it was for Billy to see this in his daughter’s eyes, he knew it could have been much worse for her, and would have been if not for certain actions Billy felt he was forced to take. That was a story for another time.

Faith had stood in her father’s path, grasping his hand with her own before giving the piece of paper to him, closing his hand around it. Billy did not respond, he did not know what to say. When walked from the ring area into the backstage, she had simply approached him, as if she had been waiting for him since her loss in the joke of a match she was forced to fight in. All he did was watch as his daughter walked away once she had given him the piece of paper, leaving this note with him as he looked through shaded lenses as the piece of paper within his opening hand. It was the only way Faith knew how to talk when she was desperate to get a message across, relying on ink and paper to speak the words her lack of voice could not. Rarely did she ever write to speak, but from time to time, motions and expressions could not express what the mute girl wanted to say. Billy took off his shades, his own worn eyes looking wearily at the small piece of paper, dreading what may be written upon it. There weren’t many words on it when he built up the courage to open it, just a single question. Billy wished it was a simple one, but from that single question branched many others.

“If you could go back and change all this... would you?”

It wasn’t hard to figure out what the girl was asking. It all went back to the moments before Deathrow, when the TyranT truly became a tyrant to the eyes of many, taking away the biggest opportunity his daughter had ever had since entering the wrestling business. It was only since the anniversary of his father’s death that Billy and Faith had managed to meet and talk as father and daughter, at least as close to talking as one could get with the daughter being mute. It had been over a year since the two had actually taken time to greet, all moments before being mere confrontations or all out fights. Seeing her now though, in the aftermath of Corruption, Faith was becoming tired of being alone, tired of having to fend for herself. She wanted to favour her father again, to support him like in the days of old, but that anger was still there, Faith was still waiting for that day when Billy McKenzie would drop down to his knees and say he was sorry.

Billy felt the paper crunch within his hand as he closed it tight. What Billy wouldn’t give just to say he was sorry for all this...

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

Now

The despair that had lingered led Billy to where he was now, a drunken old man with a desire to prove what he could not. That he could make it without Faith by his side. The note had never left his hands; the question had remained in his psyche the whole time. The realization that Billy had shoved aside the only thing that mattered to him, the fact that he pushed away the only fan he ever had. It was a crushing thought, one almost too much for an old man to bear.

It drove him into whatever bar he could find once he was changed and refreshed from Corruption, and as far from anything FMW as possible. He found what looked to be a quiet place, quite quant and clearly aimed at locals. The music was soft, the bar well maintained with young students holding part time jobs behind the bar alongside the more experienced staff members. The music was low, the women present all old and ugly, with husbands that were worse for wear, just waiting for their drinks to end so they could get another. The kind of establishment his dad might have liked if he was still around, boring. Billy didn’t give a damn, as long as they sold ale. He drank one beer, and soon it turned into four. As the night went on, Billy McKenzie drank until he fell to the floor, and from there he simply drank more. They might have thrown him out if they weren’t so afraid of him, but as it turns out, they did not need too. The TyranT led his own downfall, with a piece of paper in one hand and a bottle in the other that was soon to be relieved in the direction of three casual drinkers. The rest you already know...

Billy: Don’ tell me that’s all ya’ got!

Billy laughed out loud, despite the constant red stream that ran down from his lips from a section of burst skin. His smart ass remark was met in kind with another vicious punch that whipped his head right back. Though fuelled by mindless rage and alcohol, he managed to keep his footing amongst the gravel and mud of the car park, facing off again three men, the one striking who fancied himself the next Bruce Lee given the posture he held as he bounced on the spot like a fool. The next strike was another punch, one that Billy eagerly blocked with his face again, though he was more than ready for the kick that followed. He caught the leg against his side despite the pain he had to brush through, and lashed out with a haymaker with a hard right, the hand that held the note from Faith he simply couldn’t part with. There was some satisfaction to be felt from the crunch as the would-be Bruce Lee suffered a broken nose. The PunK couldn’t fall down fast enough as TyranT followed up with several more strikes to work him down to the ground, but it wouldn’t be long before the other two would drag him off. Though Billy was fighting a losing battle, like in the first skirmish, he was giving as good as he got, making the three men work for their victory, work for every punch, work for every ounce of leverage.

Like before, it proved to be just too much for an old man, champion or not. Eventually every strike from the two remaining would just be a little too much to bear; the damage was already done in the first tussle, his body always being the one to give before his mind. There was no real pride to be gained in this situation, only a sudden sting of reality when one of the three managed to connect with a knee upon the jaw of the TyranT. He was already on his way down to the mud when the swift strike connected, and it was more than enough to make sure the champion wouldn’t be getting back up any time soon. The rain began to fall much heavier now, mostly drowning out the curses of the three men as they regrouped around the fallen Billy McKenzie. The old man had left them bloody and bruised, but they bore no wounds they would not recover from. Whilst the same could be said for Billy as he lay staring up at the clouded sky, it wouldn’t be completely true. His pride had been shattered, what little dignity that remained within him was lost. He tried to get up, shifting in the mud like some pig in excrement. He wanted to get up, to prove he could still do it... but there was no face to look upon this time when he needed it, no Faith to will him back to his feet and fight when all others would have him remain fallen on the ground.

After unheard words from the three men, once more they turned into nothing but silhouettes as they began to walk back to the bar, two of them assisting the other who received the worse of Billy’s rage.

Billy: Ah’m.... Ah’m not finished.

Billy managed to call out, his vision a blur, his head so light it felt like he could float off to the skies. He sat up in the mud, his face swollen and coated in red as he shifted to his knees within the dirt and gravel. He could see the three had stopped, turned even to look upon the man they had left in the dirt. Billy didn’t need Faith... he didn’t...

Billy: Ah’m not...

Billy felt his legs escape him, and once more all he could see was the sky as he fell. This time, he wouldn’t be getting back up... there was nothing to get back up for, there was nothing left to prove, if there was even anything to prove in the first place. He could hear the three men walking away, not bothering to spare any more time for the old drunken fool as he lay on his back, his hand open as a bloodied note remained there upon his palm, slowly opening like a summer flower. Billy glanced towards it, his vision strained as it was hard to keep his eyes open with the rain falling upon his face. He couldn’t see the words in the blur of white and red, but he knew what they said.

“If you could go back and change all this... would you?”

As hard as it was to accept, Billy knew the answer to the question the moment he read it, it was just a simple fact of coming to terms with it. It took a hell of a lot of ale and one heck of an arse kicking to make him admit it. He had wronged Faith, there was no denying it, and he had taken actions that led him to despair. Though a champion in TyranT, he was only half the man he used to be as Billy McKenzie, Faith’s father.

Billy: ... finished...

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

Later
(A week from now)

A week had passed since Faith had left the note in the hands of her father. She tried to forget about it, feeling a large amount of regret over practically voicing the question in the first place, but Faith was tired of hating her father. He did wrong, everyone knew that, but having spent a year feeling nothing but anger and dread, she was done with it; she almost wished things could go back to the way they were, but it would never be the same again, not truly. The note was her way of calling for a truce with her father, hoping he would read the question and come back to her, say that he was sorry, so that some foundation could be laid down, giving something to build upon again. Faith hadn’t heard from him since giving him that paper, she was almost past caring with so many days gone by. She decided to move on, having had a training session with John Derrick to try and hit out against the anger she felt for being left out of the Mount Vesuvius match. She had hoped to regain her position as a contender, and what better way to do so then win a match that her father had last year against all odds. Whilst many considered her a serious threat in the ring, there was none that considered her a threat in the grand scheme of things in the FMW, now she was even being left out of one of the biggest matches in the federation.

Whilst her father was still the champion, it had left next to no room for another McKenzie to enter the FMW on a competitive level; instead they just juggled her around in aimless matches that served no purpose. Firing her might have been a better option, but she made far too much money in the merchandise market for them to get rid of her like that. Faith felt like she was getting nowhere, and all that anger she felt building up, Doc noted during their sparring session. He was kind enough to respect her silence when she indicated she did not want to talk about her situation, ink and paper or no. It was a nice gesture from Doc to give her space, and eventually the two parted ways after a long spar. Sitting in the locker room, Faith slowly finished unwrapping her wrists of the taping, revealing a scarred hand from the burns she received in the Hayabusa Cup she managed to win a year ago, a constant reminder of the physical cost of success in such a relentless business. She stared at her hand for a while, wondering if this was all worth it, if the grand prize was worth killing yourself over. Such a thought was broken when she heard the locker room door open. Faith turned, expecting to see John Derrick again, having forgotten something or the such... but instead she found someone else.

A large man stood before her, his face darkened with healing bruises, whilst plasters coated several parts of his aged face. A coat covered most of his frame, caked in dry dirt all along the bottom of the coat, stains that would never be removed as they were ingrained in the fabric of the expensive coat. It was Billy McKenzie who stood before Faith, his hands in his pockets with a solemn look on his face as he could not even look his daughter in the eyes. He looked worse for wear, as if he had gotten himself into a fight. When Faith tried to stand, Billy held out his hand, motioning her to remain seated as only now he found the courage to look her face to face.

Billy: It’s alright. Nuttin’ Ah’ won’t heal from before the Circus. Ah’ just came here to return sumthin’ to ya’, then Ah’ll be off.

Billy spoke, walking around the bench to face Faith as he reached into his pocket. There was something about his tone that was unsettling; his voice so carefree and causal, as if there was nothing wrong, as if there had been no confrontation over the last year the two of them had never been fighting. It was almost as if he was pretending there had been no wrong done between them. Faith frowned, uncertain how to react with the sudden presence of her father. It had been a week since she had asked a very serious question, a question in which the answer could change everything between them, and then there had been absolutely nothing since, her father having dropped off the radar for some time. Faith realized it would be hypocritical of her to judge him though, knowing how she appeared from nowhere seven days ago, springing this question on her father without warning. Still, there was something off about the whole situation, after all this time, he turns up, the marks left upon him suggesting that he had been in some kind of trouble. Faith did not want to know what he had been upto, she felt the less she knew the better. She merely glared at her father through her messy fringe, watching as he leaned down to be eye level with her, his hand slipping from his coat pocket to gently grasp Faiths. He pulled out a piece of paper from his other pocket, placing it in Faith’s hand, before giving his daughter a light kiss on the forehead as he managed a weary smile.

Faith’s frown remained, watching as Billy stood up and walked away without another word. Unbeknownst to her, there were many things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her how proud he was of her, how much he hated what he did that day before Deathrow that had tore the two of them apart. How he still remembered the days when he was at his strongest in the ring, all because she was the one who had his back the whole time, to support him when everything felt so bad. How he longed to have her in his corner when he came to face Hannibal Frost. If Frost knocked him down hard, Billy knew he wouldn’t be able to rise without her. He wanted his daughter to know all of this, but he had only one answer to give to her.

Faith looked on the piece of paper in her hand, opening up to see dried up dirt and blood upon it, noticing it was the same piece of paper she had given Billy, despite its worn state. In faded writing she could make out the question she had written, making her look in bewilderment. She turned the piece of paper over, and upon the other side was fresh writing, Billy McKenzie’s answer to a silent question of a desperate daughter. Faith felt a shock to her system, it was not the answer she was expecting from an old broken man, it was not the answer she wanted. Her face soured in anger as her fingers closed in to crush what was left of the paper, before casting it away from sight. It had read but a few words... a simple answer to a complicated question.

“I wouldn’t change anything...
.. I would do it all again...”
-TyranT

I have walked away in the name of honour and integrity,

I have trusted in my ability to get me through,

I have held my head high.

What have you done FMW?

- I -
PAWNS

Trapped.....

Like a caged fox with nowhere left to run.

Operator: Please remain still Mr Steele.

What for? So I can waste what time I have left?

Abel Steele opened his eyes and looked slowly around himself.

It’s so…….white.

This wasn’t the first time Abel had questioned the point of this test. Another pointless test in a string of pointless tests that he had been put trough.

“We just want to look at it from every angle.”, “Maybe we have missed something” or Abel’s personal favourite “We don’t really know what it is exactly that we are looking for.”; whatever the reasoning behind the recommendation of the test the outcome was invariably the same.

“I’m sorry Mr Steele; you’re screwed.”
“I’m sorry Abel; you’re screwed.”
“I’m sorry Sir; you’re screwed.”

Operator: I’m sorry Mr Steele. The scan has been interrupted, we need to start over.

Abel held his anger inside, feeding it to the flames that raged within him. He closed his eyes once more and lay back as still as he could inside the M.R.I machine, letting his mind wander.




Backstage following Ammunition 12.3 Abel’s mind was wandering from topic to topic faster than he cared to think about.

Where did I leave my car keys?
If I ring now will my pizza be delivered before I get back to the hotel room?
I wonder who drew that stick figure cartoon in the locker room?

FUCKING DREW.

The ink in the result book for the “Race for the Torch Match” wouldn’t have dried yet but Abel had already churned the event over in his mind so much it was turning to butter.

It wasn’t like what happened to Abel was shocking to him. Hell, it just wouldn’t be Ammunition without someone screwing him over. The problem for Abel wasn’t so much “what”, but rather, “who”.

Why?

Abel had known something was up when he saw Drew Michael’s in Commissioner Smitten’s office before the match.

Ammunition 12.3 wrote:

Michaels: Yeah, you did know what I was saying.

I should have known what you were saying.

Steele: I trusted my instincts.

EMT Excuse me?

Steele: Shut the fuck up.

EMT: You sure you don’t want us to take you to the hospital Steele?

Steele: You shut the fuck up now mate or I will send you to the hospital! If I thought you blokes had any idea of what you cost me tonight they wouldn’t even bother with the hospital for you.

The man looked across at his partner, the two of them had been left with Abel in the aftermath of the match “standard procedure” for a concussion injury.

Pathetic, pawns in Smitten’s games.

Abel shook his head in disgust at the two men, wondering if they had any idea they were being used as fodder.

From across the room Abel spotted his car keys and made a show of getting up to grab them from the bench before sending the EMT’s away. He quickly got out of his in ring attire and donned a simple pair of black jeans and a grey t-shirt.

Stumbling into a jog Abel began moving through the stadium toward the administration offices. He always chose the locker room as far away from there as possible. It was part of his desire to be a lone wolf and partly because he liked to avoid scrutiny.

His locker invariably was surrounded by the rookies and lower lights of FMW

The pawns of FMW

Suddenly Abel was halted mid stride as a sickening thought came over him.

Was I a pawn in your’s Drew?

For all his struggling had he become a mere pawn in FMW, being pushed around a board as fodder to protect the more valuable pieces of the team?

He had something he needed to do tonight before the rest of the Ammunition roster went home. He needed to know the truth.





I have been to the depths,

I have climbed the mountain,

I have fallen down the other side.

Where have you been FMW?






The white didn't make this scan any easier to take. Inside the MRI machine it was still small, cramped and making Abel feel more than a little claustrophobic. Too make it worse the whole process and the machine itself was completely monotonous.

A nice mural or something in here would make this a bit more tolerable.

Even as the though passed through his mind Abel doubted it very much. Sure a mural would be nice for the first five minutes but he recalled quite clearly the time he took a girl to the art gallery on a date. It still baffled him how anyone could stand and stare at a painting for so long.

Besides which the doctors had warned him in advance that too much brain stimulation would detract from the quality of the test. Art probably fit into that category for some people.

Operator: Mr Steele, you need to keep your mind clear. Don’t focus on your surroundings.

That was the other thing about this damned test, the rules. So many bloody rules and not just this test either. No matter if he was being poked, prodded, jabbed or observed there was always someone there to tell him what the rules were.

Steele: I’ll try mate.

Abel closed his eyes once more and let his mind wander over the past few days events once more.




Abel rushed through the stadium as best he could. Whilst the EMT’s had clearly held him back from competing to his limits in the “Race For the Torch” Abel was well aware that he had taken a lot of punishment in that match.

Normally the sight of one of the main event participants storming through the building, mere minutes after being removed from the ring by EMT’s, would have caused quite a commotion. Tonight, to Abel’s advantage, it appeared the exploits of Gold Standard Wrestling had brought him a reprieve.

Those bastards did their job tonight.

The word on everyone’s tongue was how.

How had GSW been allowed to get such a grip on Ammunition?
How had they managed to strike so effectively from the shadows?

Abel didn’t overly care. They were a threat to be sure but not one of any great magnitude. The strike may appear to have come from nowhere but the warning signs were all in place. The attack had come pretty straightforward in all out assault. Abel knew that if they ever turned their attention to him it wouldn’t be hard to see the danger rising. Straight forward all out assaults with little or no underlying strategy were easy enough to dispatch before any threat has time to develop.

All this passed through his mind in a matter of mere moments. Abel gave it no more attention that it deserved; more focussed on making sure he spoke with someone who could answer his questions.

Abel had to know the truth of what happened between Smitten & Drew and there were only two men he could get that information from. Drew was in the hands of EMT’s after the match himself, to the best of Abel’s knowledge, so Abel knew exactly where he had to go for answers.




I have seen my family destroyed,

I have seen my friends betray me,

I have seen opportunities ripped from my fingers.

What have you seen FMW?




Operator: OK Mr. Steel the test is now 50 percent finished. Just keep doing what we tell you and it will all be fine.

I’m sick of following orders….




The administration offices in any given stadium were always located in the same place, right above the boiler room. Abel was almost convinced that it was because they used all the hot air that came out of those offices to heat the entire stadium.

Abel couldn’t guess how many times he had been on a mission to the FMW Commissioner’s office for some sort of a showdown. It seemed almost part of the program for him now. This time, for a change, he wasn’t really looking for a showdown. What he really wanted was answers.

As he moved closer to the admin area the locker rooms here were designated to more senior FMW stars. Abel couldn’t help but notice that those in these corridors paid him a little more attention. The impact of GSW wasn’t preoccupying the minds around here, although everyone looked ready for a surprise attack.

Is that how I look?

These people were unpredictable, dangerous and ready for anyone.

No, I look more like a train crash victim right now, I think.

Abel continued on his way, all the while aware of those watching him. Some gave polite smiles; others snarled, but most just looked on with well practised poker faces revealing nothing.

Only Doc spoke to him as he made his way past. The two men had spent some time together lately and Abel almost felt like he should stop.

The answers won’t change between now and tomorrow….

Faith was with Doc as well. She said nothing of course but there was a nod of respect from her and her face didn’t scream “go fuck yourself” like it did to most of the men who gave her a second look

Ten minutes certainly wouldn’t hurt and besides, we have a lot to talk about.

As he slowed in his walk Abel caught a glimpse of someone up ahead and suddenly all thoughts of waiting around were pushed from his head.

Steele: I’ll catch you guys tomorrow ok.

Doc raised an eyebrow at that, the three of them had promised to meet sooner than later, but he didn’t try to stop him. Faith merely stared at him.

What is she thinking?

He certainly didn’t know what those two would think if they knew what Drew did tonight.

Or what you plan to do?

Abel put Doc & Faith out of his head. The truth of the matter was he wasn’t eve really sure what he was going to do until he got his answers.




I am the man, who has been screwed by the worst of you,

I am the man, who has been screwed by the best of you,

I am the man who has been ignored by the rest of you.

Who are you FMW?




The sound of the MRI machine was about as dull as the view on the inside. It was a gentle drone that served only to keep Abel from dropping off to sleep.

Maybe that’s the point?

Abel did remember the doctor saying that falling asleep was not allowed because it upset the brain activity they were trying to scan.

Even when I don’t realise it I am STILL being pushed around.

Abel had given up hope of a miracle cure long ago. He knew the prognosis for sufferers of dementia pugilistic was always the same. Only the timelines varied from patient to patient.

So why am I continuing with the charade?

Abel knew he had no answer to his own question and his mind wandered away once more, leaving the uncomfortable realisation behind him




Abel approached the door to Commissioner Smitten’s office with no intention of knocking or waiting, he had no desire to appear at all intimidated by the man. What he wasn’t expecting was for the door to be slightly open and the room to be occupied by two men.

Commissioner Smitten was tending to some paperwork on his desk. For all the apparent attention he was paying to the other man he may as well have been alone.

Son of a bitch! What the fuck is he doing here?

Drew Michaels looked the worse for wear, which brought a little smile to Abel’s face. It wouldn’t have done at all for Drew to look fine when Abel felt like he had just been through the ringer.

Abel strained to hear what the two men were talking about, but try as he might without exposing his presence to the two men inside he just could not make out what they were talking about.

No matter. I have all the answer I need now.

Abel spun on his heel and stormed back to his locker room. He didn’t know what he was going to do exactly but he knew that something was building inside of him. He knew that he had been pushed over the edge.

Drew Michael’s was supposed to be one of the good guys. Drew Michael’s was supposed to be the Saviour.

Drew Michael’s can go eat a dick.





I am pain,

I am anger,

I am on the edge.

What are you FMW?


Operator: Home straight Mr. Steel but we are starting to get a bit of movement. Just stay still a little longer and everything will be ok.

Don’t fucking tell me everything will be ok.

Don’t fucking tell me what to do.

Steele: I can’t take this anymore.




As Abel made his way back to his locker room it was his turn to completely ignore everyone that he saw. He bumped into a half dozen people, he had no idea who, but just kept on walking.

Walking the tightrope

Something was pushing him. Something had changed inside of Abel tonight. He wouldn’t take it any longer.

No, not a tight rope…. A leash

He was sick of being pushed along the path that other placed before him. He was sick of being the fall guy. He was sick of the world.

Sometimes, if you pull hard enough the leash will snap

As he rounded the last corner before his locker room Abel bumped into one more man. Chris Austin.

Austin: Watch it Steele.

Abel barely glanced up. The two men had had their run ins and normally Abel would have wasted no time firing back at the “King” of FMW. But not tonight.

Austin: I’m talking to you Steele

Abel looked at the man before him. The king was a joke of a title. The king was no threat to Abel. Chris Austin might think himself a student of the game but Abel had been attending class for a long time now.

Steele Fuck off Chris.

Austin: I will destroy you if you speak to me like that again boy.

Steele: No, you wont….

Abel walked on by as a confused Chris Austin was left standing by himself in an empty corridor.

He finally reached his room and went to the small desk that was in the corner of the room. He took out a piece of notepaper and pen from the drawer and made a list.

It was a simple list

It was a predictable list

But it was HIS list.




Operator: Mr Steele please. You need to stay still.

Steele: I am sick of doing what you tell me

Operator: I’m just doing my job sir

Steele: Fuck you and fuck your job!

Steele climbed out of the MRI machine and pulled himself to his full height. He towered over the tiny man running the test and it felt good to be in a position of power finally.

Steele: If you tell me what to do one more time I will throw you into that machine so fucking hard you will NEVER be getting back out.

The MRI operator quaked at the cold malevolence in Abel’s eyes.

Steele: And you tell the doctors in this fucking hell hole that I won’t be coming back to this hospital again. I am done with your waste of time tests.

I am done with doing what other people want me to do.



Pawns are known as the weakest piece in a game of chess, however they go undervalued by the majority of players.

Rooks are a dangerous piece, if played well. In the hands of novices they are often wasted.

Knights are as unpredictable as any piece in the game. From the center of the board they threaten a lot of squares and because they don’t play by the same rules as others they are something to be feared by the most skilled of opponents

Bishops are sneaky bastards. They never move in straight lines, always angling in from the shadows to strike at unsuspecting victims. Some are confined solely to the black squares but do not forget that the bishop can just as easily walk the path of white.

Kings may appear to be the central piece of the game but they are for the most part useless. Threatening in all directions without ever being truly dangerous.

But, you might say, I have not mentioned the most dangerous piece in the game. And indeed I have not. The most dangerous piece is not the queen although this may surprise you.

A pawn walks a defined line. There may be deviations along the way as he takes out other fodder but inevitably he is pushed further and further to his limit.

Most fall by the wayside as they progress along the path, fulfilling their role as cannon fodder, but every now and then a pawn walks the path and reaches the end of his tether. It is pushed to it's limits and is left with nowhere to go.

A pawn can evolve into something new if you push it far enough. The thing that makes him so dangerous? No one knows exactly what it will change into…………



With every move you have pushed me along as your pawn,

With every move you have all undervalued me,

With every move you have treated me as fodder for your schemes,

It's my move now FMW.


Check fucking mate.

Prologue

Michaels: I love you.

I know, I know; you have heard it all before. For so long I took you everywhere and whenever there was a down moment I would tell you how much you meant to me. Of course, a lot of that was motivated by the fact that everyone else in the world was talking about you too. You were the most important topic in town and you were mine.

All mine.

I would give the world for you, I would die for you and dammit you know I would kill for you. I would bathe in the blood of a million men in order to hold you for just one more day, one more hour, one more minute; hell even just one more second. You are THAT important to me and I truly want you to know that.

You cannot even begin to conceive how much I love you.

My life was changed the instant you entered it and honestly, I had dreamed about you forever before that. Not to rip off Savage Garden or anything but I truly did know I loved you before I met you. You are that special to me and no one can truly understand how much you could mean to me. Others would use you or give you up but me...I would never let you go if I did not have to. I would tuck you into bed next to me, maybe read you a little story, go sneak you an night time snack with maybe some milk and cookies, and then hold you all through the night with you cuddled up close to my body. I would keep you as close to me as possible, never letting you know fear or harm.

And I would do all that because I love you.

When you are not with me...when you are not with me, my world is empty. Cold. Weak. Not even worth living in. You are everything to me and I would kill you keep you by my side.

And in a couple days, you will have a brother. That I promise you, a gift for everything you gave me and everything you will ever give me. Unlike others, I will not give you up in some competition. Unlike others, I will not disgrace you with failure. Unlike others, I would never surrender you for another to hold you at night.

All because I love you.

Drew smiles as he reaches up to run his hand over the Mt. Vesuvius torch hanging over his mantle as our scene fades out...


“Me and God, we have this little game.

We're still working out the finer details, but it basically works like this: He does something really spiteful...normally to someone I care about...and I get to ask a lot of questions about it.

Prayers are, like, God's way of staying interested. I swear He does this stuff to us so that we'll complain and He can have someone to talk to.

Dear God, the thing is this: my life's a joke.” - Peter Parker; Paul Jenkins's “Peter Parker: Spider-Man”


The scene opens to the office of Drew Michaels, (sometimes) private investigator. It was in this same office that Drew was visited by the archangel Suriel only a week ago; informing him to get his affairs in order as a thank you for his work for Heaven over the years due to the apocalypse coming a millennium or two early.

As one could guess, Drew was not impressed.

Since then, Drew has spent every available minute of every available day digging through prophecy, demonology, and pretty much any somewhat ancient document he can get his hands on through his Masonic connections. His search is fruitless so far, partly because he is beginning to believe nothing is to be found and partly because he has no damn clue what exactly he is looking for to begin with. But look he does, praying he can find something to stem the ever worsening tide building against him in this war for all of Creation. And it was during one of these long sessions of information gathering that Drew, believing himself to be entirely alone in his office, suddenly feels the presence of someone else in the room...

Someone too familiar.

Gabriel: Hello Andrew.

Drew jumps out of his seat as the voice of the rebel archangel Gabriel echoes through the room and through his mind, as if the words are now a part of his very essence. Drew jumps out of his seat and squares off with the rogue floating before him, knowing he has no chance in one on one combat with Gabriel but unable to stop himself from trying anyway after knowing all he does about what he is planning.

Michaels: How DARE you show your face here!

Gabriel: I see I am not welcome here. Do you believe I have performed some sort of transgression against you Andrew?

Michaels: Do not play coy with me Gabriel, I am not in the mood.

Gabriel: And why is that Andrew?

Michaels: Well, Armageddon really puts a downer on things.

Gabriel: Ah yes, Suriel's little proclamation. I see you received a visit as well. I have to say, I never thought Suriel had it in him to usurp the position so quickly. Ambitious little angel, is he not?

Michaels: You mean the position left open from when you had the Metatron killed.

Gabriel: HA! I had him killed!? Really, is that the line you have been fed by whatever handlers you possess these days Andrew? Oh, poor mortal, you are so misinformed...

Michaels: Then enlighten me Gabriel because things seem to be pointing towards your way. You are the one gathering forces, you are the one who stole Excalibur from her resting place, and you are the one more often than not lately covered in the divine blood of your brethren.

Gabriel: Where is your namesake in all of this?

Michaels: St. Andrew? Dead and buried is my best guess...

Gabriel: Wrong name.

Drew thinks for a minute before the revelation wipes over him quickly.

Michaels: The archangel Michael...

Gabriel: Leader of Heaven's army. Who better to overthrow the throne than God's personal weapon, the very man who cast the Morningstar into the pit. The Morningstar who has been feeding you information from what I have heard...

Michaels: What can I say, he has a tendency to be a bit more low key than a shining angel in the middle of a Philadelphia office.

Gabriel simply nods and waves his hand in front of his form and with a flash of white light, assumes a mortal form made of flesh and bone. He smiles, stretching the arms and nodding slowly.

Gabriel: This better?

Drew's face is filled with disgust and rage.

Gabriel: What is wrong Andrew?

Michaels: Fuck you, you know what is wrong.

Gabriel: What ever do you mean?

Drew steps over to his desk and rips up a picture, a torn and tattered picture he has framed on the left side of his workspace. He shoves it in Gabriel's face, his rage palpable in the air at this point.

Michaels: Look at it!

The picture is a simple and likely common one; a young boy is on a swing flanked by two adults that one can only assume are his parents. The striking part is not what is in the picture but whom, more specifically the man who is a complete and total match for the man now standing before Drew.

For the first time in his adult life, Drew Michaels was standing across from the face of his birth father Matthew Bryson.

Gabriel: That does bare a striking resemblance, does it not?

Michaels: I...I have his eyes.

Gabriel: Excuse me?

Michaels: I have never noticed it before. My eyes look just like his.

Gabriel: You never had the chance.

Drew stares at the man before him quietly, his mind racing with questions. He never wanted to accept the story that had been fed to him before, that Gabriel's spirit had been trapped in Matthew Bryson's body as punishment for his insolence. However this...this seems to cement it for some reason. He knows it is within Gabriel's ability to take any form including this one and he knows it is within his mindset too but for some reason...

It just seems right.

Michaels: How did he die?

The question forces its way out before Drew can even think about, it is a question that has been burning within him for years, ever since meeting Nick and finding out about Matthew's untimely demise. He could never bring himself to ask Nick since his cousin always spoke so fondly of his Drew's father, Drew always assumed it would dig up painful memories. However, here he finally asks.

Gabriel: Why Andrew, you do not know? Wee little Nicholas did it.

Drew is rocked back by the revelation, his mind is racing but he knows he has to ground himself before he allows himself to fall into Gabriel's trap. There is no way Nick did it...no way.

Right?

Michaels: This...this is beside the point. (Shakes his head in an attempt to clear it) Are you saying Michael is the one planning to take God's throne and not you?

Gabriel: I am just saying there are plenty more players in this game then you believe.

Michaels: And where does Mikaboshi fall in all of this?

Gabriel: Amatsu-Mikaboshi? The darkness?

Michaels: The one and the same.

Gabriel: I...I do not know yet. He is not mine nor have I heard my sources within Michael's camp reveal him as theirs.

Michaels: Well, he is not with me or Mobius either.

Gabriel smiles, a smile that is hauntingly similar to Drew's own.

Gabriel: Then we know there is at least one more force at play that neither of us have discovered entirely yet. Everyone wants a piece of the power it seems...

Michaels: I do not want power, just to stop all of you.

Gabriel: Oh Drew. Poor, simple minded Drew. We ALL want power.

Gabriel laughs and vanishes just as quickly as he came, leaving Drew with more questions then answers and a burning hole in his soul that can only be cured by a visit to his least favorite location in the state of Ohio as our scene fades to black...


I...I'm scared.

Why is that Lee?

I dunno, I just feel weird. Like not sick weird but...weird.

Do you think it will be okay?

I hope so.

Well I promise so.

Really?

Yeah, really. I will make sure it is all okay sooner than later Lee. I promise you this...


The scene reopens to the woods to the east of the Bryson Compound just outside of Cleveland, Ohio. Walking slowly through this wooded area is Nicholas Bryson, the youngest son of the Bryson family and like his cousin completely estranged from this family. Unlike Drew, however, Nick seems to find himself drawn back here time after time and cannot believe how much more he hates this place each time he comes here.

He has returned this time because Chris Adams, an acquaintance he met through Drew some time back during the whole Exodus affair last year, sent him a message wanting to talk to him about something. While Nick is skeptical about meeting a friend of his cousin's, he decides to be the bigger man in the situation and showed up on time. Chris, however, has not.

Michaels: Hey asshole.

Nick turns around to meet a sucker punch that exploded from behind a tree to his left. Nick steps back with the punch and is able to absorb most of the impact as he has been trained to do. Nick turns around to see his cousin standing next to him, shaking his right hand trying to work out the pain of the impact with Nick's jaw.

Bryson: What the fuck are you doing here dick!?

Michaels: Getting the jump on you it seems. And before you think of bouncing back with your own blow, I would suggest checking out my left hand.

Bryson: You mean the piece of shit knife you always carry around? I'm not a moron Drew, I know you. You wouldn't dare pick a fight if you don't have some kind of advantage, you're like a scavenger; always picking on the unsuspecting or the weak. It's sickening really.

Michaels: Yes, of the two of us I am OBVIOUSLY the sickening one. Obviously.

Bryson: I'm assuming you're the one who sent me the message and not Chris, which makes sense since you're a compulsive liar, so what the hell do you want?

Michaels: Why did you do it Nick?

Bryson: Finally come to my senses and turn on you? We've gone over this Drew, I know you're dense and all but it's getting a bit retarded at this point...

Michaels: You killed my father you arrogant son of a bitch.

Within a second of the words escaping Drew's mouth, Nick's right hand rocks back and crashes upon the cheek of Drew Michaels. The slap knocks Drew back with its force while Nick's eyes light up with fury.

Bryson: Fuck you, you goddamn hypocritical asshole! FUCK YOU! HE WAS MY FUCKING UNCLE!

Michaels: Yeah, and you killed him in cold blood; right? Was it some order from the family? Or did you just do it for shits and giggles?

Bryson: You egomaniacal dick, he was my uncle. Uncle Matt was one of the ONLY people in the world who have ever even slightly cared about me outside of my usefulness to them and you DARE fucking ask me if I killed him? Go to Hell Drew Michaels, go straight to Hell.

Michaels: And why should I believe-

Bryson (Cutting Drew off): No, I'm not done yet. You fucking dare to walk up to me and ask me this as if I owe you any type of explanation? Fuck that. You never even met the man yet you think you can just burst into here and start spouting off shit because you're the fucking Chosen One and you can do as you damn please, right?

Drew just stares at Nick, hate filling his heart and mind, as Nick continues.

Bryson: You want to know what killed him? It was fucking cancer, he smoked three packs a day towards the end and it ate him the fuck alive. But no, somehow the finger got pointed at me and it just HAS to be Nick because he's the family fuck-up lately, huh? Where were you when he woke up at night and couldn't reach his pain pills? Where were you when he cried and begged to be put out of his misery? Where were you when I watched a grown man, one of the strongest men I have EVER had the pleasure of knowing, fall apart before my very eyes?

Fucking fuck you Drew for even daring to ask this.

Michaels: I..I did not know.

Bryson: No, no you didn't know. And you know why? Because you never fucking cared enough to ask. You were so enthralled by the idea of Matthew Bryson you never stopped to consider that there was a man attached to it. You never asked what his favorite movie was, what kind of music he liked, what kind of lessons he taught me as a kid. You never thought to ask how he made a living or what he did for fun. You claimed to be all about this family when we were partners but you would rather cling to the name of a man who beat and abused you instead of paying fucking fifty-five measly ass dollars to change your name to the one who actually cared about you.

You loved the idea of an Andrew Bryson but could never grasp the reality of it. Fucking hypocrite.

Michaels: Nick...I'm sorry.

Bryson: Yeah you are, a sorry sack of shit. Now what made you even think I would do such a terrible thing?

Michaels: Gabriel told me...

Bryson: Fucking figures, another of your crazy quests. Wake me when something realistic and true actually happens in your abortion of a life.

Michaels: Fuck off.

Bryson: You first.

Michaels: We sound like second graders.

Bryson: You smell like one.

Michaels: What does that even mean?

Bryson: It means you smell like you shit your pants. And that's not even an insult man, you really fucking smell like you shit your pants. Do you ever have time for a shower with all the traveling you somehow manage to do between shows?

Michaels: Again, fuck off.

Bryson: And we come full circle.

Michaels: Still think you should fuck off.

Bryson: So mature.

Michaels: Hate.

Before Nick could respond with another witty comeback, Drew's phone begins to ring with the Rage Against The Machine's classic “Killing In The Name Of” rocking out in his pocket. Drew pulls the phone out and flips it open, staring intently at what one can only assume is a text message.

Bryson: Is this really necessary right now?

Drew looks up slowly, his eyes wide in shock. Diving forward, Drew pushes Nick out of the way with one fluid motion.

Michaels: MOVE!

The two men both fall the ground as a dark form swoops out of the trees and flies over their heads. Nick rolls to his feet first, staring down the person in front of them with a mix of shock and anger plastered on his face.

Bryson: The fuck are you?

Bryson barely gets the words out of his mouth before a second shadow rushes from the trees to his left and tackles him to the ground. Drew is able to pull himself to his feet during the chaos and rushes the first shadowy figure, receiving a fist his jaw for his troubles. Drew stumbles back as the figures advances on him, smiling creepily. Drew eyes the knife to his right, laying where Drew had landed after moving Nick. He rushes over and scoops up the blade with his left hand and spins around quickly, slicing across the face of his attacker.

It does not even seem to slow him.

The advancing shadow basically swallows Drew's face with his large hand and thrusts him backwards, causing the Chosen One to again crash to the ground. Drew's fighting instincts kick in though as he rolls through the fall and back to his feet, again squaring off with his attacker. Drew slashes again, this time at his chest. It cuts open the black shirt covering his torso to reveal a sickly pale white chest underneath adorned with a variety of scars; all fresh looking. Drew slashes and slashes as his attacker just stands there and takes it, smiling that same grin that could make one's skin crawl.

Attacker: Done yet?

His voice was silky smooth yet rough at the same time, it tore at Drew's very essence. Drew knew then the man in front of him was something more than human, something vile and wrong. And thus, Drew had an idea...

Michaels: Just about actually.

Drew plunges forward with the knife, driving it deep into the chest of his attacker. The man lets loose a painful, violent scream before crumbling to the ground as Drew pulls out his knife. Looking at his limp body, Drew attempts to figure out what exactly is happening here until suddenly, he remembers that there were two attackers. Focusing, Drew is able to hear a tussle in the distance and takes off at a sprint to find Nick and the first attacker, still rolling around on the ground. Drew thinks for a minute, trying to decide if it is worth saving Nick or not. Sighing, Drew decides to do the right thing and rushes over; shoving his knife into the back of Nick's attacker; eliciting the same primal scream that the first had given when staked. Nick is able to push the corpse off his body and pulls himself up to his feet, staring at Drew with a quizzical look on his face.

Bryson: You killed him...

Michaels: No...(Looks at the corpse) No, I think someone else took care of that a long time ago. I simply gave mercy to a lost soul.

Bryson: What was it?

Michaels: I have some theories, all of them as implausible at the next. Either way, they wanted us fucking dead.

Bryson: What did the text say?

Drew produces the phone from his pocket and flips it open, still on the text message from before.

Michaels: It is from the number “666” and it said “We're here”. Then I looked up and they were there.

Bryson: Fair enough.

As the two estranged cousins think, Drew's phone again begins to ring. He looks down slowly and shakes his head in disbelief.

Bryson: Them again.

Michaels (Reading): “We are coming for your world”.

Bryson: Your world?

Michaels: Lee. It HAS to be about Lee.

Nick looks at his cousin intently before shaking his head.

Bryson: Go, take care of your family but fucking remember, we're not done here. Not by a damn long shot.

Drew nods before turning around to walk off as the scene fades to black...


What is that noise?

Does it matter?

What are you talking about!? Of course it matters! It sounds like someone is trying to get into the house!

Oh, they are.

What!?

Don't worry Lee, it will be all over soon. Now sleep child, you have no need to be awake for what is about to come...


The scene reopens to the Philadelphia suburban home of Drew and Juliet Michaels. Except instead of a home, it looks much more like a war zone. Bodies are strewn across the lawn, blood has stained the once green grass. The door looks as if it has been ripped off the hinges and tossed across the yard, landing in the hedges between Drew's home and his neighbor's. Drew's possessions litter the yard, leaving a trail into his home from the street. A police barricade has taped off the area but no officers seem to be around. In fact, no one seems to be around. No one except a very cautious but angry Drew Michaels, who has just pulled up outside of the barricade and jumped out of his car.

Michaels: What the fuck happened here?

Drew presses forward, stepping over the bodies of the Templars who had sworn to the protect the Chosen One and his family. He feels guilt and shame for either of their deaths, knowing it is all because of their sworn duty to him. As Drew reaches the house, he steps up on his front porch and is met by his aide Abraham. Abraham's face is solemn and pale, all the color drawn out due to his disgust and anger at the events that have unfolded here.

Michaels: Where is my family!?

Abraham: Juliet is here with me, she is safe.

Michaels: What about my son?

Abraham: Drew, you need to come in and sit down...

Michaels: Abraham, where is my son!?

Abraham: Just please sit down.

Drew pushes past Abraham and looks around desperately. Juliet is seated on the living room floor, digging through the rubble that was their lives. She has obviously been crying for some time now to the point where the tears will no longer flow. She looks up to see her husband standing there and jumps up, rushing over to throw her arms around him.

Juliet: I'm so sorry Drew, I couldn't stop them!

And with that, the tears somehow begin to flow again.

Michaels: What happened?

Abraham (Stepping forward): It began during a change of shifts, they struck when we were at our lowest in numbers.

Michaels: Who?

Abraham: The Lilin is our best guess.

Michaels: Excuse me?

Abraham: The sons of Lilith and Samael, the Seducer.

Michaels: That does not help much at all Abraham. Pretend I have little to no understanding about any of this and that I am violently angry and ready to destroy whomever you point me towards.

Abraham (Sighs): If I must. Our understanding of the Lilin is thus; Lilith was the first wife of Adam, created like Adam by the hands of God Himself from the Earth. However, the Earth from which Lilith was crafted was tainted by the first remnants of sin and she rebelled against Adam and God. She fled from the Garden of Eden and met Samael, an archangel who had himself fled Heaven long before the war between the Morningstar and the Creator. Samael had wandered the plains of existence in an effort to stay out of God's sight, he had discovered some sort of dark magicks that prevented God from seeing him and keeping track of him. What Samael feared and thus led to him fleeing Heaven in the first place is unknown, just that he never wanted to be found.

Michaels: But Lilith was able to still find him.

Abraham: Yes. Samael was amazed to find a creature who was shunned by their Creator as well and thus fell deeply in love with Lilith, using his angelic charms to seduce her.

Michaels: Hence he is the Seducer.

Abraham: Actually, that came later. Anyway, once Lilith had laid with Samael; she would never be allowed to return to the Garden of Eden just as Adam and his new bride would eventually never be allowed to see the Earthly paradise again. It was of this union that the Lilin emerged, the children of both the Earth and of Heaven.

Michaels: So they were Nephilum.

Abraham: No, they were something worse. The dark magicks that Samael had covered himself with perverted their offspring, turned them into vile abominations. Werewolves, vampires, and such legends all derive from the story of the Lilin. Over the millenia the Lilin have continued to multiply in numbers just as the Anaks such as yourself did.

Michaels: And for whatever reason, they have attacked my home and my family. Fucking great.

Juliet (Weakly): They were after Lee.

Michaels: What?

Juliet: They wanted Lee. Well actually, it seemed more like Lee wanted them.

Michaels: What do you mean?

Juliet: When...when we heard all the noise outside; I ran to Lee's room and got him. I pulled him downstairs so we could get ready to leave. He seemed so scared then suddenly...nothing. He was blank and emotionless. He jerked out of my grasp and went to the door and opened it, waving and inviting those...things in.

Abraham: Of course, Lilin cannot enter your home without being invited in. But why would Lee do that?

Juliet: I...I don't know. They poured in and a few of them went after me but he waved them off, finally one just clocked me over the head and I woke up on the floor here with Abraham standing over me trying to get me up. Lee, the bastards; all of them were gone.

Michaels: So my son...he was in cohorts with them? But how? He is not even ten years old!

Abraham: Drew, it sounds like something else is at play here.

Michaels: But what?

???: Maybe I can help.

Drew and Abraham turn around to see the Saint of Killers standing behind them, one of his pistols pointing directly at the face of Drew. This is an all to familiar position for Drew, it is the same one in which Drew had been executed not even a year ago. Juliet lets loose a shriek that could shatter glass as Abraham turns quickly towards his compatriot.

SoK: Sorry, you left the door wide open. Like really, really wide.

Abraham: Drew!

Michaels (Staring directly at the SoK): Stop.

SoK: Excuse me?

Michaels: Stop. And lower your weapon.

SoK: You have got to be shitting me. You're trying to use your little God powers on me? Kid, you really don't know what you're getting into here.

Michaels: Do not play dumb with me, you know who the fuck I am and you know that the last time we did this I came right the fuck back to life like a goddamned miracle. Now put the fucking gun down before you look like a fool all over again.

SoK: No can do, this is my only bargaining chip in a room full of misunderstandings.

Abraham: Misunderstandings? You tried to kill him!

SoK: Only because I was hired by the organization that YOU represented. Correct?

Abraham: I was sick. And the Grail is dissolved and was long before you tried to kill him last time.

Michaels: Well actually he did kill me...

Abraham: Semantics.

SoK: Times have changed and situations have too. Now I see my fuck-up little family has shown up at your doorstep and well, I've come to offer some help.

Michaels: Then lower the weapon.

SoK: So you can both jump me. Again, fuck that. Now do you want my help or not?

Michaels: Help doing what?

SoK: Finding your son seems like a good place to start.

Michaels: And why would you help us?

SoK: Because I have an invested interest in these little Lilin fucks just as much as you did.

Michaels: And what is that?

SoK: They...they killed my son.

Michaels: Bullshit. Try again.

SoK: No, it's true. You remember Thomas, my assistant?

Michaels: The one you gunned down in cold blood because he told you to stop in your psychotic pursuit of me? Vaguely.

SoK: He was possessed by something foul, I could see it in his eyes. Ever since that all went down, I've spent my time trying to figure out what it was and I did. A bodiless spirit who possessed my son in an attempt to drive me to the exact actions I took.

Michaels: For what means exactly?

SoK: To keep my bloodline from continuing.

Michaels: Again I ask, for what means?

SoK: It took me centuries to have a son after the death of Enoch, my first born. And every time I had a son, they came for him and drove me back to my path of vengeance upon the souls of men. They kept me from death, they kept me from peace, they kept me from penance I so desperately wanted all in order to hurt the souls of men.

Michaels: Centuries? Enoch?

Drew thinks for a minute before turning towards Abraham.

Michaels: Why was Samael called the Seducer?

Abraham: Because he seduced Eve at the behest of Lilith, causing her to give birth to the first murderer, a soul twisted enough to take the life of his half-brother for no reason besides his own evil intentions.

Michaels: Cain...the Saint of Killers.

Drew turns towards the man in front him, old and grizzled; his face hidden under a dusty cowboy hat and his body hidden in a dirtier trench coat. However, over his left eye Drew can make out a mark; a blood red scar. Drew had never noticed it before until this day, perhaps it is before he never looked so closely at his old adversary as he did now or perhaps some old magick prevented anyone from seeing the Mark of Cain before they know the truth. Either way, it was all clear now.

Before Drew stood Cain, the architect of the first murder and the proclaimed Saint of Killers.

Cain: Now you see why I am so willing to insert myself into your family problem.

Michaels: Because it is a family problem of your own.

Cain: Indeed it is.

Michaels: Can you find them?

Cain: I have an idea where they are heading.

Michaels: That is more than any of the rest of us have. Abraham, get your stuff. We are hitting the road.

Drew never takes his eyes off Cain as the Saint of Killers lowers his gun and our scene again fades to black...


The scene reopens to the Isle of Patmos, once a holy shrine of the Christian faith but now overran by the vile Lilin. The people of Patmos, Greek citizens all of them, have been driven into hiding. The monasteries are burning. The clerics are dead. And the stage is set for Drew, Cain, and Abraham's arrival on the island. More specifically, the Cave of the Apocalypse where John the Apostle spoke to the LORD in the Book of Revelation. The three men sneak into the cave slowly, noticing it is completely unoccupied as compared to the rest of the island.

Michaels: Why are they not here?

Abraham: I am not sure.

Cain: This is a home of Christ, His Son manifested here to speak to Man. They cannot enter without being invited.

Michaels: Then invite them we shall.

Drew steps towards the entrance of the cave and cups his hands around his mouth and yells at the top of his lungs.

Michaels: COME FOR ME LILIN! COME FOR THE CHOSEN ONE AND DO WHAT YOU MUST TO GET HERE!

Drew turns around and smiles, letting a small laugh slip.

Michaels: See? That easy. Now come on, let us get-

Before Drew can finish his statement, a black shadow not unlike those who had previously attacked him in the woods blasts into the cave, tackling Drew to the ground. As he wrestles on the ground with it, he feels fur covering the body of the man, similar to what one would expect on a werewolf. The attacker snarls at Drew, who reaches quickly to his side and unsheathes his knife. Unable to reach the beast's chest, Drew instead opts to shove the knife downward into his lower jaw, causing the attacker to jump back in shock and off of Drew. As Drew rolls to his feet to prepare for another attack, a loud crack is heard and the beast drops dead. Drew turns around to see Cain standing behind him, one of his revolvers drawn.

Cain: You were really going to fight him hand to hand? Really?

Michaels: It would have worked.

Cain: Likely story.

Abraham: If you two are done, that was likely an advance guard. More have to be coming.

Michaels: Then we prepare and we wait.

And wait they do. The trio are completely silent, patiently waiting as one by one Lilin pour into the cave and Cain removes them with one well placed bullet to the chest after the next. They do not chat, they do not joke, they just wait. Finally, after some time; a familiar voice is heard.

Lee: Dad...

Michaels: Lee!

Abraham: It's a trap Drew!

Lee: Dad, help...

Michaels: He is in trouble! I have to go help!

Abraham: Drew...

Lee: I'm so scared...

Michaels: I cannot just sit here and let him suffer dammit, trap or not!

Drew goes to stand up when Cain reaches over and jerks him back to the ground.

Cain: If you go out there, they'll kill you. No questions asked. Call him to you instead, invite him in personally.

Abraham: I'm not sure about this...

However, Drew has already chosen his path of action despite Abraham's trepidation.

Michaels: Lee! Lee! Come here son!

Slowly, Lee walks into the cave flanked by about five Lilin. The child steps right over to where Drew and his companions are hunkered down behind a large rock on the left side of the entrance of the cave. He waves his hand the rock crumbles to dust, leaving all three exposed.

Lee: Sleep.

And so they slept while our scene again fades to black...


The reopens to the deepest part of the Cave of the Apocalypse, the place where John the Apostle received his visions from the LORD to share with the world about the end times. Drew slowly opens his eyes, his last memory being his child using Drew's old abilities against him. Groggily, Drew attempts to move but finds himself tied down. As the world comes into focus, he sees Cain and Abraham tied up next him; both have already came to. Drew whispers to them, trying not to draw attention from the gathered Lilin or his son.

Michaels: What is going on?

Abraham: Not sure, the Lilin have congregated around that one stone in the middle of the room; the one that looks a little like a bench. They have simply been talking and horsing around mostly. Lee has not said a word at least since either of us have been awake.

Michaels: So what is the plan?

Abraham: Don't think there really is one right now...

Michaels: Damn.

Suddenly, Lee jumps up from where he is seated and steps over to where Drew is tied up. Lee looks down on his father's prone form and scoffs.

Lee: Watch.

Lee walks over slowly to the bench-like rock and places his right hand on it. The rock begins to glow bright red, a blinding light that burns the eyes of the spectators. Slowly, the light shifts up from the base of the rock to the top and then slowly takes a form, the form of a man seated upon the stone. The man has a piece of parchment in his left hand and a pen in his right.

Lee: Prochoros, you have returned.

Prochoros: Why was my spirit called back?

Lee: You returned the first revelations of this cave, now you must record the second. You have no choice.

Prochoros: If I must...

Lee: Gentlemen, shield yourselves from the light for it comes soon...

On cue, a bright white light explodes on the left side of the cave and out steps five angels, all dressed ornately as one would expect of the divine. Leading the charge is the largest angel Drew has ever laid eyes on, armed with a flaming sword in his right hand.

Michael: So the time has come.

Lee: Indeed it has. Are you prepared to make the jump?

Michael: As I can be. Is the vessel here?

Lee: Vlad, step forward.

A figure emerges from among the Lilin, a strong form with a striking resemblance that Drew just cannot place.

Lee: Vlad, son of the Impaler; are you prepared for your destiny?

Vlad: I am.

Michael: Are you willing to surrender yourself for the all?

Vlad: I am.

Lee: So be it.

These words, so serious and powerful, coming out of a child's mouth is mind-blowing. Drew cannot believe such eloquent and vile speech is coming from his nine year-old son's mouth. As he ponders this, Lee suddenly convulses in pain and a black form pulls itself out of his body through his mouth. Drew tries to yell, tries desperately to pull himself loose but it is no good; nothing can overcome the painful screech coming out of his son. At the same time, a similar figure is exploding forth from Michael's own form; also heading towards the body of Vlad. The two forms meet, swirling around Vlad's body before sliding into his mouth the same way it slid out of Lee's. Michael and Lee both collapse, Lee still breathing while Michael's divine form seems destroyed from the shadow bursting forth from inside of him. Vlad convulses in a similar manner to Lee's attack but quickly stops and smiles. Something new is in there, something powerful.

Something evil.

Vlad: And so it has come to pass. No longer needing the flesh of the Chosen One nor the divine touch of His favorite; I am now once again my own being, a being made from all facets of existence. Exodus lives again.

At this point, Drew's anger is controlling him. He is ripping and pulling at his restraints, trying valiantly to free himself to stop this monster from becoming again.

Michaels: I DESTROYED YOU!

Exodus smiles and looks over at Drew. He seems amused.

Exodus: Destroyed me? No Drew, you freed me. I was forced to bind to Robert Smalls after you defeated me last time in order to heal because I needed flesh to remain in the mortal realm but you...you stopped that and cast me out into the nothingness. But it was in that nothingness I met an ally, a friend, a compatriot.

Michaels: Mikaboshi.

Exodus: You're so bright Andrew. Yes, once the darkness and I discovered our common situation, we decided to do something about it. So I found your closest genetic match since, due to our own previous bond, I could very easily take control of his form. Along with that I infected Michael, Jehovah's favorite of His angels. I recuperated inside of them both and contacted an old friend of mine to borrow her brood in crafting my escape once I had healed.

Michaels: But why here? And to what goal?

Exodus: This spot was chosen due to two wonderful reasons Andrew, one being the obvious implications of using a spot where Christ crossed over to Earth and the second because of the strong connection you have to this island. After all, you trained here Drew. You received your own original orders as the Chosen One here. And now, you die here. It is just so damn fitting, isn't it?

Michaels: So your only motive is revenge?

Exodus: You could say that but I doubt that truly encompasses the entire scope of my plan. I have returned to destroy ALL of Creation. The Dreaming is already shattered, the Pantheons are at war, and soon death itself will have no meaning. Heaven is in disarray, Hell is consumed by anarchy, and the angels are preparing for war again. I have orchestrated this entire thing Drew and once it is done I was sit down upon Jehovah's throne, kill His Son, and shut the door on this abortion of a world once and for all.

The Lilin all cheer as Exodus takes a slight bow, enjoying the admiration from his allies. Drew just stares on in disgust.

Michaels: You are completely demented.

Exodus: Yeah, pretty much. Exile has a way of doing that to a rogue Spirit of Vengeance.

Michaels: I will not allow you to do this.

Exodus: No, I'm pretty sure you'll just die. (Picks up one of Cain's revolvers off the ground) Now, I know you will likely come back from at least one of these but I assume if I shoot you enough time, you'll have to stay dead once, right?

Exodus presses the barrel of the gun directly on Drew's forehead and pulls the trigger...







And nothing happens. No bang, no flash, no blood spattering the walls. Exodus pulls the trigger again and again, trying in vain to kill his nemesis but nothing seems to be happening. As all this is going on, Cain simply laughs.

Cain: You moron, they only work for me. Not you, not my bastards brothers, not either of these fuck-ups. Just me.

Exodus turns back to Cain and walks over, staring intently at the man in front of him.

Exodus: Been a long time son of Eve. Last time I saw you I think I was causing a home to crash down upon you, killing your wife Awan. You remember that, right? You remember her screams of pain? Her begging for you to put her out of her misery after the stones have broken her back? You remember her tears when she knew you would not do it? Do you?

Cain: I remember a lot of things spirit. I also remember watching that kid over there make you look like a complete and total bitch about a year back.

Exodus reaches up and runs his hand over Cain's scar, smiling still.

Exodus: The Mark of Cain, some of my best work.

Cain: Remind me to pay you back once I get loose.

Michaels (Whispering to Abraham during the exchange): Got any ideas yet?

Abraham: Nope.

Michaels: Damn.

Cain (To Exodus): You know I will get loose, right? I'm immortal thanks to you and your God, you can't off me here no matter how hard you try.

Exodus: Oh believe me, I know. That's why when I lock the door on this world, I'll make sure to leave you and that damned Wandering Jew locked just outside in the void.

Cain: Still sounds better than some places I've been.

Exodus (Turns back to Drew): So, the gun is out. Let's try something else, shall we?

Exodus looks around and sees a large rock. Shrugging, he scoops it up and walks over to Drew, the rock raised above his head. However, before he can crash it down upon Drew's skull, a flash of light explodes to his right and a cry of pain is heard from among the Lilin. Exodus spins around to see Uriel, Suriel, Seir, and Raphael; the archangels still loyal to Jehovah; decimating the forces of the Lilin.

Exodus: Dammit!

The rogue angels who had entered with Michael attempt to engage the archangels but are quickly subdued not by the archangels but another flash of light that consumed all three causing them to vanish entirely. The archangels do battle with the Lilin forces while Suriel, the current Voice of God, engages Exodus personally.

Exodus: You have no place here puppets!

Suriel: You have crossed the line Exodus, you took one of our own and you must pay for your sins!

Exodus: Pay for my sins!? I am the original bringer of retribution and you DARE tell me I shall pay for MY sins!?

Suriel swings his sword at Exodus, who ducks quickly and dives forward, pushing Suriel against the cave wall. Rocking back, Exodus pushes forward again and plunges his hand into and through Suriel's chest; killing the angel in one blow.

Exodus: You think me so easy to fell!? I am Exodus, a piece of God Himself! And finally I have a form worthy of my power; the son of Dracula himself is mine to command! I AM POWER!

Michaels (To Abraham): Also, an egomaniac.

Mobius: Aren't all the cute ones?

Drew turns around to see the smiling form of Jacob Mobius next to him.

Michaels: Okay, how exactly are we all fitting in this cave?

Mobius: Fuck off, I'm here to save you. Ready to go?

Michaels: What about the angels?

Mobius: My guess? They bail as soon as you're out.Michaels:

Michaels: What about my son!?

Mobius: I can pull him in with my magic too, promise. I owe you that much.

Michaels: Someone has to stop Exodus though.

Cain: I'll stay. He can't kill me and I have some unfinished business to deal with. Now go!

Mobius: Don't need to tell me twice. Ready to go cuties?

Abraham: Does he always hit on you?

Michaels: Constantly.

Abraham: Fair enough.

Mobius pulls Abraham and Drew close to him and the three men vanish as the scene fades to black around the epic battle raging between good and evil...


And now we have war. All sides are closing in, battle lines are being drawn, and soon the entirety of Creation will be involved in a battle for survival.

Exodus, Mikaboshi and the Lilin on one side...

Gabriel and his supporters, armed with Excalibur, on another...

The remaining Princes of Hell fighting for themselves...

Who knows where Jacob's true allegiances lie...

Heaven wants to sweep it under the rug with a little Armageddon...

The people of the world have no idea any of this is happening...

And then we have me. Little old Drew Michaels. I was once charged by the Almighty to protect Creation at all costs and now I must do just that. My family, my own son, has been drawn into this conflict and I shall not rest until any pain he felt is dealt back tenfold to those who have done him any harm. I am one man fighting a war against evil...

It reminds me too much of Mt. Vesuvius.

I know, the tired comparisons of my “personal” life, if you can call it that, to my professional responsibilities is insane; perhaps something I must do to rationalize all that is going around me so my mind can even attempt to comprehend it. But truly, I see it here.

Going into Mt. Vesuvius, I have a guaranteed target on my back. I am a former winner and a favorite to walk away with victory again this year. However, I have pulled no punches over the last year and created a list of enemies who read like a “Who's Who” of Full Metal Wrestling.

We have the Original Sinners such as Christian G. Smitten, Dunnwood, and cYnical who I refuse to allow to be forgiven for their vile actions in the past.

Following them is my cousin Nicholas, who wants nothing more than for my blood to stain his hands. In the same vein as Nicholas, we have people like Christopher Austin and Seth Omega whom I have long-standing grudges with due to their own past misconduct. Or even Abel Steele, who seems to be seeing conspiracy wherever he goes.

Speaking of conspiracy, we have the Gold Standard Wrestling gentlemen who seem intent on destroying all of Full Metal Wrestling. While I am completely fine with their objectives, it seems I too have been targeted due to my standard of excellence in this company.

Along with all of this; people like Damien Inferno and Mass Caesar look like they are returning; neither are men whom I would call an ally. And of course, there are my past allies like Nicholas Gray and Trey Spruance whom I must contend with.

And oh yeah, John 'Doc' Derrick. Fuck.

So yeah, the odds are stacked up hard against me. I have a target painted squarely on my back for anyone looking to make a name for themselves in this match. Whoever is able to toss Drew Michaels to his demise would instantly become a legend in his time, a hero to all those I have for whatever pissed off. It seems that despite being a supposed favorite, there is no way in Hell I should even come close to winning this match.

Man, I love when it works out like that.

I am built to buck the system, to stand as one man against the world and now; in all facets of my life I prepare to do just that. I do battle because it is engrained within my genetic code to do just that. I am a rebel, a revolutionary, and a rogue. I am a champion. I am a hero.

I am Drew fucking Michaels and I refuse to do anything but win.

“Live to win, 'till you die, 'till the light dies in your eyes
Live to win, take it all, just keep fighting till you fall” - Paul Stanley; “Live To Win”

Dunnwood limps out to his jet-black SUV in the middle of the Mancunian hospital’s car park, breathing heavily as he unlocks the door and clambers in, tossing the video tape in his hand onto the vacant passenger seat. With a horrible lurch, he starts the vehicle, unused to life after being sat on the tarmac for too long. As he hastily careers out of the hospital’s gates, he plugs in a slim mobile phone to the SUV’s charger slot, flicking a switch on his dashboard. Gasping for breath at this herculean effort, he dials a number on the phone, and soon a masculine voice is heard from the van’s speakers.

56: Sir?
Jack: Oh gods...
Dunnwood: It’s me. Who is this?

The SUV veers dangerously through packed Manchester roads, car horns blaring as Dunnwood narrowly avoids crash after crash. But it is fine; he knows what he is doing.
Jack: Really?
56: Serial code number 56, sir. Sir... she’s having the baby.
Jack: FUCK.
Dunnwood: You don’t think I don’t know that, 56? You don’t think I just haven’t dashed out of the hospital with a broken fucking chest-
Jack: Not to mention a broken head and a massively bruised ego.
He collects himself, breathing steadily.

Dunnwood: My... apologies, 56. I’m sure you can empathise that this is a largely stressful situation. When did her water break?

56: Roughly fifteen minutes ago.

Dunnwood: Have you noticed any contractions?

56: No, sir.

Dunnwood: Then we still have time to get there. When the contractions do start, ensure that Ten-chan is comfortable enough to give birth. This naturally means that you’re going to have to remove her from the imprisonment structure. Dunn, Eastwood and I shall give you the codes. You’ll need to input them on the square panel located to the right of her left hip.
Jack: How has nobody worked this out yet?
He turns to the other members of his personality, who are sat in the back.

Dunnwood: Can you two root through your heads for the numbers?
Jack: Square, root, numbers. Honestly.
Dunn: Three-six-one-four-four-one-eight-one-nine-eight-one-one-six-two-five.

Eastwood: Tha’ were fas’.

Dunn: That’s what your mother said.

Eastwood smacks his forehead with his palm, groaning.
Jack: Yeah, that was all me.
Dunnwood: Enough.

This quiet, but deadly tone snaps both their necks up.

Dunnwood: Eastwood, can you recall yours?

Eastwood: Uh... yeah. Four-zero-zero... six-four... three-two-four... two-two-five... four-four-one... four-nine... six-four.

Dunnwood: Thank you. And 56, mine are nine, three hundred and twenty-four, two hundred and twenty-five, three hundred and sixty-one, three hundred and sixty-one, twenty-five and three hundred and sixty-one again. Have you got all that?

56: Yes sir.

Dunnwood: Excellent. Now, once she is free from the device, I want you to immediately give her an epidural. There’s no sense in allowing her the freedom to make an escape attempt – it might kill the baby otherwise. In the interim, I need you to charter a private jet for me immediately, going from Manchester, England to Halifax, Nova Scotia. I don’t care how much it costs; I’m not missing the birth of my child for anything. Preferably, the jet needs to have a VHS player.

He glances down at the plain black tape on the seat next to him.
Jack: Please, Quint... tell me it’s not...
56: All noted down, sir. Is there anything else?

Dunnwood: That’s everything, 56. Just do as I’ve asked. Actually, can you ensure that around Ten-chan there are women who have previously given birth, or those who have served in the medical profession – I confess I know next to nothing about the birthing process.
Jack: No, you just shove your dick in underage pussy.
56: Certainly, sir. One of the others has managed to acquire a pilot willing to fly you to Halifax as soon as you arrive at the airport. I trust that’s everything?

Dunnwood: Yes, thank you, 56.



In the reasonably comfortable confines of the private jet that sped along, some 45,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, the unshaven Dunnwood breathes heavily, clutching at the place on his chest – just above his heart – where the ribs had cracked, bones frantically trying to knit themselves together. His legs sit crossed under his torso, preparing himself for the upcoming video tape.

In the back of the aircraft, Dunn was watching Eastwood consume the entire contents of the plane’s mini-bar with a cat-like smirk on his face. For his part, Eastwood merely snatches up bottle after bottle of alcohol, tipping them down his throat, shot after shot trickling down his hoarse neck. After eventually reaching in and finding nothing, he shoves his hand into the inside of his jacket and pulls out a packet of black cigarettes. After finding a Zippo lighter, he sparks one up, puffing wildly and lying back.

Dunn: You know you can’t smoke that in here.

Eastwood: Choke on i’.

He grabs at the sizable bulge in between his legs, snarling, before taking another drag of the addictive nicotine. From the other inner side of his jacket he withdraws his hip-flask and unscrews the cap.
Jack: Maybe it’s time...
Eastwood: Can’ believe a priva’e je’ this big dun ‘ave a bar o’ some sor’. No’ jus’ a shi’y li’le fridge wi’ fuckin’ bulle’s in i’!

He takes a long, angry swig of the flask.
Jack: Time for you to taste defeat.
Dunn: ...I’m sorry, bullets?

Eastwood: Yer. Bulle’s. Sho’s.

He takes another drag and another swig, then frowns slightly.

Eastwood: ‘Ere. Does this smell funny ter ye?

The flask is thrust under Dunn’s nose, who is forced to get a lungful of the fumes.

Dunn: Of course it does, it’s alcohol, you know I don’t drink. And would you mind getting it out from my face?
Jack: Liar. Freak. Fool.
Eastwood takes a sip again, not convinced.

Eastwood: Tas’es sour fer some reason.

Dunn: Well, you are smoking those weird flavoured cigarettes.
Jack: But we’ve had them before, it hasn’t made a difference.
Eastwood: Aye, bu’ I’ve ‘ad ‘em before an’ i’ ‘an’ med a squa’ o’ difference.

Dunn: Then... I don’t know.
Jack: But I do.
Eastwood: ‘Oo does?

Dunn: How should I know?
Jack: Hah! You misguided psychopath, you know full well now that I’m going to take control back.
Eastwood: No, no’ ye, I-

He is interrupted by the deafening holler of Dunnwood from the other room.

Dunnwood: In here now!

The pair dash in, looking at Dunnwood, who is still sat in the chair, body quaking.
Jack: It’s her, isn’t it?
Dunn: What are you yelling about?

Eastwood: Yeah, wha’s the crack?

Dunnwood: Just... just watch. Just watch.
Jack: Estelle...
And he presses ‘Play’ and the video footage begins to roll.






Let silence reign.

Dunn: ...

Dunnwood: ...

Eastwood: ...

Jack: ...

I’m sorry.

Dunn’s head snaps like a hawk’s, looking to a fixed point within the cabin. Eastwood glances over.

Eastwood: There’s nae poin’ in turnin’ yer ‘ead. Wha’s happened ‘as ‘appened.

Dunn: I’m not looking at that.

Jack: No... you’re not, are you?

Dunn: Show yourself, whatever you are!

Eastwood: ‘Ang on, I ‘eard that too!

In the confusion neither of them has noticed that Dunnwood has collapsed to the floor, crimson streaming from the orifices of his head. He looks towards them, unable to speak, eyes focused on the black, humanoid shape in front of him. And a solitary thought eclipses his brain before it shuts down completely.

Dunnwood: I... I remember...

The shape reaches out a limb and touches Dunnwood’s forehead. At last, the intellect of Jack Michael Eastwood returns to him.

Jack: ...I’m back.

Dunn and Eastwood turn around; looking at who they think is their ally. He smiles slightly and then, with a rejuvenated brain runs at them full speed, knocking both off their feet with a double clothesline. He turns towards them on the floor, smirking easily.

Jack: I didn’t know I could do that.

Both of his other sides – his dark sides – pick themselves up and look on, furiously. He examines them with thumb and forefinger clasping his chin, as a scientist would gaze at pond scum.

Jack: Well... it’s certainly nice to be in your presence finally. I don’t know who you are, but rest assured... you will pay for what you have done.

Dunn and Eastwood laugh scornfully, eyes boring holes into the now-sane man.

Eastwood: Please...

Dunn: you assume to

Eastwood: know me then? We’re jus’

Dunn: manifestations of your desires, your innermost feelings.

Eastwood: Yer longin’ fer home, the anger inside o’ yer.

Dunn: Your darkest capabilities, the vast lengths you will go to succeed.

Eastwood: Me an’ ‘im ken everythin’ as wha’ goes on in your ‘ead. Wha’

Dunn: makes you even consider the prospect of taking control back over yourself? This is merely

Eastwood: a speed-bump. Yer’ve go’ no chance when we ken exac’ly wha’ yer gonnar do. Ev’ry trick, ev’ry

Dunn: falsity, every bluff... we’re still firmly lodged in your cranium. Your motions will be shown plainly before you even

Eastwood: do ‘em. An’ we’re no’ goin’ down wi’ou’ a figh’, neither. Either live wi’ us, or die by us. Your choice.

Jack ponders this for a second, his eyes shutting. In his mind they register, from far away; the presence of evil lingers in his mind like a snake coiled around every synapse. He shifts through his thoughts, finally coming to rest on something he wasn’t expecting to find. His eyes flicker open, tightening as a shit-eating grin lights up his haggard, bloodstained face.

Jack: You’re aware of The Great Paradox, yes? Don’t bother answering; I already know it, so you must know that it means that good cannot exist without evil. Therefore, we must do evil in order to maintain the balance of good in the world – correct? However, understanding the notion of evil has led me to this conclusion. If there is a capacity for evil, then there is a capacity for good. If what you say is true, and you are a manifestation of my evil, then you have a whole, untapped good side for me to exploit. And as you are evil... you aren’t aware of his existence.

Dunn and Eastwood glance at each other, nervously.

Jack: Oh, I’m sorry, were you not aware of this? I’m going to use your own ability... no, wait, that’s wrong. I’m going to use my ability for good, for once. And I’ll do it by ending you.

And on that, he charges. Dunn eats a knee to the face and drops to the floor. Eastwood swings desperately, but Jack ducks and catches him under the chin with an uppercut. He then picks both up and, with a glint back in his eye, performs something he knows he shouldn’t. The pair slump beside him, their forms fading slowly. A thought enters his head.

Jack: No... I know I’ll never be rid of you. But you are mine to use. Not the other way around.

He gets up and wipes the blood from his face, sighing.

Jack: It’ll all be over soon...



Backstage at Anarchy 7.4, Jason Roy, Dalby Sound and Judge Doom have just witnessed the culmination of the brawl between Harlequin and Guiomar the Barbaric. Judge Doom is still hanging onto Dalby’s neck, quivering in fear. Jaro has tried to get as far away as he can in his motorised wheelchair, but has come across the enemy of Daleks everywhere; stairs.

Jaro: Son of a bitch! What the hell was that?

Sound takes one look at Doom and tosses him away.

Sound: I think that was a Sound demonstration of the lengths people are willing to go to, to become your protégé.

Jaro: OK, one, never do that ridiculous sound shit again, and two, destroying my set? Breaking my lights? Smashing my coffee cup?

Sound: You can’t even use your arms, how were you meant to drink it?

Jaro: I was going to get Celeste to tip it into my mouth, you moron. After all, I’ve tipped plenty of fluid into her mouth; I figure it’s time she returned the favour.

Sound: That’s vile.

Jaro: Only because you don’t get any, Dalby.

Sound: That’s not a very Sound estimation.

Jaro: I told you not to do that shit.

They start walking (or in the case of Jaro, rolling) down the corridor, discussing the Jaro Idol competition.

Sound: So what’s your opinion? Really? You know you have to pick one.

Jaro: I know that, cuntnugget. It’s just... so hard to decide.

Sound: You actually thought the entries were worthwhile?

Jaro: Fuck no, they were all terrible. That letter I got from TyranT’s kid was alright, but it wasn’t an application from him so it technically doesn’t count... Dunn isn’t easy to manipulate... Harlequin, now there’s someone who I could work with, but he’s already talented enough to not need a mentor... no, Dalby, I was looking for someone green whom I could mould into mine own image. I guess it’ll just have to be a partnership with Harlequin that arises from this.

??: What about me?

From out of nowhere steps Jack Eastwood, scowling a bit.

Jaro: What about you? You had your chance, fairy. Suck it up and get jobbing to Corky Angle again.

JE: I have a better solution. You take Butters interrupting me into account and interview me again.

Jaro: Give me one good reason why.

In response, Jack Eastwood pulls his phone out of his pocket, quickly selecting some footage he shot.

JE: Watch this and tell me I don’t deserve a second chance.






Jaro: ...impressive. And you’ve told nobody about this?

JE: No. Just you. I can’t say I really like what I did... but if that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes.

Jaro: Dalby?

Sound: I think you might be onto something.

Jaro: Very well. What’s your name?

JE: Jack Eastwood. You know that.

Jaro: I was reading off a sheet, did you really think I was paying attention? Now get the hell out of my sight, you’re going to have to do more than just that if you want to be mentored by me.



There is a knock on the door of HavOc’s communal – yet spacious – dressing room. Eastwood and Harlequin look over to Frost, who is near the door.

Frost: Fine, I’ll get it.

He opens up to see Jaro, number one contender to Harlequin’s Ultraviolent title, standing in the doorway.

Frost: Alright guv’?

Jaro: Hannibal. Nice to see you. Are there any wangs floating about or am I free to come in?

Harlequin: The only wang in here is... um... oh forget it, not even Bill Hicks could come up with a pun for that. Come in, come in!

Jaro moves in, past Frost, and sits on the benches, next to O’Rion, who gives him a cheerful nod. Eastwood goes to sit across from him and is joined by Harlequin and Hannibal on either side.

Jaro: Well, the good news is, I think we fooled them.

The collective know who he is referring to; by ‘them’ he means everyone. Everyone who thinks Jaro and HavOc are at one another’s throats.

Jaro: Now, as for our title match, I’m going to have to take your title, Quint... just to maintain appearances. You can have it back at Ultimatum.

Harlequin: That’s... acceptable.

Jaro: Jack?

JE: Mm?

Jaro: For the time being, I want you to remain part of HavOc. Again, to maintain the illusion.

JE: Sure thing. You’ll have to excuse me, I’m just going for a piss.

He leaves for the bathroom. Jaro reaches into Eastwood’s kit bag and after a moment’s searching finds his hip-flask. He deftly unscrews the lid and pours in a white powder from a small bag, all the while talking to Harlequin and the rest of HavOc.

Jaro: Gentlemen... this... is a combination of mescaline, ketamine and a touch of Agent 15. For those of you who don’t know, mescaline is derived from the peyote cactus, ketamine is powdered horse tranquiliser and Agent 15... have you ever seen Jacob’s Ladder? It’s the drug in that film that makes the soldiers lose their fucking minds.

This said, he replaced the cap and shook the flask gently, allowing the powder to dissolve.

O’Rion: All of this is very well and good... but why are you telling us?

Jaro: Simple. Because you’ll be the ones to administer it to him when I can’t. I’d like you to increase his dosage monthly. I’ll send you the instructions through the post. The drug itself isn’t hard to create and the ingredients are easily obtained. However, there is something else I need you to do.

There is a flushing sound, and Harlequin looks angsty.

Jaro: It’s fine, he always washes his hands. You need to psychologically break him down. I don’t care how you do it, just do it. Get rid of that bitch of a girlfriend of his if you have to. I don’t care; I want a blank slate, a weapon of mass destruction I can personally program.

At that moment Jack steps out of the toilet and grins.

JE: That was a good piss.

Jaro: Here you go then, you need to top up your fluids.

JE: Cheers.

He takes a sip, then frowns slightly.

JE: You done something to this?

Harlequin’s eyes flash dangerously. Jaro nods, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

Jaro: Yeah, there’s some cocaine in there now. If you want to run with me you’ve got to at least take some fucking coke. I figured I’d add it to your usual drug cocktail. How is it?

JE: Not bad... no’ bad a’ all.



Jack stands over the sink in the airplane’s toilet, draining away the last of his drug cocktail.

Jack: I’m not gonna need this... not anymore... not where I’m going.



As Jack exits the chartered jet, he is immediately greeted by a black van, similar to the one he drove to the airport in back in England. A shrouded figure occupies the driver’s seat and Jack lets out a long, slow sigh. Grimacing, he walks towards the trunk, but a member of the Congregation is already there, opening it for him. He throws what little luggage he has into the back, no signs of finesse, and slams the lid shut before the hooded person has a chance.

Jack: Thanks.

He nods and walks towards the passenger side, when he hears a quavering gasp. He turns around, dark-rimmed eyes looking at the androgynous person who made the sound.

Jack: What?

148: Sir, I... it’s just... you’ve never done anything for yourself before...

Jack: Don’t worry about it. Really. Now get in the car.

The woman – for the voice betrayed her skinny, tall figure – got in without another word. Jack climbed in, glancing across to the person in the driving seat. Their hood was down, a man in his late twenties with a scar under his eye and the hole where an eyebrow piercing might have belonged at one time. The evening’s fading light gleamed off his shaven head.

Jack: 56?

56: Yes, Sir.

Jack: Don’t call me that. It isn’t fitting.

56: Sorry, Si- sorry.

Jack: Right, cool. Let’s get driving. Has she gone into labour yet?

The car sets off at a fast pace.

56: Yes, Sir... I mean-

Jack: Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about it anymore. And you can stop calling yourself ‘56’ as well. You’re a living, breathing creature, not a statistic. You can take back your old name now.

56: But... S... ah... we were told to forget our names by you.

Jack: Then find new ones. The same applies for you, in the back.

148: I can’t remember mine either, Sir... we worked exceedingly hard to forget them for you.

Jack: And what was your number?

148: It is... was... 148... Sir.

Jack: 148. Right. Don’t call me that.

148: ...am I correct in assuming that you’re giving us freedom of choice?

Jack: You’re sharp, I’ll grant you that. Yes, I’m giving you freedom of choice.

148: Then I refuse to not call you Sir, Sir. I respect you too much.

Jack’s eyes flicked back at her once, then glimmered in recognition.

Jack: Whatever. Think what you want of me. I don’t care.

And he sparked up a black cigarette.



The gates of the colossal Asylum swung open for the car as it arrived. It was a horrible, wretched thing; an abandoned mental institute for the criminally insane. A fitting place for someone such as Dunnwood, but the ownership had recently changed hands. The car veered around the side of the Asylum, to almost the edge of the cliff it was built upon. The scientific architect, one Irving J. Hartman, wanted to see if patients who had a pleasant view overlooking Nova Scotia healed quicker than those who did not. Psychosis being largely unpredictable, this thesis was discredited in 1972 and the Asylum was closed shortly after.

Ironically, Hartman went insane himself shortly afterwards, placed into a much cleaner institution in downtown Halifax. It is important to note that Hartman was a deeply religious man; he genuinely believed that God would cure all people. As such he had a Church attached to the side of the Asylum, shortly after its construction. It is here that Jack was headed; it is here where Ten-chan was in the process of giving birth. 56 pulled the car to a standstill and Jack leaped out, rushing inside.

56: Do you want me to get your b-

Jack: I’ll get them later! Come on!

He throws open the doors of the Church, the last vestiges of sunlight poking through the windows. In the centre of the floor lies Ten-chan, on her rear, back propped up by her elbows and cushions provided by the Congregation. 56 and 148 follow on behind as Jack walks over and drops to his haunches next to her.

Jack: H-

Ten: FUCK YOU!

And she spits, violently, in his face. He raises a hand to her... and wipes it from his cheek, grimacing.

Jack: Yeah. I deserve that.

Her eyes widen at this. Ordinarily, he’d torment her savagely for it, baby or not.

Ten: You... you...

Jack: Yeah. I’ve changed. Not much I can do about the kid in your vagina though. You’re having that whether we like it or not.

Ten: You don’t have to tell me twice.

Jack: It’s alright though. I’m here for you. I’m here for you... now.



And then... the miracle of birth happened. Ten gave birth to a healthy baby, a respectable seven pounds, at 3:15 am that morning. After letting mother and baby have a well-deserved rest, Jack returned to see them. Ten had been transferred to a room slightly inside the Asylum’s confines. The baby rested in the shade, the cold sun streaming in the room. Ten sat and stared at the view while Jack watched over his sleeping son.

Ten: It’s beautiful.

Jack: He’s beautiful.

And then a shadow falls across his face. He knows what he has to do, to find redemption.

Jack: Listen... Ten...

She turns to him and sees his hand balled into a fist, knuckles turning white.

Ten: What is it, Jack?

Jack: You’re going to have to run.

Ten: What, are you crazy? I’ve just given birth!

Jack: I know. But you can’t stay here. I can’t... so you can’t.

Ten: What will you do? Where will you go? Where will I go?

Jack: You’ve got Jade Striker’s intelligence, Ten... I’m sure you can figure out something. I’ll make sure to supply you with a well-sized cash flow. Just take our baby and go.

Ten: At least name him, first!

Jack relaxes a touch and ponders for a moment.

Jack: ...there’s only one thing I can name him. There’s only one person whom he can call responsible for his existence, and while I don’t know why he called himself this, I’m going to name him after the monster that created him. Son, I name you... Matthew Jackson Eastwood.

Ten: ...it’s a good name, whatever its history.

Jack: Thank you.

He kisses his sleeping son on the brow, smiling.

Jack: I’ll be sure to have one of my... people... see that you get my bank details, and such. Goodbye, Ten.

Ten: W-wait! You’re leaving already?

Jack: I figure I may as well. No sense in me poisoning the air anymore; not with Matthew around. See you later.

And with one last, lingering look at his son, he walks out of their lives permanently.



Jack sits with a knife hilt in his palm, cross-legged, alone, in front of the Twisted Altar of the Cancer, the monstrous creation devised by Dunnwood and his cohorts.

Jack: Well... this is a good place as any...

He bows his head, eyes closed.

Jack: Eih Father... nxe-

He stops himself, hearing the words come out of his mouth. He tries again, but cannot say the Lord’s prayer. With a sigh, he gives up trying to resist.

Jack: Some fucking weird shit’s going on this week...

Eih Father, nxe uhk ad xoulod,
xuccenot ro kxø dumo.
Kxø badwtem semo.
Kxø nacc ro tedo
ed ouhkx uj ak aj ad xoulod.
Walo ij kxaj tuø eih tuacø rhout,
udt vehwalo ij eih khojfujjoj,
uj no vehwalo kxejo nxe khojfujj uwuadjk ij,
udt cout ij dek adke komfkukaed,
rik tocaloh ij vhem olac.
Veh kxado aj kxo badwtem,
udt kxo fenoh, udt kxo wcehø,
veh oloh udt oloh.
Umod.

Father...
A bden A ted'k houccø fhuø misx.
A'm dek kxo fhuøadw jehk, A wiojj.
Xocc... A ted'k olod rocaolo ad øei, houccø.
Rik, ke ro vhudb, kxoho'j deretø ocjo A sud houccø ujb veh xocf hawxk den.
A ted'k doot øeih fakø. A'lo tedo mø nhedwj udt A'cc usseidk veh kxom.
Rik mø jed... xo'j ud addesodk. Fcoujo, veh deretø'j jubo rik mø jocvajx end, julo xam vhem udø olac kxuk mawxk rovucc xam.
Kxuk'j ucc A nudkot ke ujb vhem tend xoho... roveho A we tend kxoho.
Umod.

And then, with trembling hands, he slices a long cut down the vein of each forearm, cutting across at the wrist to be sure. With one last, great, shuddering sigh he lies back, the blood pumping out of his body and his body pumping out of life.




Jack’s eyes flicker awake and he sits up, head shuddering. Desperately he shakes himself off, looking around his surroundings through blurred vision.

Jack: Is this... the afterlife?

It looked more like an office. Threadbare blue carpet, MDF desk, chipboard ceiling tiles and a light that constantly flickered.

Jack: Oh great. An office job. I must be in Hell.

??: You’re not far off.

Jack looks up towards the desk, where the voice has come from. There sits a somewhat stoic old man, with grey hair and the workings of a large beard. Jack picks himself up from the seated position, dusts himself off and looks across at the man.

??: Have a seat, please.

Jack: There’s not a second ch-

Yet even as he said it, there was one there. How could he have not noticed it?

Jack: Oh. Bugger.

And he sits down.

??: Well, first of all, I must say that this is a startling application form you’ve sent in. I’m particularly interested in your last three years-

Jack: Hang on a minute...

??: Yes?

Jack: Well... where am I?

??: Oh, of course. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten to follow standard procedure. Well, my name is Simon Cestas, and my job is Saint Peter.

Jack: Right, right... let me get this straight... you’re Saint Peter? So I’m actually dead?

Simon: No, my job is Saint Peter. I’m not actually Saint Peter, though you’re not the only one mistaken in that regard. As to your being dead... well I’m trying to see what I can do about that.

Jack: ...you can change it?

Simon: I’ll have to speak with my boss about it. The problem is that you brought in one of the Seven Sins of Man, which is a guarantee into Heaven, near enough; however, there is the period wherein you were infected by the Sin of Envy, in addition to your eventual suicide. That’s something the boss somewhat frowns upon.

Jack: ...your boss is God, isn’t he?

Simon: Of course.

Jack: Fuck.

Simon: Please don’t blaspheme in this office, Michael.

Jack: Sorry – hey wait, how do you know my real name?

Simon: Don’t you think we don’t know everything about you? You are Michael Jack Eastwood, born on the 21st of May, 1989. You are a wrestler for Full Metal Wrestling.

Jack: Alright, so you can use Wikipedia-

Simon: You were infected with the Sin of Envy for two years, becoming the entity known as Dunnwood. You have left behind one son, named but not christened Matthew Jackson Eastwood. Your biggest fear is that you will go unrecognised as a human being. Have I convinced you yet, Michael, or must I go further?

A ferocious thunder had crept into the old man’s voice and Jack swallows down fear at the end of the verbal barrage.

Jack: Yes, Mr Cestas.

Simon smiles sweetly.

Simon: Good then! I’ve just sent an e-mail up to my boss, so feel free to ask me anything until his reply comes in.

Jack: OK... so... the Seven Sins of Man? I’m assuming that’s a Heavenly term for the Seven Deadly Sins?

Simon: Correct.

Jack: ...

Simon: Oh, sorry, did you want me to continue? Well, the Sins are, as you know, Pride, Envy, Lust, Sloth, Wrath, Gluttony and Greed. While in the mortal spectrum you refer to these as mere emotions, we of the angelic host know better. When Lucifer was banished to the depths of the First World – you’ll know it better as Hell – those angels who rebelled with him were also cast down into the depths. And their names were Pride, Envy, Lust, so on and so forth. However, in comparison to Lucifer, these were mere angels. And, during the chaos that was caused between the sealing of the Third World and the crafting of the current one, they managed to gain form on Earth in the shape of a jar.

Jack: ...Pandora’s Box isn’t just a legend, then?

Simon: Michael, you’re talking to an angel, for my sake.

Jack: Fair play. So she releases the lid, all the sins come out. But... hang on, wasn’t Pandora supposedly the first woman on Earth, if I remember Year 3 Religious Education lessons correctly? Surely that screws up the idea of Eve being the first woman on Earth?

Simon: Eve, Pandora, different names for the same person. Pandora was tempted to open the lid of the jar Zeus forbade her to open; Eve was tempted to eat the fruit that God forbade her to.

Jack: But what about the Greek Gods?

Simon: My dear Michael, do you really think that God only appears in one shape or form? He is omnipotent; he can be anything he wants to be.

Jack: So every deity...

Simon: ...is God. Precisely.

Jack: My head hurts.

Simon: I’m sure it does; you’re still just a mortal, after all. This must be a lot to take in. Ah! And another difficulty, it seems. Apparently God’s a little busy dealing with the upcoming Armageddon to pass Judgment on you. So it falls to me, I’m afraid.

Jack: Wait. Armageddon?

Simon: Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m sure the Chosen One will sort it all out. Hey, wait, you know him, don’t you?

Jack: After a fashion.

Simon: Small world, isn’t it? Or worlds, if you want to be technical. Anyway. Michael Jack Eastwood. By the power vested in me as an Archangel of Heaven, I hereby declare you fully mortal and have safe passage back to the mortal plain of existence, on these conditions: a) you must find the remaining Sins and remove them from Earth, and b) any and all crimes committed, moral, legal or otherwise, must be fully justifiable. So it was written, so shall it be done.

Jack: Wait. Are you telling me I’ve got to kill people like I was? They’re psychopaths! I’ll wind up dead!

Simon: Hm. You make a good point. Then here. Take this.

He takes a ring off his finger and places it in front of Jack.

Simon: That should help when it comes to any lethal blows you might receive. You’ll have to recover non-lethal ones the traditional way, I’m afraid.

Jack: ...this is just a plain gold band. It probably won’t even fit my little finger. How can I not lose this?

Simon: Touch it. See what happens.

Cautiously, Jack reaches out and brushes a fingertip on the edge. The ring bursts into life, blinding Jack with such force that he is force to shield his eyes. He feels the ring grow white-hot on his skin and then push its way forward, embedding itself in his very flesh. Yet still the light remained, dazzling Jack with its brilliance. He hears Simon speak.

Simon: Good luck Michael, and may God be with you at all times!

And still the light doesn’t fade. Jack screws his eyes as tight as he can to evade the glare, when all around him falls an inky darkness.



148: Sir? Sir?

Jack: I’m awake, I’m awake, fuck off.

His eyes snap open to a white sheet. Several blurred shapes leer over him. He tosses the would-be Turin Shroud away and sits up, finding himself on the bed where he said goodbye to Ten not so long ago. Rubbing sleep out of one of eyes, he looks up.

Jack: I take it she’s left then.

56: She has.

Jack: Good. No problems?

56: It took a while to placate the baby, but other than that, no.

Jack: Excellent. I think I’m going to go for a walk, clear my head.

56: We’ll be waiting for you to get back. Um... Sir?

Jack: Call me Jack. What is it?

56: What’s it like? Being dead, that is. If you don’t mind answering...

Jack bows his head, sighing.

Jack: ...no. I don’t mind. It’s... peaceful. Yeah, that’s all I can really think of. Just... peaceful. It was like it was a dream, but more vivid. And now I know what I have to do. What I need to do.

But first, what I want to do is walk. I’ll see you in a bit.