CORRUPTION 13.1 VOTING & PROMO THREAD

A BAD CASE OF NOSTALGIA

July 24th, 1996
Canberra, Australia
"When I didn't understand."

I can still smell it.

That sickly sweet scent, just hanging loosely in the air, floating in and out of my nostrils like.. like it shouldn't be there. Yes that's it, just like it shouldn't be there. It has that kind of renegade tang about its being, a simple rebellious air that makes you think "Fuck it, I'm badass." Its the kind of beautiful smell of everything being GOOD. Everything being all fine and dandy, like a hot summers day - two scantily clad women pouring you drinks and oiling themselves up in the pool at your feet.

However, I very much expect that a five year olds point of view on that devil may care smell would have been extremely different.

I've spent my whole life trying to figure out exactly what that zesty aroma was. Now, despite it being so far away, I think I've worked it out.

Its a strange combination, yet it follows me everywhere I go. It contains Daddy's special sugar powder, I know that much.. The scent always seems to heighten when I go closer to his factories or offices. There's a definete whiff of money in there... Not literally 'hard cash' as Daddy calls it, but in the figurative sense of the word. More of a hint of luxury, wealth and being bloody rich.

Oh, and of course - Daddy's 'employees' as he says, the sweaty ones, the fat ones with coffee in their beards and chocolate stains on their T-Shirts, the lean ones with greasy hair and rats faces, and the ones that always seem to have a wafty cider smell on their breath. I know its cider, because once Daddy let me taste some. Not much, but a little bit. I have a special sense, you see, I think it may be a superpower - If I taste something once I can recognize it anywhere.

Now, don't get me wrong, the smell wasn't the only thing there. There was a sort of pretty, sunbaked tinge to everything and everyone. Mummy sometimes tells me that here in Australia, things are 'Fucking hot' as she put it. But afterwards she always tells me I'm not allowed to use words like that, ever, and if I do then I will get a very hard smack and I won't be able to sit down for AT LEAST a week...

But anyway, I'm sure you all know what Australia looks like, because its a very big place and I'm sure my Daddy is one of the most important people in the world, so I expect you've all seen the area I'm standing in on the television box. If you haven't, and you're one of those 'ignorant shitbags' as Daddy says when somebody doesn't do what he wants, then I'll explain it to you in as much detail as I possibly can.

I'm standing just outside the house. It's a very big house, bigger than any of the other houses I've ever seen in my whole life. There are a couple of palm trees around it, but they don't look like the ones you see on beaches - Here in the middle of Canberra, you just don't get palm trees like that.

We have a ha-uge garden, full of swings and roundabouts and toys, and even a swimming pool! Thats how I know we're rich, because nobody else in the whole area has a swimming pool, and a lot of people look at us jealously, I think the word is, when we're swimming in it.

Apparently Canberra is the most 'industrial-ish' town in the whole wide place of Australia, so its always quite busy around. I don't know what 'industrial' means, but I guess its something to do with being in charge of a lot of things, as my Daddy ALWAYS says it, along with words like 'economically' and silly things like that. Once, my big brother and even bigger sister tried to explain those long words to me, but it didn't work, and they ended up sounding just like Mummy and Daddy.

"Now, Blake.."

They always seem to address me with a very serious tone, like I'm much too young to be trusted with anything. I probably am, but I don't see why that means I'm 'annoying' and 'immature..'

I can hear things too. The constant whining of next doors dog, the inscecent twittering of the little birdies in the skies and trees, and the occasional hum of the lawnmower when Daddy finds time to come out of his office. Oh, and of course the little voice in my head..

Hey, thats not weird.

I guess when you have a Dad too busy to acknowledge your existence, two older siblings MUCH too obsessed with sports and schoolwork and relationships and jewellery and friends, you make your own entertainment.. Find your own ways of doing things.

Fuck me, dude.

This bloody Nostalgia.

03/11/2011
Canberra, Australia
"Gone - Wrestling."

"Bloody hell Tills, I'm gonna miss this place."

I have to sniff back a tear as I look out across the vast expanse of Canberra. Straining to remain intact, my Australian accent thickens twice over, before cracking on the final syllable. My elder sister, Matilda Vendetta, stands beside me, one hand resting comfortingly on my muscular shoulder. Her long brunette hair tickles my bare skin, but she says nothing.

Its been a long time since I've left Australia. Of course, when Dad was still a free man, and Mom and Joey were alive, we travelled all over the world. Europe, Asia, America, Africa. We did it all, saw it all, left our mark on it all.

That was back then, though, back when the name 'Vendetta' struck fearful respect into the hearts of those whose ears it fell upon. That was when Dad was free, Mom was alive, the house was tall, the swimming pool cool and refreshing. When me and Tillie weren't shackled by the ties of the orphanage, shunned by the family members that refused to take us in.

Back then, I could still smell that sickly sweet scent.

As Tillie and I climb into the car, I take one solitary, meaningful glance back. Now, a big, strong 'wrestler' like Blake Vendetta, broken down by such a small thing as leaving the place he grew up to a 'better future..' some would think that's the mark of a weakling. Objection.

I've never considered the fact that I may be weak. I guess being caught in the middle of a drug war, having half your family either killed or thrown in prison - before being chucked ruthlessly into an orphanage.. That kinda childhood disputes any claims that a kid is weak.

"So. Wrestling huh?"

Tillie smiles at me reassuredly, her soft Aussie twang imminent as she speaks. I wonder if theres anybody in FMW that speaks with a voice like that?

"You're gonna be okay, ya know." She continues, nodding as she revs up the engine, starting the long road to the airport. "You can fight. Thats all you really need, right?"

I nod slowly, rolling this thought over inside my head once or twice. Truthfully, and very unfortunately, I have no fuckin' clue what Pro-Wrestling actually includes. Sure, there's the whole punch, slam, strike, splash reportoire, but I've been told, by the few Aussie's that are sympathetic enough to slightly care for me, that it involves so much more than that.

Scandals, Rumours, Backstabbing, Beatdowns, A ladder of success, champions, jackasses, Special Stipulations, Backstage disputes, men after your head, factions of fools factions of fuck-ups, factions of hero types that think they're better than everybody else because they get the loudest cheers.

"I guess Tills. You promise you'll come and visit as much as you can, right?"

"Of course, Blake. I'm your sister, I'm kinda contracted to it."

I smile. Before it was just us, the terrible tandem, we never saw eye to eye. She was always the 'sensible, older beautiful one' that was always bouncy and smiling, always top of the class, always doing something that made her special. I was the annoying child that spoke to himself and the voices in his head, had scruffy hair and never washed behind his ears. That was all until the gang fights. Until the shootings.

She lost that special twinkle when she had nobody to tell her she was better.

In a way, she was almost forced to lower herself to my equal. To me, she became more of a sister than a bitch. I could tell that when it first became just us, she didn't like it. Didn't like the fact she had no massively rich support behind her - to praise her, cuddle her and push her to her limits. She was disgruntled and defeated because she had to treat her ridiculous little brother as an equal.

My heart wrenches once more as I notice the car pull up outside the airport. We sit there for a moment, neither of us acknowledging the other - and then I realize, and it strikes me with a bolt that makes my chest bulge; Tillie doesn't want me to go.

I'm not sure any of you quite know what it feels like to have a family member that never really showed any love for you show some. It's a beautiful feeling, no doubt, but not one I entirely needed, still on the verge of changing my mind, cancelling my flight and staying here, at home, in Canberra.

"Well.." she begins, "I suppose this is it, Blake."

I nod slowly, rolling my tongue, before warily getting out of the car, petrified that at any moment, both the voices in my head or the Nostalgic visions could strike me. I steady myself, going to the boot and pulling my two leather suitcases from it, before looking around at the bustling airport car park;

The sun is pulsing down, with an almost deliberate intention of burning those that stood in its way. The concrete below my feet is rough, worn and torn by so many feet and tires and so little maintenance work. That 'little maintenance work' is imminent everywhere you look around this part of the airport, shabby road signs and detached offices looking very much worse for wear.

Tillie follows me out, a few birds twittering overhead, the final song. She smiles at me, trying to hide the fact that she's going to miss me... But I know it's there; somewhere.

"Good luck, Blake."

"Thanks, Tills. I'm gonna be needing it, hey?"

She smiles, nodding quickly, her eyes dancing with a soft glow for just a moment. She rests her hand on my shoulder, before leaning in and clasping me in her arms.

At that moment, as I breath in the vanilla shampoo and cheap perfumes she always wears - feel the tips of her hair brush against my chin, that the memories come flooding back. They seep into my mind like an invading army, and I can do nothing to stop them. Miriads of days in the swimming pool, irritating my family, a plethora of schooldays - so dull and dreary, yet the best days of my life..

I can do nothing to stop those memories, and with them come the tears. Just falling soundlessly onto Tillie's cardigan clad shoulder. She holds me closer, saying nothing.

"Pull yourself together."

Oh shit, oh shit. Here we go.

"What's wrong, buddy? Haven't you been missing me?"

Then, just at a time when I needed it more than anything else *Insert Sarcasm* comes the voice. Strolling nonchalantly down my memory lane, whistling his jaunty, jovially annoying little tune and tipping his feather hat to me as he takes his usual seat at the forefront of my mind.

Now for those of you that are idiots, having a voice in your head doesn't tend to be good for you, and I am no exception to that ruling. My chest begins to pound, my head and throat whirling as the pit of my stomach begins to rumble. Tillie doesn't notice, mistaking my shifting bodyweight for heart wrenching sobs.

"Oh, build a fucking bridge, pussy. You're going to a better place.. Okay, fair enough, you're stuck in Ireland this week, but soon you'll be in America!"

My chest jolts suddenly, and a sharp searing pain raises through my veins, clawing at my innards and trying to collapse me from the inside. I can hear it hissing, the voice, whispering sweet nothings to me as it works its deadly magic. Through the midst of the burning pain, I feel Tillie's light grasp leave my body, and I realize at once that I need to go.

"Tillie.."

I can do nothing but croak out the solitary feeble word, but its enough. At once, Tillie realizes that it isn't just homesickness that is keeping me from leaving. An eternity of living with a kid can do that to somebody. An eternity of having to listen to Blake Vendetta's constant moaning and mutterings to nobody in particular has Tillie finely in tune to what is happening inside my head..

"Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

The Voice, an incessent shriek of laughter emenating from its 'lips,' continues to tigthen its steel clench as Tillie rests my leaden body against the car bonnet. I glimpse her delving into the boot for a bottle of water, through my slowly closing eyes.. I know I'm not dying, this has happened many times before.. But still, I am scared, and The Voice does nothing to comfort me..

My head drops backwards, cracking hard against the sun-parched concrete park. I hear Tillie scream, she never did know how to deal with situations like these.. and then i faint, falling into a deep unconciousness, as The Voice's laughter fades out.

Nothing.

Wow, Blake, way to make an impression.

********

So.

Wow.

This is it, huh?

Full Metal Wrestling.

FMW.

Full. Freakin'. Metal. Wrasslin'.

Now, just days into the fallout of Mount Vesuvius, my first impressions are firmly cemented in my mind.. This place is fucked up, dude. From the GSW twats that seem to be everywhere, to Hannibal Frost, current FMW Champion, The Sons of Attrition, Apostasy, the jackass that has a problem where he can NEVER CLOSE HIS MOUTH (Kiyoshi Ryu.)

The Pack.

Jack Eastwood, Seth Rotunda.. and my opponent for this upcoming Corruption; Daniel Prideman.

Now, it seems there isn't much to research on the alluring and stimulating topic of Mister Prideman, as the fella happened to join at pretty much the same time as I did, in the little clump of rookies that pitched their tents on the wrong side of the Mount Vesuvius Rookie Royale.

However, Prideman was given a leg up before he had even participated in a match. Jack Eastwood, Dunnwood, whatever.. Took him under the proverbial protective wing and into The Pack.

Now, another thing I've noticed here is that it takes a hell of a lot to get yourself noticed. Even guys like David GS, nicknamed "The Phenom" and undefeated over a YEAR in singles competition, haven't managed to crack the main event scene yet, still residing with the dregs at the bottom of the teapot of life - clinging desperately onto his Television Title. You know why that is? The guys a shitbag.

Now, I'm not a wrestler - or rather, I am, but I have very little professional experience. But its pretty obvious to me that to succeed in this business, you not only have to have a fantastic talent and ove for snapping necks, bu you have to be a certain build and type of person. You have to be strong, you have to be witty, able to whip up strategies in the blink of an eye and forge allegiances with the strongest and wittiest.

You need to have a certain drive.

Now I don't want to just pick on the friendly neighbourhood Phenom, so I'll point out a few more examples to any intelligent enough to listen to my promises and theories.

Matt Dunn, Kiyoshi Ryu, Chris Austin.. Oh, sorry, "Radical" Chris Austin. What the hell kind of moniker is that, anyway? Radical? With my limited knowledge of gaming, and kids toys, there's probably some kinda comic book character, Sonic the Hedgehog Race Track or some shit named after "Radical."

Oh, Chris, you're so totally rad man.

But no, I'm rambling.

Back to the point. Seth Rotunda, a man chosen to be part of The Pack AFTER Prideman was. Rotunda, despite the fact that he didn't triumph in the Rookie Royale at Mount Vesuvius, by far made the largest impact on the FMW. Now, I'm a smart man, and for that matter, so is Jack Eastwood.

The man with a multiple personality disorder must see SOMETHING in Prideman, otherwise why would he risk taking him under his wing?

So, with that, "The Mockingjay" concludes that he must not underestimate Prideman. Duly noted.

So now, as every good trash talker must do.. We proceed to the part of this little audio piece where I tell ya'll why I'm SO. FUCKING. MUCH. BETTER.

Danny boy, I'm like fucking Charlie Sheen. I've got the blood of a tiger running through my veins. I've been through more than youll ever go through in your whole bloody life, and that makes me not just physically stronger, but mentally sharpened, more oblivious to any snide remarks you could shoot my way, and in all respects of the word.. fucking crazy.

Now, I've ripped into the nickname of a respected member of the FMW roster.. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I dipped into his gimmick as well?

Full Metal Wrestling, Daniel Prideman.

Class is in session, and attendane is mandatory.

********

I can still smell it.

That sickly sweet scent, just hanging loosely in the air, floating in and out of my nostrils like.. like it shouldn't be there. Yes that's it, just like it shouldn't be there. It has that kind of renegade tang about its being, a simple rebellious air that makes you think "Fuck it, I'm badass." Its the kind of beautiful smell of everything being GOOD. Everything being all fine and dandy, like a hot summers day - two scantily clad women pouring you drinks and oiling themselves up in the pool at your feet...

.....

.....

.....

Its a strange combination, yet it follows me everywhere I go. It contains Daddy's special sugar powder, I know that much.. The scent always seems to heighten when I go closer to his factories or offices...

.....

.....

Now, don't get me wrong, the smell wasn't the only thing there. There was a sort of pretty, sunbaked tinge to everything and everyone. Mummy sometimes tells me that here in Australia, things are 'Fucking hot' as she put it. But afterwards she always tells me I'm not allowed to use words like that, ever, and if I do then I will get a very hard smack and I won't be able to sit down for AT LEAST a week...

.....

.....

I can hear things too. The constant whining of next doors dog, the inscecent twittering of the little birdies in the skies and trees, and the occasional hum of the lawnmower when Daddy finds time to come out of his office. Oh, and of course the little voice in my head..

Hey, thats not weird.

I guess when you have a Dad too busy to acknowledge your existence, two older siblings MUCH too obsessed with sports and schoolwork and relationships and jewellery and friends, you make your own entertainment.. Find your own ways of doing things.

Fuck me, dude.

This bloody Nostalgia....

I've worked really fucking hard to get to where I am.

I've been in this business for eight years.

Eight years.

When you haven't even crested thirty, that's a long damn time.

For four of those years, I've been in Full Metal Wrestling.

Back in those days, FMW had a developmental program, NEW. That's where my journey started. New faces, new challenges... a new life. I was ready for it, hungry for it.

Just one problem...

Unicorns don't slide down rainbows in order to shit good luck and fortune all over my front porch.

Every single step I've taken in life has had its ups and downs. Mostly, they come jam packed together in a shitstorm of "WTF". But that's life for you I guess. No happy endings, but at least I had a helluva' time gettin' there, right?


WRONG


The SoA's new base of operations was in full on Party Mode tonight. The quaint little Country Club, equipped with a small lake and a golf course, was sure to break the noise ordinance in effect.

Dozens of people were there, partying to their heart's content. Some were strangers(from the sorority down the street), some were fans, and then some were friends and family. The Celt was there, as was Leon, and even David decided he could make an appearance, significant other in tow.

Hannibal Frost, a black bandanna folded and wrapped around his head, screamed to the heavens before downing the last half of a Coors Light nestled in his right palm. The girls surrounding him, strangers and fans, danced to the beat of the music. Needless to say, Frost was having a good time, swollen jawline and all. The two blonds in front of him were half naked, their tops removed at some point during the evening. With that being said, breasts were most definitely being fondled.


Retrospecting


So, my journey...

I was engaged to be married around the time I signed my Full Metal Contract. I was in love, excited about the future, and ready to tackle it head on.

I miss Kayla, I really do.

She died, by the way.

A car crash took her away from me, a couple weeks before my debut. I was devastated, but... I decided the best way to grieve would be to march forward.

Of course, things got pretty fricken' weird after that.

I didn't have long to grieve before she was back in my life. Smiling, talking, taunting me with a touch I could never feel.

She was a ghost.

A spirit.

A manifestation of paranormal energy that lingered on after her body had been destroyed.

So, for months, I went on and wrestled knowing that she still supported me. I was driven to prove to her that I could make for myself the future that she deserved. Only, I failed at it.

Enter Sinius, a demon.

Okay, I said that things got fricken' weird. Just run with it, will you?

I don't exactly remember how, but I came across a book. This book contained within it a passage that, if said correctly, would summon a demon. I had no where else to turn and no one to help me, so... I said "fuck it". I memorized the damn passage, Googled the pronunciations for those crazy Latin words, and well, wouldn't you know it, I summoned a demon.

Believe it or not, things only got worse. The demon's promises of "power" rang hollow and empty. I kept losing, kept falling, and kept failing to get back up.

Oh yeah, and it ended up Kayla was still alive.

To sum it all up, some crazy shit happened. I didn't even get to Kayla until it was too late, and then my demon pal Sinius decided to possess me.

Then, in my body, Sinius went on to win the C-4 Title.

After that, under the control of the demon, I joined Havoc and... well, let's just say it reigned.


I Make It Reign


Frost, now shirtless and kissing with the healthy side of his mouth, shoved open the door to an unfinished bedroom. A small splash of light filtered in, dimly lighting the center of the room. Frost promptly stumbled and fell there, managing to fall on his side instead of his companion. The incident didn't stop them, though, as both were relentless in their struggle for release.

The girl pulled away from Frost, her blond hair bouncing back with the action, before lunging into his neck with her teeth. Frost stiffened, ready to fend off an attack, but there were no fangs. He then relaxed, and let the sensation take him.


Retrotacular

Havoc was a brutal time. I killed people, tortured others. I even had to fight a Kayla that had returned to the dead once more. God gave her the power of the angels, and then sent her to kill me. I couldn't do anything but watch this madness. I was powerless to do anything. Kayla's niece, my step daughter for a time, was killed because of me.

Soon after, I managed to fight the demon inside of me. After all the pain, the killing, and the hate... I broke free. Unfortunately, the match in which the real Hannibal returned ended up being his last. Skyler Striker, before ultimately going to rehab, broke my neck. I was out of action for so long, and with a helluva' lotta' thinking to do.

Until, someone visited me. A man, who ended up being a shitbag, asked me to join an organization dedicated to the hunting and slaying of the creatures of the night.

Vengeance.

Atonement.

I had to do it.

For months, I hunted in the lower belly of society. I was a new man. Hardened, pissed, and one hell of a drunk. So, I drank and maimed my way through the darkness. I was atoning for the fucked up shit that I'd done, and getting vengeance on the creature that did this to me.

Soon after, amidst the telling of a prophecy and a chat with the first Vampire, I joined back up with FMW. Things were tough at first, but eventually... I rejoined Havoc. This was a new Havoc, though. Built by the steadied hand of a reformed Harley Quint. It was then that I won the Abandoned Title, and subsequently lost it to Seth Omega.

Things were going bad. My drinking got worse. I kept losing matches. But, I figured it was God's way of saying I was an asshole. Touche. Fair Enough. Got Ya'.

So, I pressed onward. In the following months, I met a girl, formed a new crew, and fell smack dab into the middle of that prophecy I was talking about.

Didn't turn out too bad though. Nine outta' ten, maybe.

I fulfilled the prophecy, and won the Full Metal Championship. Yay. Smiley faces. Joy. Ernie Hudson. I was ecstatic at the time, but looking back, now... I see what really happened. Sinius, driven to repossess me, comes out of no where to kill my best friend and force me to kill my girl.

That happened to me, because I'd go on to dethrone a vile, power hungry Tyrant. Because I'd go on to fulfill a prophecy that tells of an age of peace in the not too distant future.

That happened to me, because I was meant to be the good guy. I was meant to come to peace with myself, and realize just how much I can do.

(It's not gay, sentimental shit. It's straight from the heart, bra.)


This One's For My Dead Homies


A bed, covered in sheet plastic, had been thrown to the wayside long ago. Long before a second girl, a redhead, entered the fray. And long before a cute as shit blond headed girl made it three to one.

The redhead was gripping an opened box of Fruit Loops, slinging the contents into the air. It was raining breakfast cereal as Frost used his pinky to trace the small of the cute blond's back. Then, as the cocaineFRUIT LOOPS fell into a powdery line, Frost bent and moved his head to inhale the entire line.

He pulled back, shaking for a moment as a chill raced up his spine, and rubbed furiously at his nose.


Retropocalypse


Huh...

Doesn't seem champion like, does it?

Do I really wanna' be that guy? The champ who snorts cocaineFRUIT LOOPS out of the asses of strangers?

Do I wanna' be Neil Patrick Harris? Well, the television version anyway. The real life gay version is still really cool, but I'm not into dudes.

Point is, am I really going to become this in order to come to grips with my new reality?

Not a hundred percent, but he seems like a nice guy. A nice change of pace from a steady diet of brooding and anger.

I guess I'm just an asshole, people. I'm always gonna' argue, throw out a witty retort or two, or be a dick when I'm not in it to win it.

But, I've got one helluva' good heart.

I'm no Tyrant.

I'm no Student.

I'm no Epitome of UltraViolence.

And I'm certainly not a Jason Roy.

I'm just a guy. A dude that tells you to "Fuck off" every now and again, but still has his head on straight. I might tell you I've got something, go to throw it to you, and then really just flip you off, but I know what side of the line I'm on. I know what side I fight for.

I'm still going to fight for it, only with a... sunnier disposition on life.

I'm your Full Metal Champion.

And I'm Ready To Believe You.

In the beginning...

So where does this story start? Where did my anger originate? A long time ago in Croyden is the answer. It's a memory that burns strongly in my mind even to this day. It's my motive, my reason for being and it all started when I was a thirteen year old boy. I wasn't always the biggest of kids. Just a scrawny dark haired boy, a loner, just doing my own thing. I'd always been bullied, called names and abused by all the others at school. It was horrible but little was I to know I was five minutes away from it all becoming a lot worse.

I was taking my usual route home from school: out of the gates, take a right straight past the numerous shops before taking the path through the park. It was a bright sunny day and I was happy listening to the wind blow through the wind in the trees, feeling the sun beat down on my face. It was bliss. As I walked through the path between the trees two boys from my class stepped out in front of me. “Oh Danny boy,” the first said to me, “What are we going to have to do with you now?” I froze, not knowing what to do next. I had always been told by my teachers to just ignore my bullies and walk away so I turned round to walk off only to be met by two more boys. “Look, I don't want any trouble,” I pleaded. I don't know which it was but one of the boys behind me hit me hard in the back of the head. My knees buckled and stars appeared before my eyes as tears formed both from the pain and fear. The boys in front of me hit me hard in the stomach and tore my shirt open making the buttons fly off. I dropped to my knees as the second grabbed me by my tie and began choking me.

I couldn't breathe and was starting to panic. The more I panicked, the more I gasped and the more I began to think that I could be about to die. I collapsed onto my side and felt every part of their school shoes pelting any part of my body they could. They let go of my tie and I sucked in the biggest breath I could. It was like I had been reborn sucking in that first breath. I stared up at my four bullies through swollen, teary eyes and tried to beg them to stop. Opening my mouth no words escaped my mouth. I was so badly winded. The second boy leaned over me, “You’re lucky we have better things to do with our time Danny! Now be a good boy and shut up.” I watched as they walked away, full of pain, praying they didn't turn round. I let out a cough, “Shit...” They turned quickly the first boy running towards me. “We said, shut up!” He stamped hard on my face. The pain was like an explosion. Well so was the effect. My nose was completely shattered and the blood ran all over my face. I was a mess. It was on that day I decided. I wasn't taking this anymore.


Vengeance...

It was five years since the attack. Thankfully puberty had taken its toll and some time at the gym had made me cut an imposing figure. I stood six foot four and weighed two hundred and seventy-five pounds. No one pushed me around anymore. In fact, I did all the pushing now. I had made it my aim to get revenge on all those who had tormented me as a child and that's how I came to meet Jack Eastwood.

It was a Wednesday evening and I had been following this guy for over twenty minutes. He was the second of my four attackers that I had manager to track down. Tonight was my time to return the favour and make him suffer the pain that I did. He rounded the corner and stepped into a local pub. I followed him in and took a seat at the bar. I drank a glass of water; I didn't want alcohol to mess with this memory. I took one last gulp of the liquid and focused my eyes on the target. Standing up from my stool I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I strode over strongly towards him and grabbed him by the throat against the wall. I wanted him to see my face.

“Remember me?” I shouted staring him straight in the eye. I could see it dawn on him as much as he didn't want to believe it. “Danny boy!” He spat back at me, no remorse in his voice. “Now you listen to me,” I began, “You tormented me, you bullied me, you attacked me. Tonight is my redemption, I just wanted the last thing you ever saw to be my face.” Still holding him by the neck I flung him straight along the bar, clearing every glass that had been sat on there. He dived back at me, broken bottle in hand. Stepping once I punched him hard in the kidneys sending him to his knees. Standing in front of him I unleashed all my fury and focused into a punch straight to his right eye. It blew up immediately. Then for what seemed like an eternity I continued punching, left, then right, then left, then right, until he slumped to the floor. His face was a bloody mess and he was breathing, only barely, through the gaps I created for him in his teeth. I felt empowered, I felt good. It was then I stood up and noticed everyone had fled the pub. Raising my foot I prepared to bring it down on his face just like my attackers had done previously. It was the exclamation point. I was going to kill him in this dingy pub in London. It felt good.

“You spilt my pint mate... Next rounds on you.” I spun quickly; the voice had come from behind me. There was a huge man, even bigger than I sat at the bar, he hadn't flinched. I'd seen him sat earlier, drinking heavily. The balls on this guy to have not moved during my attack amused me. I smiled and he broke out into laughter then got up and left the pub. “Who was this guy?” I thought to myself. I had to go after him. Kneeling over my victim I got right into his face. “I guess you got lucky,” I snarled before taking the money from his wallet and walking out of the pub door.


An interesting proposition

The door to the pub shuts behind them. Walking swiftly Jack turned left and headed down the street, seemingly with purpose.

Daniel: Who are you?

Jack: Jack Eastwood. Why are you following me?

Daniel: I felt, I dunno. I felt I needed to.

Jack: Do you regularly follow random blokes you meet in the pub?

Jack turns round to look at Daniel a slight curl forming on the edge of his lips.

Daniel: Are you normally such a bastard or is it just the way you are after you've drank too much?

Jack: Who says I'm drunk?

He takes another long sip from his hip flask.

Daniel: Well the ten glasses lined up in front of you in the pub gave me some clues.

Jack: If you think ten pints will get me drunk then you're more of a soft-arse than I thought.

Jack pulls out a black packet of cigarettes and withdraws one with his mouth before offering the packet to Daniel.

Daniel: No thanks. I don't smoke.

Jack: Fair enough. I find it helps with the anger issues though.

Daniel steps in front of Jack and gets in his face. Baring his teeth he looks up at the 6'8” man in front of him, no sign of fear in his eyes.

Daniel: I don't have anger issues.

Jack: …Okay then.

Jack takes another drag of his cigarette, side steps Daniel and continues walking. Daniel stands in the same spot quietly seething, the adrenaline of the previous fight still coursing through his veins. Collecting his thoughts he turns and quietly stalks Jack.

Jack: You better walk faster if you wanna catch up. I have pretty long legs y'know.

Daniel: Don't be a smart-arse with me.

Jack: Well don't be a plain arse with me then.

For the second time both guys let out a smile and Daniel cracks a laugh.

Daniel: (Inquisitively) Where are you heading then?

Jack: Rome. Fancy a road trip?

Jack effortlessly slides in to the driver's seat of a jet black SUV. Daniel looks at him, turning over the pros and cons of the decision that stood before him. Jack revs the vehicle into life and peers out of the window waving a six pack of Crest Super in the air.

Jack: I have beers!

Smiling once more, Daniel enters the SUV and leans back into the seat. Taking a beer from Jack he leans his arm out the window. As he opens the can it makes a satisfying snap. He takes a sip from the can...


Precipice

Jack and Daniel are sat backstage at Mount Vesuvius watching the Mount Vesuvius match. Empty cans of Crest Super surround them as Jack attends to the wounds that he sustained in his unsuccessful UV title challenge.

Daniel: Unlucky out there Jack. You should have wo-

Jack: Yeah I know I should have. I just got unlucky. That's all.

Daniel: Who were those guys in the masks?

Jack: Those are the people you'd be joining. They're The Pack.

Daniel: The Pack? You know that The Pride sounds better Jack. Lions are a lot more majestic than wol-

Jack: No Daniel. (He pauses) Now pay attention to this match Daniel. The winner gets a Championship title match at Ultimatum.

Sheila Blige begins to announce the rules of the Mount Vesuvius match. The first entrant comes through the curtain.

Jack: This is Chris Austin. C-4 champion and one half of the tag-team champions.

Daniel: Looks like a right knob. But tag-team champion? You fancy winning those?

Jack: I've done it once, I can do it again.

On the television Sheila Blige announces competitor number two. “From Melbourne, Australia, weighing two hundred and twenty-five pounds, he is... J... L... ANWYL!!!”

Jack: He's also a knob.

From the television the commentary grows louder as the announcers yell in excitement, “DROPKICK TO PHOENIX! TWENTY FOOT FALL AND HE HITS THE ASH BELOW!!!”

Daniel: Well this looks pretty dangerous.

Jack: Wait until the fire comes!

Daniel: Fire?! That's insane!

Jack: Insane? You haven't seen an electric chair match!

Daniel: And you enjoy this? I dunno man.

Jack: Trust me. There's nothing more exhilarating then hearing the roar of the crowd as you deliver the final blow.

They watch for a while in silence until eventually Jack's name is called.

Daniel: Try hard not to die out there. Or I will have your SUV.

Jack: Keep dreaming. Nothing can kill me.

Daniel: Good luck.

Jack leaves the locker room grabbing a couple of beers to prepare him for the match ahead. Daniel waits a while watching on the television as Jack Eastwood makes his entrance a renewed determination on his face. Daniel smirks sipping once more from his can of beer.

Daniel: (To himself) Could be better...

Daniel gets up and leaves taking one look at the opportunity he was leaving behind.

Daniel: This is insanity...


“Now it's your round”

An Irish pub in Ireland. As if it's going to be anything else. Eastwood sits alone at the bar nursing his sixth pint of Guinness. With a tumultuous sigh he tips his head back and washes the black liquid around his mouth and throat. He looks across to the wizened old bar man. He replaces his pint in an instant.

Jack: I didn't pay for that.

Barman: Not that I think that would stop you from drinking it anyway, but the young man over there paid for it for you.

Jack looks over to the end of the bar and sees Prideman, a smirk stretched all over his face like a Cheshire Cat. Jack calls to him from across the bar raising an accusing finger.

Jack: So first you follow me out of a pub and now you're buying me drinks and giving me a pretty camp smile there Daniel.

Daniel: Fuck off Jack. What did you say to me the first night I met you? I spilt your pint. The next one's on me remember. Well I guess now it's your round.

Jack: Well that depends. Are you joining The Pack or not?

Daniel: I'm in. I want to fight. I want to cause pain. I want to be the best and give those FMW guys the kick-in they deserve. Ring them up. Get me on the card.

Jack smiles and pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to Daniel.

Jack: You're already on it. I knew you'd say yes. You're fighting Blake Vendetta.

Blake, you were right to observe the fact that I was the second member of Eastwood's Pack. And yes, you are probably right to say I am unproven. Hell, you haven't seen anything yet. NOBODY has seen anything yet except Jack Eastwood. So it all comes down to how good Eastwood's judgement is. Either you consider it poor and continue to run your mouth or you smarten up and take notice of the fact that I am here to make an impact. Every single member of The Pack is here to make an impact and I will be the one to shine.

Everyone expects The Pack to take on savage beat-downs and attack in groups much like a wolf pack. However, I like to see us more like a pack of cards. The only thing is I am the Ace and you are just a joker. You should have done the smart thing Blake, you're a bright lad. And that was to follow the tutelage of Jack Eastwood just as I am doing and just as the other rookies who saw the light did. Mark my words, without The Pack you will be a nobody. I know it and more importantly you know it. One poor decision Blake and now you have me to deal with.

At Corruption 13.1 I will maim you, tear you limb from limb and send you back to where you came from, wiping you from FMW history before your time has even begun. I will use you to send a message to everyone on the FMW roster. Daniel Prideman is not a man to be mocked; he's not a man to be disrespected. It's time you learnt to fear and respect The Pack.

Consider yourself on notice.

Back in the Pub in Ireland.

Daniel: (Laughing) I still think The Pride sounds better.

Jack: No Daniel....

Uniform ideas originating among entire peoples unknown to each other must have a common ground of truth.

- Giambattista Vico (Italian philosopher, 1668 – 1744)

Eyes haggard, body weary from the miles he has walked across the frozen centre of Nova Scotia, Jack steps into the empty Halifax International Airport bringing the chill of death with him on the air. A grizzled security guard shivers at the sight of the young man, silhouetted against the glaring lights of the interior. Outside, a snowstorm rages on, its wintery grasp refusing to let go its vice grip on the very elements, preventing anybody from being foolish enough to think they would fly today. Nevertheless, Eastwood makes his way across the carpeted floor, snow shrugging itself off his frame and turning into slush upon contact with the ground.

The guard’s mouth is agape. Even though the snow is coming down thick, the car park is five minutes walk away. Surely he couldn’t have been covered like this in such a short space of time? And what was he thinking, braving a snowstorm in a t-shirt and jeans, the canvas shoes on his feet sodden with snowmelt? But then, as the guard catches a brief glimpse of those black, all-consuming eyes, a thought strikes him. He could have been walking for miles. Miles and miles. And he might not have finished yet. Jack approaches the customer service desk, a grimace tightening his lips.

Jack: Excuse me...

His voice alone is not enough; with a paw-like hand he rattles a bell on the desk for attention. A bored-looking airport official comes out, her jaw moving slowly around the piece of gum she has entrapped. She looks Eastwood up and down as if he is the most ordinary thing in the world.

Woman: Yes?

Jack: I’m looking for a flight. Next one to Rome, Italy. Chartered, first class, business class, standard, easyJet, I really don’t care. I just need to get there.

The woman pretends to ponder this for a second, slowly grinding the gum in her mouth into sugary dust.

Woman: Well you’ll have a job with this snowstorm around getting any public aircraft off the ground-

Jack: Then it’ll have to be chartered.

Woman: You really think anybody’s going to be crazy enough to go out in this weather?

Jack: You really think I care? I need to get to Rome.

Something occurs to the woman; that dangerous look in his eye, the nervous twitching. What she is unaware of is that automatic muscle movement is one of the afflictions associated with insomnia. But this woman, with her hair lazily tied up into a bun, mascara a little rough at the edge of her eyes and a general lack of give-a-fuck, thinks that Eastwood is a criminal.

Woman: And what business do you have there?

Jack: Does it really matter? I just want to be there, that’s all. Consider it a crisis of faith.

Woman: You’re running from someone, aren’t you?

Jack: I’m trying, but I keep on catching up with myself.

One thin eyebrow arches up in a state of non-amusement. She looks down at her computer, pretending to check for pilots. In reality she is summoning the authorities. There’s something about this guy she just mistrusts, and with good reason.

Woman: OK. I’m afraid that there’s nobody available to take you to Rome until this weather pattern evades us. The best I can offer you right now is to sit tight, wait until the storm abates and then I’ll see what I can do for you.

Jack: ...thanks. Do you have a duty-free in here or is it only for people awaiting their journey?

Woman: We don’t, I’m sorry-

Jack: -how silly of me, I’m waiting for a flight, aren’t I? I’ll just go through to the duty free then. I take it there’s a place I can smoke?

And without waiting for an answer, he casually breezes through to the departure lounge. While in there, he racks up a rather large duty free balance on his debit card, including but not limited to; cigarettes, alcohol, clothes, food, drink, and a large duffel bag. Then, while the police are, unbeknownst to him, on their way, he steps outside and smokes five cigarettes in a row, the nicotine fuelling his blood with excitement. He knows what he has to do now.

Woman: There he is!

He turns around, the duffel bag swinging like a pendulum on his back as he finds himself marked by three police officers, all equipped with handguns. He sticks his cigarette into his mouth and puts both hands up, still puffing away.

Jack: ‘Oo caw da police on me?

Woman: That’s right, I did! Clearly you’re a British fugitive who robbed a bank or something!

Jack: Are ‘oo fuggin’ kikin’ meh? Ah’ve jus’ go’a lo’a money on acan o’ me bein’ a fresnal wresla!

Woman: Oh for crying out loud, take that cigarette out of your mouth.

He pulls one hand down, withdraws the cigarette and raises the hand again.

Jack: I have a lot of money because I’m paid a lot of money. I wasn’t aware it was illegal to be paid nowadays.

Officer #1: Watch your lip, son.

Jack: Eh?

Officer #1: I said watch yo-

Jack: Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m taking the piss you mother canucker.

Officer #2: It won’t help you to be cheeky, son. We’ve got guns trained right at your head.

Jack: You seem to think I’m afraid of that.

Officer #3: Then why are your hands up?

Jack: Good question.

He lowers them, taking a drag of his cigarette as his hands come down once more. The police remain steadfast.

Officer #1: Hand me your bag.

Jack: Eh?

Officer #1: Don’t do that again.

Jack: Actually I’m asking you to repeat yourself. You want to search my bag? I thought you needed a warrant for that.

Officer #3: In the wake of 9/11 the law was altered to allow any officer of the Canadian or international forces to investigate anybody reasonably suspicious at any international gateway.

Jack: So I’m “reasonably suspicious”. Right.

He sneers and slings the bag off his shoulder, tossing it over to the police. He finishes the last drag of his cigarette and throws that in the same direction.

Jack: Go ahead then. Search it. And if you don’t mind, I’m calling my company’s lawyer.

He slides a hand into his front pocket, withdrawing a wafer-thin mobile phone. Flipping it open, he runs a thumb over for a second before lifting the receiver to his ear. The police rifle through Jack’s bag, wondering how such a disgusting-looking person can afford all this.

Jack: Yello?... yeah, Smitten, it’s Jack... no, Jack. Jack Eastwood?... well there’s no need to take that tone with me, that’s all in the past now... look. I didn’t ring you to chit-chat. Some Canadians blokes of the law have stopped me for looking like I’m crazy and about to rip them to pieces-

He gives the airport woman a cheerful wink.

Jack: -and I need some advice in regarding to proving my identity, as well as making sure I’m – fully covered... yeah, I know. I know, alright!? It was a mistake... just tell me what to do and I’ll put down the phone... put you on? Fine...

He motions to the police officers.

Jack: Hey! The lawyer wants to speak to one of you. Preferably you.

He points at the third, senior, officer with his phone.

Jack: You seem to know what you’re doing.

After a moment’s hesitation the officer comes over, snatching the phone. A few moments of nodding and agreeing later and Jack is free to go. While the two other officers ignore him, the insulted one even going as far as to offer him a barely concealed sneer, the third one lingers for a second, placing a hand on his holster comfortingly.

Officer #3: Apologies for the inconvenience.

Jack: Meh. It’s fine. You were just doing your job. Hopefully I won’t see you again.

As Jack watches him go another cigarette is lit. The woman approaches him, a look of worry on her face. He leans against the outside wall, staring into the heart of the now fading snowstorm.

Woman: Mr Eastwood-

Jack: Oh. So you’re interested now?

Woman: I... I can’t begin to explain how sorry I am for doubting you.

Jack: Then don’t bother.

He turns to look at her. In the light, she really is quite pretty – her face shines from the reflection of the fallen snow. Jack looks her up and down, a casual smirk sprouting from the corners of his mouth. Conveniently, at this moment a gust of wind catches her skirt, lifting it up like she is an American starlet. She blushes, pale face going a rose red.

Jack: There is... something... you could do for me to make up for my wasted time.

Woman: ...and what would that be?

He leans in close and kisses her, softly, stealthily.

Jack: I think you know what I want...

Woman: ...seriously? You want to...

Jack: Yes.

He kisses her again, striking like a cobra.

Jack: I want you... to book me that fucking plane, for fuck’s sake.



Jack looks around the backstage locker room area, gasping for breath after just being thrown off Mount Vesuvius. He scans the area, looking for his would-be rookie, Daniel Prideman. He collars a rookie, Seth Rotunda.

Jack: Hey. You.

Seth: Yeah?

Jack: You seen a guy, six foot four, built like a brick shithouse?

Seth: You must be thinking of me.

Jack: You’re not six foot four, short arse.

Seth: Do you want me to give you a Dream Killer?

Jack: I don’t sleep, dickhead. You ever hear of insomnia?

Seth: You operate the way you do under the influence of a neurological disease?

Jack: Yeah. You’re pretty smart.

Seth: I’m a boxer, or I used to be. Helps to know things regarding the cranium when I’ve probably killed a few brain cells with my fists.

Jack: ...you’ve got smarts, mate. What’s your name? Seth, right?

Seth: Seth Rotunda.

Jack: Yeah, I saw you lose earlier.

Seth: Like I saw you lose just now.

Jack: Touche. But at least I’m doing something with myself. I’m not in the curtain jerking rookie battle royale.

Seth: I’m sure you were once.

Jack: Oh, for sure. But at least I’m not a pretentious tosser like you.

Seth: Yeah? You think I’m pretentious? When I’ve knocked out more than sixty people?

Jack: Big deal. Have you ever etched your name into the history books? Knocking out sixty people is something of an achievement, sure, but do you have anything to show it? Have you ever won anything like I have?

Seth: Admittedly, you didn’t do half bad tonight.

Jack: Then listen to me. At the moment, I’m looking for people to join my Pack. I’d like to offer you a position.

Seth: And what does being a member entail?

Jack: Put simply, you want something, the Pack will do its best to help you get it, if that’s what you want. All I ask in return is that you do the same. We’re like a unit, but you’re free to do your own thing if you want to. You see, a pack of animals doesn’t run as one cohesive unit. Sure, they run in the same direction, but they might take different directions to get there. Seth, you’re like everyone else I’m considering for the Pack. You’re after success.

Seth: Damn right.

Jack: So are you in?

Seth: Let’s give it a try.

Jack: That’s what I like to hear.

Man: Faith?

She should have been happy, joyous, over the moon. Something good happened did it not? There should have been reason to celebrate. Her father finally lost that which he strived so hard to keep; he lost that which he sacrificed everything for. When Faith witnessed the final impact of the referee’s hand against the surface of the ring, she could scarcely believe it. The TyranT had been defeated. It could not have been more perfect at the time. It was not Nick Bryson, Drew Michaels, Chris Austin or Smitten that dethroned him, none of the usual suspects who graced the FMW Title scene. It was Hannibal Frost, a man who fortune graced with an overpowering embrace that night. The fall of the TyranT to such an unexpected opponent could not have been more underwhelming, a saddening end to a tragic reign. So why was it that Faith found no desire to celebrate, no desire to laugh in the face of her father in her own silent way. Faith already knew why before the unasked questions even sprang to mind. The old veteran had got away with everything he had done. Though he lost the most prestigious title in the federation, the old bastard walked away scot free, whilst Hannibal and everyone else let him walk unanswered, as if losing the title was enough justice to answer all the terrible things he had done. It wasn’t enough to end his reign, even with the loss of the FMW championship.

Man: Faith?...

Faith did not want to admit it, but her father was right all along. No one gives a shit, all of the FMW roster are just as corrupt and single minded as the TyranT is himself, after nothing but the gold, holding no ambition past their own greed and desire to make a name for themselves. The only difference between TyranT and all the others is that the old veteran admits it when all others try to hide behind false smiles and empty promises. Faith heard that Hannibal Frost celebrated heavy that night, taking several women in his blood drunk state, not caring that a TyranT still graced the federation. TyranT’s resolve may have been hurt, but the veteran barely had a wound to lick. He would return, and he would return all too soon to continue his work. It would have been a lot safer if he remained a champion, now he was free of such restrictions to pick his own fights instead of waiting for them.

Man: Faith... do you know why you are here?

Faith: ... I could make a few educated guesses.

Faith’s head was still thumping on the inside, a small plaster over the cut on her forehead did very little to relieve the headache that pained her, though at least it was no longer as potent. She leaned against her hand, trying to massage her temple to ease the pain, feeling over the plasters she smeared across her head to stop the bleeding. The humidity in the office was near unbearable to boot, the heat almost sticky against her clothing and flesh. This was the habitat the board members of the FMW graced, like cold blooded creatures, living in temperatures only lizards could bear. Most of the dozen seated before Faith probably didn’t even know what the outside world looked like. Stupid fools with too much power and no life to show for it. Faith leaned back; her face void of any real expression as the board had called her in to discuss what they claimed was an important matter. They had been kind enough to give Faith a pathetically sized glass of water, even threw in a straw as well. Faith had been hoping for something alcoholic, to help ease the discomfort her head was giving her, but then she was still under the drinking age in most states.

Board: Did you really think you would get away with it Faith? Do you think that just because your father is one of the most established wrestlers in this business that you sudden receive special privileges? Whilst your father commands the utmost respect of this board, he does not hold any power behind it.

Faith: ... Here we go.

Board: The fans of this industry and specifically this federation pay a lot of their well earned money to watch our product. It is our job to make sure we deliver to them the highest quality of programs and entertainment we have to offer. I will not deny, sales have been spectacular in recent events, and part of that has come from you Faith, being the first successful female wrestler to grace the federation.

Faith: ... The only last time I checked.

Faith thought to herself, rubbing her temple as she stared at the board members with a deadpan expression. She really didn’t want to be here, Faith was not in the mood for this game and the mindless politics behind it all.

Board: When they come to watch our shows; a lot of fans come to see you. What do you think goes through their minds when they see one of their favourite wrestlers walk out during a match?! Not even performing a single move I dare add?! They think they wasted their money, and then they refuse to return to our shows! Walking out on Virus and Smitten cost this federation more money then you know. Whilst we hold passion for this sport, we also are businessmen, and we like to see our pockets filled. When you walked out on your own tag team partners, you lost a lot of standing and even some fans.

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

PX: So I don’t want you to pull that shit on me. Do you understand?!

PX whispered his voice low and sinister as he tightened his grasp upon the collar of Faith’s jacket. She was pressed up against the locker, her feet dangling from the ground as she struggled to gain footing and any form of leverage along with it. She grasped at PX’s wrists, held up by her jacket as she felt the larger wrestler force her against the locker, letting out a clatter of steel as it moved from the impact. Whilst PX wasn’t known to be a full blown heavy powerhouse, any wrestler looked super strong when pitted against the young female mute. Faith wasn’t in much of a condition to fight, having endured a heavy training session, in preparation for the recent bookings. She never anticipated PX coming to her like this, but then, the two were booked to fight together as a team, and the last time they met was not on the best of terms. Faith grimaced silently, looking around the locker room, hoping that a familiar face might be present to come and assist.

Times had greatly changed since she began wrestling. Skyler Striker would certainly not come to help her, Leon Caprice had his own trust betrayed during their first match against each other, added in with the Hayabusa encounter. VanGuard was in a coma, and probably wouldn’t wrestle ever again even if he did wake up. Doc had gone missing again, Abel Steele simply didn’t seem interested. Not one of their faces were going to show. The place was dark, empty save for the presence of PX and Faith. Faith always trained late at night, and so no one was around, no friends, not even colleagues. Faith by all rights should have been used to that feeling by now. It wasn’t something you could ever get used too.

PX: What are ya’ looking at?! There’s no one here Faith. Doc ain’t here this time to ride in like a knight in shining armour to save your worthless hide. It’s just you and me, so you best damn well listen you stupid bitch, ‘cause I’m not certain I’m getting my message through to you. Pay attention!

Faith frowned in anger, trying to find some leverage from nothing as she was held up against the locker. PX was pressed too close, his lips near her ear so each word he whispered was sent straight through her ear. PX made it more than apparent that he held no love for Faith; he wanted this tag team less than Faith did, but was no less determined to claim victory from it, ss his threatening words began to explain.

PX: I don’t like you Faith, I don’t like that I have to fight with you. Normally I’d say to just stay the fuck out of my way. I’m an experienced wrestler, one of the best, but like any truly good wrestler, I know my limitations. I might struggle against both my brother and Hannibal, so I’m going to need someone who is actually capable of fighting to stand in when I need it. That means I tag you in when I get tired, whilst you do what you can to hold out before I’m ready again. This is a one man team, and I’m the only man in it. You follow my lead; you tag me only when I request it. You following me so far?

PX spoke, bringing Faith closer to look her in the eyes before slamming her back against the locker again, looking to get the message through to her. Faith tried to grasp at his face, to try and press her index finger into his eye. Her efforts earned her nothing more than another considerably more vicious slam against the locker, making the sound echo out loud throughout the dark locker room.

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

John Andrews: I mean C’mon, you gotta’ work with people you know. I think I know just about enough of Smitten and Virus to know that they are not the most pleasant of folks to be associated with, but if you turn your back on any team, be they friends or enemies, people are going to lose trust in you. I’m not talking about just the wrestlers on the active roster... I’m talking about the people out there watching and supporting you too. How can they back someone whose just gonna’ walk out on them?

Faith: ... What the hell do you know about it?! You’re not in my shoes. I shouldn’t have to fucking stand besides the likes of Smitten and his damn lackey’s! I walked out because the fight was a damn farce!

Faith glared at the Outlaw as she remained seated backstage, an annoyed expression falling upon her face over the words of the wrestler before her. Outlaw John Andrews was one of the newer recruits to the FMW, and here he stood before Faith, giving her advice on what she should be doing. Whilst Andrews probably meant well, his kind words were not what Faith wanted to hear right now. The man had approached her when he saw the blood on her head, a recent wound that reopened to cause the blood flow seamlessly down her face. She held ice against her head, exploring her forehead with her other hand to feel the dried blood that had been left. Her head was throbbing with pain, whilst her back gave her some minor trouble; it made it hard to think. Faith had tried to assure Andrews she was alright when he discovered her with mere gestures. The fact that she could not physically speak made Andrews realize who she was, being the only competitive woman on the roster, there was no one who didn’t know of Faith. The Mute could not help but wonder why everyone suddenly had something to say.

Andrews: Trust is a powerful tool. It’s so hard to gain, yet so fucking easy to lose. You have to work so hard to gain it back. Whilst I know you had the best intentions walking out on those two bastards, you have to keep the bigger picture in mind. Who is going to trust you after that? Even those you might consider your allies will begin to doubt your integrity. You can’t just walk out on something just because it’s not going your way. Quitting like that damages you in more ways than you can even begin to realize. It makes people think that you’re just going to do it again when you don’t like the situation.

Andrews spoke, taking a seat near Faith as he spoke. Faith just stared forwards, wiping some congealed blood from around her eye. She wondered if this Outlaw was the real deal, or if just like everyone else, he was just trying to get in her pants. Using soothing words of support to try and get a footing. After being betrayed and abandoned so many times, Faith just couldn’t trust anyone the same way she had when her career first begun. She turned to Andrews, a blank stare being all she could do to reply. He reminded her of Doc, and now all thoughts moved to him. Faith hadn’t seen him in so long; she wondered if he still cared after what the two of them had gone through... she wondered if he ever cared at all, if anyone actually did, her own father included.

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

Board: So what are you going to do Faith? What are you going to do to regain our trust? There was talk amongst us of releasing you from your contract in light of this behaviour and your lack of performance. Whilst the majority were against this notion, I thought it might be adequate that you be made aware that it was and still is a possibility.

Faith: ... Don’t fucking lie to me. Not a single one of you bastards even considered it for a moment. I make too much god damn profit in sales to be released.

Faith spoke, her words forever unheard as she glared at each board member, staring deep into their heartless eyes as they continued their attempts to break down her resolve. What were they expecting of her? Did they think the mute would grovel, plead for mercy, promise to be a good little girl and do what they ask?

Board: Against our better judgement, we have decided to grant you an opportunity. Both a chance to redeem your actions, and a way to prove that you are still of the same calibre of talent as to when you first joined this federation. I believe you have already checked the card to see you are teamed with PX, and I’m sure you must also be aware that both of your opponents are indeed championship holders... Hannibal especially, holding what was once your fathers FMW World Title. Whilst we are aware you probably hold no desire to tag team up with PX, we do expect you to perform to the best of your abilities, which means staying within the premise of the ring for the entire duration of the match.

Faith: ... Don’t you tell me what to do....

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

PX: ‘Cause if it looks like you’re going to bail out on me, if I even suspect for a moment that you are going to flee the fucking ring when I need you there. I tell you this now...

He didn’t need to say it, Faith already knew from the familiar fire within his eyes that PX was very serious when he spoke. He really didn’t need to say it, but he did anyway, just to try and leave a mark, to try and strike fear into the otherwise fearless mute.

PX: I will kill you.

Faith glared back at him, she didn’t think PX could be so intimidating, but right now he was striking all the right cords. Faith’s resolve was not easily broken, but it felt a little shaken by the sheer force behind his threat. There was more to this match for PX than Faith had dared anticipate. Faith could only imagine it could be something to do with Celt as she was held up in the air by PX. That or the opportunity was just too good to pass up, given they faced two champions, one of them being Hannibal Frost.

PX: Your father’s a good man. Only reason I haven’t beaten you senseless here or on any other day is because I have some respect for the ol’ man. Looking at you, some worthless woman, you can’t even hold a candle up to the history the TyranT managed to create for himself. I’m insulted that I’ve been forced to team up with you instead of him.

A horrid crack sounded out, one that caused a brief scream of pain from PX as he released Faith, favouring his face as blood began to seep through his fingers. A blood mark was left upon Faith’s forehead where she had head butted PX, catching him square on the nose. The moment she was released, Faith sprang forwards, grabbing either side of PX’s head before ramming her own head against his again. With her own legs standing down on the ground below her, she had a lot more leverage in this new attack, throwing all her weight to clash her skull against PX’s. Her strike hit true, sending PX stumbling towards an opposite locker as blood flowed freely from his nose. Faith was relentless with her attack, finding a new energy from the anger PX triggered. Such a burst was short lived when PX caught her with a closed fist, backhanding Faith, catching her across the temple as a cut appeared, allowing for crimson to seep down her face as Faith regained her footing.

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

Andrews: What the fuck is your problem?! I’m just trying to help out?!

Andrews shouted, not taking kindly to Faith’s actions after she shoved him back. Faith’s expression told all the words she wanted to say, a dark look filling her eyes as she glared at Andrews. The two of them stood now, Faith bearing a very aggressive posture as Andrews was left dumbfounded. All he wanted to do was help, but something seemed to trigger Faith off, some off handed mention of her father that Andrews dropped. In an instant Faith had stood up to her feet and shoved Outlaw hard to put some distance between the two. John Andrews was easily able to keep his footing, but certainly took no liking to the Faith’s notion, especially when he had all the good intentions of helping out a fellow wrestler.

Faith: ... Don’t talk about my father like that!

Andrews: Fuck it then, if this is how you want it to be, go ahead and mess everything up. If this is how you want to treat everyone, than clearly you got it all coming to you, just like your old man. Cast everyone out, see where you end up.

Andrews took a deep breath, his eyes rolling a little in some annoyance. He took a moment to himself, keeping his breathing deep and low as he calmed himself. Faith did not do the same, keeping an aggressive posture, staring daggers at the newcomer. Andrews placed his hands on his own hips, shaking his head. Faith’s temple were the blood had congealed still glistened, the strike from PX still raw from last night.

Andrews: I’m serious alright? You need to get your act together or you’ll have nothing left. Keep castin’ people out of your life; you’re going to have no one watching your back. You’re going to have no friends, you’ll have nothing.

Faith: ... I didn’t cast anyone out! They all cast me out!

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

Faith: ... So go ahead, go ahead and fire me you fat fuck!

Board: Faith! For gods sake!

The Boardman who had once sat on his chair, brimming with confidence and power was now as pink faced as a pig, his face looking swollen as straining veins were visible upon his forehead as Faith choked him with his own collar, having dragged him towards her from behind the comfort of his own throne, right over the table. To the credit of the other board members present, they all remained seated with little interest, one fixing their tie as one of the other board members took a sip of their coffee with some satisfaction.

Faith: ... You don’t get to tell me what to do!

Faith had practically brought him right out of his chair, sliding him across the table before letting him fall to the monotonous carpet below. She would have put the boot in to add, literally lifting her leg up, ready to stomp down against his chest and head, save for a single call of reason as another man entered the office in the nick of time. A large man Faith was all too familiar with, seeing him in all his usual glory, broad suited shoulders, powerful frame and commanding presence all to add.

Smitten: Faith! That’s quite enough!

Smitten shouted out. Reluctantly, Faith did not continue, backing away in an arrogant manner as she stared at the man who dared to talk down to her. Her bland glare came to Smitten, who seemed to approve that Faith actually listened to him for once.

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

PX: Good. Pretty good for a woman.

PX mentioned, wiping his nose as Faith stood, her face half covered in blood as she held a fighting stance, ready to take on PX if he dared to approach her again. She felt half exhausted, having drained so much energy to make sure she was in peak condition for the coming fight. She wouldn’t have a chance against PX if he attacked again, but she would sure as hell give him a fight none the less if it came to it. PX smiled, his lips covered in his own blood, giving him an appearance beyond the word sinister as he began to slowly clap almost disrespectfully at Faith.

PX: That is what I’m after. Make sure you bring that with you, the fire I just saw when we face Celt and Hannibal. Prove to me that you’re worth at least half of what your father is, and I might actually consider you a partner for one night only. Let me down, and we’ll be seeing each other sooner than you think. Don’t walk out on me... and let’s not let the side down now shall we?

PX spoke, wiping more fresh blood from his face as it oozed from his nose to smear over his jaw. He looked upon his own bloodied hand in distain, turning away from Faith as he made his way from her sight, his message more than clear to the mute.

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

John Andrews message was also left fresh on Faith’s mind as she watched him walk away. Her posture relaxed somewhat as the pain returned to her head, making her wince as she watched the newcomer walk away without turning back, giving up on Faith before even getting a chance to become helpful. Seeing Andrews walk just reminded her of all the other people who walked away from her, and how people always would in this business.

Faith: ... Don’t you tell me what to fucking do!

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

Until it came to Faith’s turn, as she looked at the board members before turning her back on them, walking away herself. Whilst still young and new to the business, she was coming to terms with how things worked now, and what she had to do to make a name for herself once again. She called the bluff of the board members, refusing to be intimidated by the hierarchy running the federation. Prove you were not afraid, and willing to take action, wrestlers would always find there was a place for them in the FMW, and Faith was slowly beginning to find her place. Smitten was now seated amongst his colleagues, a curious frown forming at his brow as the board member who dared to challenge Faith was still left shaken and recovering from the ordeal in the seat next to him. Smitten smiled as he watched Faith leave, becoming familiar to the same thing PX witnessed only some nights ago.

Board: We should deal with her. That bitch is dangerous and not to be trusted. I said from the start she would be more trouble than she is worth!

Smitten: On the contrary. We should keep a keen eye on Faith. I have a feeling we’ve yet to see her best. TyranT’s fall was certainly not anticipated, but it leaves room for others to flourish, Faith being amongst those who could potentially rise... and what better place for her to start, when all she has to do tomorrow is take on a pair of champions...

An Hour after the end of Mount Vesuvius

Celt stands in the open door way of his hotel room gently patting. The journey by taxi from the Roman coliseum had been a painful blur as his last reserves of adrenaline faded from his system, and all the consequences of match began to be picked up his brain. The effect was powerful Celt had the strange feeling of being underwater; everything looked liked an impressionist version of its self and anything he could hear felt muted and distant.

With a shoulder pressed against one side of the doorway, he runs a free hand through his hair and oily, sticky blood mixed with sweat clings to his fingers. The tips of ears are still incredible hot, and the sole of feet can barely support his weight anymore. His left arm feels like it was ripped out and clumsily jammed back into its socket. Annoyingly he can barely even turn his head because he was dropped on his neck so many times tonight.

But the strongest feeling running through his head at that moment? The taste of deep, red blood...

Celt stares across from the doorway at Morrígan, who is sitting silently at the foot of his bed for the night, hands folded over her crossed legs. She’s dressed in perhaps the most stunningly elegant red dress Celt has seen her wear to date; tight around the chest but very low cut in a v shape, it has a tail that seems to run for miles, which is spread out over the bed. Her jewellery is keep simple, two golden hoop earrings hide under a blanket of curly red hair.
He says nothing at first, he just watches her. Her lips are neutral but her eyes have that classically welcoming look she so often has for him. But the biggest betrayal of her emotional is her chest, rising and falling rapidly which what Celt can only assume is a manic heart thudding against it.
Celt looks down at himself; dark strains from unwashed blood cover his t-shirt. His jeans fared somewhat better, despite how painful it was just to put them on. And of course, strapped tightly around his waist, 10 pounds of Gold and leather: the Ultraviolent title in all its battered glory. Celt chuckles out loud at the stark contrast between himself and his lover.

Celt walks into the room and kicks off his runners, before sitting down beside Morrígan. Looking at her, he rests his chin on one hand, giving her a look of “Whatever will I do with you”. Gently, Celt grabs the back of her head by her hair, and draws her forehead to his. For a moment they just sit there, locked in an odd sitting embrace, before Morrígan hands quickly dart around his neck, hugging him with all the force she can muster, forcing Celt to fall back onto the bed. She then begins assaulting his head with kiss after kiss.
Celt would love to return the affection, but unfortunately the softness of the bed reminds his body he’s running on minus energy.

“Baahaha” says Celt, letting out a noise halfway between pain and laughter. Finally Morrígan pauses, before taking Celt’s hand and drags him up once more. Trailing after her akin to something like drunken sailor, Morrígan leads Celt into the bathroom. Inside a warm bath has already been filled, and beside it two buckets of ice filled with beer bottles. At the head of the tub Morrígan has left two pillows. Morrígan sets Celt gently down on the tub’s edge, and without even asking begins undressing him. Celt doesn’t mind, if there was ever a time he could do with being nursed it was now.
Sliding his t-shirt up over his head, the true damage of tonight’s competition is revealed. Red scratches litter Celt’s skin, with dark bluely purple bruises standing out in contrast. Celt playfully rubs one of his nipples in mock-sexiness, making light of how un-attractive he looks currently. Morrígan smirks as she tosses the T-shirt to one side before slowly reaching down and in a rather sultry manner removes the champion’s prize, the Ultraviolent belt. Morrígan holds it up and admits it with a nod before placing it at the end of the tub, facing inwards.
After a tender pulls of his jeans and boxers, Celt finally alleviates the pain and slips into the warm, soothing embrace of the hot water. Gathering up the train of her dress, Morrígan sits at the edge of the tube, running her hand through Celt’s hair.

“I’m going to go” she says faintly, her voice sounding horse. As Morrígan rises to go Celt’s hand shoots out of the water and grabs her arm. She looks over her shoulder to shaking his head left to right.
“Just get in here you fool” says Celt. Instantly Morrígan looks overcome. She knew he’d need her tonight, but after their most recent of spats she didn’t know for how long.

Still holding onto her arm, Celt gently drags Morrígan (still dressed) in with him, right up to his face, with the very last ounce of strength he’s left in his body. Instantly the scarlet red of Morrígan’s dress turns dark maroon, but he doesn’t care, she’s a divine entity, she’ll figure something out later.

The two grip onto each other tighter than any grappling lockup, kissing all the while.

“I’m happy right now...I’m truly happy” smiles Celt up at Morrígan. At first the comment brings a smile to Morrígan face, but quickly tears start rolling down her cheers and her eyes become glassy.

Celt chuckles; “Oh Gods, of all the things to cry about, don’t cry about that!”

With mascara streaming down her face Morrígan cries out “You deserve this” in that high-pitch wail only women can achieve before breaking down into huh huh huhs.

“Oh...maybe, maybe” says Celt dreamily, wrapping his arms tightly around her.

“Maybe”.

Ladies and gentlemen, could I please borrow your time for a minute. I would like to address a rather developing question one that factors into every essence of today’s society.

Growth
What is it and how can we practically measure it on a fair and balanced platform.

To give a suitable root to this topic I would like to draw your attention to the growth cycle of a seed into a tree. In its original form of a seed we cannot measure its ability to grow or it’s unique DNA, therefore we must hold off judgment until we begin to see it take its future shape and begin to sprout upwards. But to draw inward of those first few days of the seed breaking open and rising up we so often label its direction or color on whether it will succeed in its created purpose. But like many specimens they truly show their potential of growth by how deep they grow their roots in its maturing state.

Now to draw back to the directive point of this topic, how can we measure growth?

Simply put, to grow you must first establish a place of origin to grow from, a fixed location where you can gain nutrition and sustenance to continue your purpose. Therefore many can grasp at physical locations as to where they can base their growth from, however rather than allow for a unique answer for each individual in summary we can conclude to the following statement:

Home is where the heart lies.

For the heart is the seed of growth itself, the conscience of our maturity and the purposeful direction of our rise, so by placing the heart within a home, we fix ourselves to determine where we are currently and to where we will now rise to.

Thus concluding this topic we must draw to our character in motion Leon Caprice, who as of late has relocated ‘Home’ numerous times. Yet in present time we must ponder over the sudden and unexpected destruction of the Asylum, as it gave the starling thought, that without a fixed location to call home, where did Leon’s heart lie?

Where was home for Leon Caprice?

The lights of the car dimmed with the key releasing from the ignition, the slowly dying engine ringing out in the silent night of The City. As he approached his destination Leon had seen the lights of the vehicles spread across the width of the premises of The Asylum Parking a block away had afforded him the luxury of at least being alone with his thoughts for a few minutes on his approach to the devastation ahead.

He had seen three men present. Two of familiar looks and one dressed in a formal police uniform. He knew something was amiss, but he senses couldn’t situate exactly what it was. Striding into view of the three men Leon soon discovered exactly what was wrong with the situation. As he rounded corner to come into view of where The Asylum once stood. There in its place laid the barren ash of lost memories and the faint wisp of breeze sifting through the accumulated rubble. Reaching the men in sight he eventually halted beside the three men as the conversation slowly came to an end as Leon finally arrived, with the police officer tipping his hat to both The Celt and Hannibal Frost as they looked ominously out towards the once memorable residence of SoA.

With Leon politely and silently greeting his fellow SoA members the severity of the situation slowly weighed in on his expression, falling from one of contentment and persistence to bewilderness and confusion. Little did he understand about the scenario before himself as it was only yesterday that he sat within the confinements of the former Asylum, a fact that he found a slight value of peace in.

As Leon continued to look over the rubble that used to be the SoA Clubhouse. Both Frost and Celt stood forward to bring a sense of deliberation to their current predicament. Although the features and tone of all three men were completely deadpan.

Leon: So what exactly happened to our Clubhouse?

Frost: Burnt down.

Leon: Ok…How?

Frost: Fire.

The short answers from the No.1 contender for the FMC was seen to be odd as the three men fell back into silence as they continued to look bemused while overseeing the damaged caused from the supposed fire.

Celt: So what’s next?

Leon: We rebuild.

Silence is the only response that Leon and Celt could squeeze out of their glances to Frost to encourage his input. No doubt that the following days and weeks would be trying for the Sons of Attrition, the ultimate requirement for them now was to remain unified.

Celt: Any idea’s where?

Leon: Well it’s about time we move out of The City, maybe a move to the country side.

A rather coy remark from Leon as he replied with a timid tone, still swallowing in all that remained before himself. Yet although his remarks would seem to drive the conversation further, it was Leon again who spoke up to fuel the discussion.

Leon: I can look around over the next couple of days for a suitable location, find something with plenty of room and a bit brighter then our former residence.

It was almost spoken too soon as all three men paused and swallowed deeply, giving a sense that no man wished to speak out and offer a reply to that comment. However Celt’s inquisitive attitude through this destruction gave Leon a basis to construct a narrower view as to what building would be suitable for the three, soon to be four men of the SoA.

Celt: Finally remove the stains of Havoc from our property, as long as Frost doesn’t invite his former buddies along to the open-house.

The cheap jab at Frost was only met with the cold, fixed expression plastered on Frost’s face as he barely flinched at Celt’s response. However the slight break in the conversation gave Leon the time to express his desires to find a new location.

Leon: Well I’ll get onto that straight away. No need to worry about costs, I’ll have that covered, just make sure you check the place out once I’ve put a deposit down. You ok with this Frost?

A slight nod was the most Hannibal could muster as he continued to act like a glass figurine beside Celt and Leon as they deliberated over the upcoming real-estate browsing.

Celt: So it’s settled then, well I’ll leave you to tend to that Leon, as I must be off now. Not many more days until Mt Vesuvius.

It was 3 days to be precise, the nerves were clearly playing on Celt more so than Frost with his Full Metal Championship shot or Leon with his defense and inclusion in Mt Vesuvius. However, each man responds in his own ways and for Celt that meant more training and less distractions. So with a generous nod and forced smile, Celt gradually left the men to continue to glance over the remains of The Asylum as both Hannibal and Leon slowly strode apart as they took steps atop the rubble of the premises.

It almost seemed like yesterday when Leon was entering The Asylum for the first time, casually brushing through the old rusted double doors which marked the entrance to the abandoned Asylum, steadily entering into the building and immediately coming to grips to the darkness within the building, as it intoxicated even the air within its boundaries. Yet today’s portrait of The Asylum was shattered as all that remained was the gigantic pile of grey concrete and bent metal before Leon as he steadily climbed through all that remained of the former Clubhouse.

In some ways it could have been said that the cloak of darkness that resided within the perimeter of The Asylum was gone, however it was evident from the skies above that the darkness still resided around Leon as the cloud’s controlled the morning sky above, limiting the rays of light from providing any assistance into the reason of The Asylum’s demise.

So it would have to be said and done that this was it. The last solid part of HavOc had now dissipated and along with it halting the maturing growth of SoA. However, SoA was not dead, nor beaten by these events. With the quiet expressions and voices of SoA seen today it was the inner sense of fortitude that made the future of SoA something not to be questioned. For great things were about to happen to the Sons of Attrition. A possible world champion, a possible ultraviolent champion and a current abandoned champion.

Gold was on the cards.

As Leon continued to spread his sight over what remained of the former Clubhouse he eventually recollected his bearing to stop above where his study once stood. Slowly lowering himself to squat beside the pile of ash and scraps that remained he caught a glimpse of a familiar object. There piled beneath a mound of ash lay the mysterious journal he had found not long ago. Lifting it gently from its residing location as the ash atop the cover slowly drifted into the light breeze that past, Leon carefully opened the pages of the journal to see the condition of its character. Evident of fire damage from the blacken corners of the hard back Leon withdrew in a light astonishment as the internal state of the journal seemed barely touched. As there for all eyes to see remained the readable text of Phil Barthers. However in gently closing the now fragile journal, Leon gave a slight curious expression as there in the middle of the front cover was the etchings of a multitude of numbers filled with the white ash making them visible, however like what was found within the pages, it was all of one number, yet this time it was constructed to a date and time.

11:11 - 11/11/11

Leon continued to display a withdrawn expression as he stared in awe of the occurrence before himself. Trying to reason through why he didn’t see the carvings on the first time he came across the book. But with its dark covers and with the ash from the fires that roared through the Clubhouse, it was now clear as day. However its purpose still remained a mystery, only when Leon would find time to read the next log would he discover more about the books origin.

Standing up with the lightly crisped journal firm in his grasp Leon stood still once more and gazed out to his surrounding. There past the rubble was The City’s police department taping the area off to civilians, however the only other citizen that had a right to stand within the tape was nowhere to be seen now. With a few more moments to look over the remains of The Asylum and across the road his sight finally resided on the back of the gradually exiting Hannibal Frost, to whom still had a sense of greater knowledge to what really happened. However as a stable member, no-a good friend, Leon wouldn’t push the subject any further. It wouldn’t change the past nor give any satisfaction to Leon in what he was currently feeling. Yet it did paint one thought in Leon’s mind. That if Frost couldn’t trust Leon and Celt with the truth behind what happened to The Asylum, what else was he hiding?

With a pause behind that though we slowly fade to black with Leon still remaining within the boundaries of the fallen Asylum, grasping the strange book with both hands as he continued to stare into the cover of the book. Crafting ideas in his head as to what it could mean. That alone created a sense of anxiousness within Leon, but it wasn’t the time or the place. For now it was time to move forward to Mount Vesuvius and to finding a new Clubhouse for the Sons of Attrition.

The final image before darkness envelops the scene is the thoughtful face of Leon Caprice lifting his gaze to once again stare out to his surroundings, almost lost amongst the devastation and carnage.


Have you ever thought about the constant battles we have within ourselves about the decisions we have to make or the activities or events we must sacrifice in our efforts to do what we think is to the higher priority.

Economists have labeled this track of events as the Opportunity Cost equation. That for each event we do, we sacrifice our time that could be with friends or working hard to earn more money. Each point is added to the Opportunity Cost which should give us the clearest and fairest vision of what is best for our lives right now.

Yet to give an example of this equation I give you Leon Caprice. A man who is not only confused in thought for the majority of time, but is currently balancing one of the hardest OC equations of his career, let alone his future.

To be a Father or to be a Wrestler
To be with Sarah and Joy or to be with the Sons of Attrition
To live at home or to live at the Clubhouse
To be surrounded by Love or to be surrounded by Fame

There has been no decision made by Leon yet, however this does paint a rather strong picture of his current predicament. That although he is a man of God and a father to his lovely daughter Joy, he is still just a man.

So what is the ultimate cost for Leon Caprice?
What must give way?
Stay tuned.

Leon: I’ll take it then.

It had been days since the decimation of The Asylum and yet the Sons of Attrition still were without a new Clubhouse. However we enter the scene to the confident and enthused words of Leon Caprice as he stood beside a man of great stature clothed in a sharp black suit and tie who additionally wore a badge atop his right jacket sleeve which read LJ Hooker - Barry. Held tightly in the sharp dressed man’s grasp was a House deed, to which the property beyond them would no doubt belong too.

For there beyond Leon and the presumed real estate agent stood a magnificent structure, standing at a minimum three stories high and was neatly designed with a sturdy cream limestone outer walling. The walls we adorn with high rectangular windows which reached the probable high of an average man, yet the greatest feature of this beloved mansion was the shear size and quality of it’s architect, detailing the building by itself to be well over the millions of dollars . However the building in it’s entirety wasn’t all that Leon was purchasing, for around the building on the premises that Leon was agreeing to purchase laid an 18 hole golf course, a hobby that Leon would no doubt get into if he purchased the land and building. Finally though was the long and cream gravel driveway and huge parking bay, giving the building a sophisticated appeal even from a far distance.

Barry: Well if you’d like to come inside we can finalize the details and transfer the deed over to your name.

It was all becoming official. This building which was truly beyond human words was about to be declared under Leon’s name. Now for an average man, the thought of purchasing this premise would have been a myth, as no average wage, nor could even a wrestler’s wage afford this property, however Leon wasn’t an average man. For it was only just six months ago when Leon bailed out as CEO of Entellect Resources Ltd for the final disbursement of all of his investments which had risen by 250% from their original purchase price, which gave Leon more than enough financial comfort to afford such a location.

With a few steps between the hurrying estate agent and the generously excited Leon Caprice it allowed for the agent to provide the gentlemen’s act of opening one side of the double glass doors to usher Leon into the main entranceway of the soon to be Country Clubhouse.

There within the brightly lit room, justified by the sharp angling of the sun as it pierced the light orange tiles that floored the wide open entranceway as the glass door slowly slip shut behind Barry, which directly lowered the room’s brightness but by a non-consequential amount, as above both men was the largest, diamond embedded chandelier that Leon had ever laid eyes upon. The chandelier oversaw the entire front portion of the clubhouse as it lifted the opinion that the inside may be as fantastic as the outside.

Still following Barry’s strides further into the depth of the new clubhouse they finally came to rest beside a rather large oiled jarrah table. There within the depths of the mansion Leon signed the deed and became the owner of a little slice of heaven.

Barry: No hesitation I see.

The remark was almost off character for Leon as he tried to make a sensible response that wasn’t seen to be arrogant.

Leon: No need to, I know what I wanted and this was it.

Barry: But you didn’t even look at the price tag, how do you know you can afford it.

Leon gave a small chuckle at the curious questions from Barry, as it almost seemed to catch the property agent off guard as it could only be said that he knew the value of the mansion and premises and the last thing his commission needed was a fall-through deal.

Leon: I have the money for it, just don’t worry about it. You’ll get your slice of profit from this.

And wouldn’t it be a slice of profit. With a property in the millions, the commission for the estate agent would have to be in the thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. Aiding by the confidence and excitement of Leon, the estate agent finally relaxed and began to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Leon: So tell me again, what are the specifications of this house.

Barry: 12 bedrooms, 7 bathrooms, 6 study’s, 2 kitchens, a range of spare rooms for mixed activities and a sauna, coupled with the 3 balconies looking out over the golf course, which of course is now your property as well.

Leon: Figured as much.

In hearing the specifications of the house it was an overabundance of what was really required by the men that would now reside within. Yet as was the popular opinion, it is always better to over-compensate then to under-compensate. As Barry finalized the documents and handed over the official deed to Leon the two men were interrupted by the sudden noise and vibrations of Leon’s phone. With a quick glance over to Barry to signal for his privacy, Leon took the call.

Leon: Hello, you’re with Leon.

Sarah: Hey stud.

Leon: Sarah! How are you my love?

The revelation that it was his wife gave a mixed expression to Leon as not only was it bad timing, but also unexpected and somewhat undesired. For how was he meant to explain to his loving wife that he just spent a large sum of money on acquiring a mansion.

Sarah: I’m doing fine, I was just wanting to know where you were. We had our lunch date remember?

Leon: Oh darling I forgot, can we reschedule it?

The reply wasn’t a complete lie as Leon has been consumed in finding the right place to become the new base of operations for SoA, however was it now time to face reality.

Sarah: Well what are you doing now, do you want me to meet up with you?

Leon: Ahh that wouldn’t work honey, I’m at a photo shoot.

Sarah: Oh I would love to see you there, wher-

Leon: I’m quite busy at the moment though, how about I do you the pleasure of cooking you dinner Friday night. Whip up some teriyaki chicken for you…

The lying had begun as Leon almost hesitantly promised to cook dinner tonight for his wife. A promise he would only hope to remember and keep.

Sarah: Ok then, I don’t want to get in the way of hard work, although I would love to see you strike a pose.

The humor was coating Sarah’s words as she tried to take the rejection of lunch.

Leon: Well you wont get to see me strike the pose, but no doubt you’ll see the images online.

Sarah: Mmhmm, and I’ll show them to Joy for her to call out daddy too, might even make her giggle.

Leon: Well that’s not fair.

By this time the call had been going for quite some time, a factor that Leon needed to attend to in order to keep up the appearance of being busy. Although he did soften to the teasing of his wife, something that drew the most sincere emotions out of him, hope, love and joy.

Sarah: Well that’s the cost of being famous, you have to put up with your child’s giggling at you.

Leon: Definitely a tough price to pay, anyway I better get back to work. I’ll see you soon.

Sarah: I’ll see you soon. I love you…

Leon: And I love you too sweetie. Bye…

And with that final remark Leon dropped the phone from his ear and gently pressed the end call button while also trying to find the location of the agent to flag him back into the room. Eventually Leon realised that Barry had taken a short walk outside the boundaries of The Mansion’s walls as Leon slowly stepped through the doorway of The Mansion and out to the parking area surrounding the gigantic building. Yet looking directly out from The Mansion it was a sight to take your breath away, as there before Leon was the cream driveway flowing onto the main road, accompanied by the greenest grass and healthiest maple trees beside the driveway as it kept its straight line.

Leon: Was there anything left to discuss Barry?

By now Leon had tracked down the rather exultant agent as he pondered around his car as he seemingly wanted to race off, no doubt to file the contract agreement and finalize the payments from his side of the agreement.

Barry: No I think we were pretty much done for today. I’ll be sending through some payment details this afternoon if you could respond to them as soon as possible just so there is no hiccups through this.

Leon: You’ll find no problems at my end, anyway thank you for meeting me out here today on such short notice.

Barry: You’re welcome. To be honest with you though, we’ve wanted to sell this house for a long while now, so it’s fantastic to have it off our portfolio. So enjoy the luxury.

Leon: I surely will, thanks again.

And with that, Barry, the real estate agent made his final steps towards his car and gradually entered into the driver’s seat. Following in suit was Leon as he was not far behind Barry in entering his own vehicle, a Bugatti Veyron EB 16.4. Soon all that would be heard is the roaring 16 cylinders of the engine as it slowly reversed before taking off at a pace close to 200 km p/hr up the driveway, leaving a mist of cream dust lifting from the driveway and the maple trees swaying from the strength of the gust that just blew past.

The scene closes with the slow pan back to The Mansion as the front door slowly closed by its own weight, leaving the building to be a daunting sight, yet something that would bring its new tenants a whole world of joy.

Celt’s Title Victory wrote:

Flare: The match is still going, it's all legal! Ultraviolent, remember! Celt turns to haul Jack to his feet....! Is it....? YES! Jack Eastwood is about to experience the.... ETERNAL DRIVER!!

Boice: What sickening impact! There's the cover, Omega is being loaded onto a stretcher here in front of us by the EMT's....

One!

Two!

Three!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Boice: It's over... thank god its all over!!

Flare: Celt wins! Celt WINS! CELT WINS!! He is the champion!! WHAT a match!

Veronica Cherrywood: And here is your winner, and NNEEEEEWWWWW ULTRAVIOLENT CHAMPION…THE CELT!!!!

Hannibal’s Title Victory wrote:

Boice: HANNIBAL WITH THE OFFENSIVE! RED LABEL ENZUGIRI!

Flare: NO! PLEASE NOT LIKE THIS!

Boice: HANNIBAL KICKS THE NIGHTSTICK FROM THE RING! HE PULLS THE REF CLOSE TO A MOTIONLESS TYRANT! HANNIBAL WITH THE PIN!

Flare: UNBELIEVEABLE! THIS IS A NIGHTMARE! THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE!

Boice: ONE!

Flare: NO!

Boice: TWO!

Flare: GET UP TYRANT!

Boice: THREE!

Announcer: HERE IS YOUR WINNER AND NEEEEEEEW FULL METAL CHAMPION! HAAAAAAANNIBAAAAAL FROOOOOOOOOOOOOOST!

Hannibal Frost (4.1 aps + 1.9 avs = 6 total)
TyranT (4.37 aps + 0.9 avs = 5.27 total)

Dead or Alive explodes through the PA, just barely covering the roar of the crowd as new Ultraviolent Champion The Celt and Leon Caprice rush out down the ramp and into the ring, grabbing hold of Hannibal and hoisting him up, setting him up against the ropes and hugging him.

DGS’s SoA Alignment wrote:

Sound: …So you’re saying DGS is also GSW?

Boice: It looks like it! GSW’s dominance continues tonight, it seems!

DGS pauses, and grins, smiling confidently at Leviticus. He turns towards Leon, whose back is facing the edge of the cell, and takes a step… but then turns to Leviticus and socks him with a right!

Boice: WAIT! NO! DGS IS NOT GSW!

Sound: What the hell is going on in here?

Boice: DGS pulls Leon up to his feet!

Leon and DGS shake hands.

Boice: It seems that DGS has joined the Sons of Attrition! This is what he was alluding to earlier all along, not GSW!

Leon’s Title Defeat wrote:

Boice: APOSTASY HOISTS LEON TO HIS SHOULDERS! HE FLIES OFF! TOP ROPE BURNING HAMMER!

Flare: The champion is dead. He has to be.

Boice: APOSTASY WITH THE PIN! ONE! TWO! THREE!

Sheila Blige: HERE IS YOUR WINNER AND NEEEEEEEW FMW ABANDONED CHAMPION! AAAAAAAPOSTASY!

[b]Boice: HE’S DONE IT!

The after-party was fierce for the recently crowned Full Metal Champion, as Hannibal Frost, sporting a beaut knock to his jaw could be seen dancing away, accompanied by two blondes who eyed the champion as if he was their next fix of cocaine. Both females were laying hands upon the champion and caressing his rather softened body in ways that could only suggest one answer to their current intent. Yet a reasonable excuse to all of the current antics was the bottle of Jack Daniels that resided in the palm of Hannibal Frost. Clearly enjoying himself and soaking in the victory of a few hours ago, he would declare his after-party to be the christening event for The Mansion as SoA’s new clubhouse.

Yet looking around the rather large lounge room, it was obvious that they weren’t alone, as all four members of SoA sought to celebrate within the walls of The Mansion, even DGS after his recent allegiance to the Son’s of Attrition could be seen enjoying himself, nestled tightly beside his gorgeous wife on the cream leather couch with a bottle of throthing beer within his right hand. Though it must be said that the room had more than a dozen people within it, and none other than the members of SoA were from the show, so who were they and who invited them into The Mansion?

Although decent questions they were irrelevant as most guests of the night seemed to be enjoying themselves. Even Celt, stuck in the room’s confinements within eyesight of the former HavOc member in Frost was still enjoying himself, alas more relaxed as he rested his body carelessly in a white leather armchair in the corner of the wood adorn room with his recent acquisition of the UV title firmly placed over his lap as he diverted more time and sight to the golden belt than the activity within the room.

As “Like a G6” by Far East Movement roared over the in-room surround sound, the level of intensity on the dance floor from the patrons of SoA began to grow, led by Hannibal who would be seen jumping up and down in the center of the gradually forming moshpit.

Although the atmosphere was one of ascendancy and enthusiasm, there was one man who simply by the expression on his face was numb to the celebration. And even though he looked onward at the careless crowd dancing the night away he couldn’t help but feel inadequate to the celebration party, as here he was post-Mount Vesuvius, stripped of his title and consumed in defeat. A simply expression of disappointment was all that washed over his face and body as his posture gave evidence to that fact.

Yet there was so much for him to be grateful and pleased for, a recent addition to his portfolio, a band of friends to rely on for his foreseeable career in FMW, a loving wife and daughter that adored him, and a God that would never forsake him. In truth how could he look past those strings of his life, how could he become consumed in this depression when he still had so much going for himself. It truthfully seemed like a waste of time dwelling over it.

As the party continued through the night, Leon would seek refuge away from the partially gloating Hannibal who by now was, for a lack of proper works “wasted”. His words were slurred and his control for his actions were well past gone. Yet it was in this mood that he approached Leon and lifted the golden piece of achievement to blind Leon’s sight to nothing but the title before himself. It was an underhand action, but with Frost’s better judgment polluted with the stains of alcohol, how was he to know any better.

Frost: Why Leon, have yer seen this shinny thing before. It’s big and bright ain’t it.

The words almost seemed tasteless as they rolled off of Frost’s tongue, as he staggered to hold the belt high and keep his footing at the same time, a balancing act he was clearly failing at. Clearly seeking to be removed from his current position, Leon forced a smile to his lips and nodded gently before slowly backing up and turning his back to Frost and the guests of The Mansion to find quieter grounds within the enormous building.

Frost: Oh yee wanna go to bed, nighty night Captn Rice.

An amusing final comment from the current Full Metal Champion, however Leon did not see it to be so, instead it just added to the weight of defeat that he was enduring. Here was all of SoA carrying their title’s over their shoulders and being proud champions, yet at the first defense, at the first challenge to his reign, Leon faulted. A moment he wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon.

Continuing further into the grounds of The Mansion, Leon steadily made his way up the finely crafted white marble staircase and down the well adorn hallway to his quarters of The Mansion. With a few more turns and twists in the upper story hallways Leon casually grasps the fine brass tip of the wooden door in front of him and with a slight turn and pull the latch holding the door in place slips out and tilts the door open. With a moment to assess the room in which he was entering, he gave a small exhale before stepping into his private study.

The room itself was decorated much like you would expect a lawyer or an accountant to style the room. Deeply browned wood on both the bookcases and desk as well as the floorboards below. The varnish on the wooded surfaces glowed in the light of the brass chandelier above as with the passing through the door Leon reached for the switch and flicked it downwards. Continuing in his movement Leon progressively made his way around the dark jarrah table and came to rest upon the black leather chair that sat behind the table.

Within minutes of relaxing into the chair and dwelling on the night’s events, Leon was already nursing a whisky and looking out of the large study window, seemingly reflecting on what it’ll be like regain his title or reputation within FMW. And with Jaro’s announcement he would have to play they’re games. And although Leon could realize with a sour and obvious thought that he finally achieved the status of Abandoned champion after numerous attempts, and that was great, but now he would have to start from ground zero once more. No one would give him any favors, as title shots in FMW were something to be desired by almost every wrestler. But by now Leon would know the system inside and out. He could see the competition to beat, the chances to take, and the kings to overthrown and the pawns to be generous too. Truly the strategy would be similar to the movement of chess pieces, pawns on short leashes, knights who think they are above the straight paths and queens who think they can do anything. But who is being manipulated and who is pulling the strings. The business is a lot more complicated than we may believe, and it was now time for Leon to figure it all out again. As the gauntlet was laid down, to win three matches in a row to achieve a title shot, to regain what he had lost, to renew his image and improve his legacy. Yet, the factions were becoming horrid of late, gangs that alienate or destroy anything that refuse to be on-side, even those who profess to be doing it out of a sense of righteousness. It was a relief to find himself beside the likes of SoA, for being a loner in today’s competition would be a dirty fight all the way. But either way the thought of having to make up lost ground was not a thrilling prospect.

The consuming thoughts continued to plague Leon as he would lift the glass of golden relief to his lips and taste the numbing feeling that would begin to flow through him. It was one way to relax himself, however it would be one way to relax his body, but if only his mind would correspond.

With a few more sips to dilute the severity of his stress through tonight’s events, Leon would slowly grasp the hilt of the desk draw beside himself and gradually pull it outwards, bringing to light the journal that he had recovered earlier in the week to now reside in the rays of light emitting from the chandelier above. With only a slight moment to pause, he gently reached into the draw and grasped the severely fragile journal, lifting it out of the confinements of the draw to come to rest before himself atop the desk in front of him. With the final sips of the glass of whiskey now streaming past his lips, Leon would lower the glass and push it to the far corner of the desk, allowing his complete attention to remain on the journal before him. It was only then that Leon gently and carefully lifted to cover of the darkened journal to reveal what text lay in the 2nd page of the journal of Phil Barthers.

Here lies the second entry of Phil Barthers Journal.

11:11 11/11/11 The numbers have formed into a date in my vision. I have no idea what they are linked too, however the date is yet to pass. I shall continue to dwell on these numbers and bring more light to its answers. But the positive so far is that I have just over a year to find out what they mean, hopefully I will possess the answer when the clock strikes eleven.

After gradually reading the second entry, Leon would carefully close the cover of the book and rest back into the leather chair, shifting his tired gaze from the marked cover of the journal to the brightness of the chandelier. The light shining directly into his pupils provided somewhat of a blind spot to where his eyes would lead to which drew his mind’s thought to a sudden stop as it tried to reset its visual.

However although it gave a relaxing clarity to the endless thoughts that resounded from tonight’s events there was one thought that came through so strongly it immediately became a vocal point.

Leon: Shit…Dinner with Sarah.

And as evident as his words were, it seemed that although his heart pounded away in love for Sarah, his mind would control his actions and currently it was consumed in renewing his reputation and legacy.

The scene would come to a slow fade with Leon pushing himself forward towards the desk and resting both his elbows on top of it, allowing his head to rest in his palms as he closed his eyes and wished to be with his wife as he promised.


I wait in the locker room ignoring the waves of nostalgia assaulting all of my senses. I’m back where I belong, waiting for the first challenge, I’m anticipating that it’s an effort to keep a maniacs grin from spreading. I lean over a wash basin and splash my face with cold water, watching in the scratched mirror as the water etches the contours of my face and the cobalt hard blue of my eyes focus. I see resolve there, I see a man who has become lost in recent times, a man whose wanting to regain a sense of purpose. I see the ghosts of past friends and enemies both, just over my shoulder waiting to see how far I get. This is it. My moment, my come back to the Main Event. I can do this.

The arena is just beyond those double doors I can see in my peripheral vision, the ones I’m not yet looking towards, not just yet. Beyond is my second opportunity, the ramp, the ring, the fans, the noise, the blood, the pain, and the chance. There are others here in the locker room with me too, also preparing. I don’t see them, not really. My attention is completely turned inward, all else is shadows and distraction. Even If I win tonight, another awaits and that prospect fills me with nothing but, joy. A bigger challenge, a harder fight, more opponents, the old fire is definitely rekindling. I can do this.

I run fingers over my knuckles feeling the scars and pits there. Yes my move list is bigger than it used to be, but my fists have gotten me through a lot. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it. Hitting the high flying risky moves has gotten me through many a match. So I’ll stick to that as my old and reliable tactic. Professionals may manage to stay detached and impassionate about getting punched in the face, me, I aim to give as good as I get; and then some. I make it personal, ride the rage and will to strike back all the way up to victory. I think a drive like that is important, it might just be the edge I need to push myself through the matches that lead to victory. I crack the knuckles hearing the satisfying crunch from the bones underneath the scarred, rough skin. I know there is men out there now that believe they have the edge over me, that they have beaten me once so they can do it again, but I am growing and reaching a higher level of potential and it’s about the will to keep fighting… we’ll see it I have what it takes shortly I guess. No, I can do this.

I hear the crowd shouting outside and smile, encouragingly I even hear some shouts of my own name; it’s nice to be chanted. I sigh, run a hand through my hair… and stand. I will do this. I have too many people reliant on me to do this to fail now. LORD give me strength.

It is the night after Mount Vesuvius and we are still in Rome.

Caesar hasn't been medically cleared to leave yet after the Mount Vesuvius match, but that wouldn't stop him if this was any place else. He seems more festive and at home here.

He failed again, tripping up in his first match back in months. But on the other hand, it was a good step forward. I just hope he realizes that his next assignment will be against Christian G Smitten, a former FMW World Champion.

My gut tells me that Caesar will under estimate him. As he is keen to do. I just wonder what...

Mercury turns the page to continue writing in his journal, only to see a crude drawing of what appears to be himself in a weird position with a horse. Mercury looks menacingly at Caesar, who is in a drunken sleep after another night of revelry. Mercury continues his chronicle...

I wonder what power will cause Caesar to finally focus? How is this man a former great general if he acts like this? I sometimes wonder what is going on in that head of his?

Mercury closes his journal and gets out of his chair. He walks out of the hotel room, going for a nice walk. He notices Caesar stirring, and at first is genuinely concerned. Than he recalls the last time Caesar stirred in his sleep. Mercury, being the kind hearted soul that he was went to see if his master was okay, only for Mercury to wake up the next morning with a massive headache courtesy of a shot from a mace and hanging naked from a hotel balcony naked in New York City. Mercury's heart hardens and he walks out into the night, ignoring his master's troubled sleep.


Mercury: Maybe it is all the liquor? Or that Absinthe that he has had since we landed in Europe?

It was actually a whole vat of wine and lots of hookers, but let us not split hairs here. Caesar is laying in bed and is troubled in his dreams. It is not alcohol, drugs, a dream of Mercury as master, or a world where sexual orgies that would make Hugh Hefner raise a glass in tribute are illegal. Something is haunting Caesar, calling for revenge.

Caesar awakens in a dark, ominous forest strewn with dead bodies and broken weapons. A dense fog covers the air, making the trees barely visible to the Last Imperator. Caesar slowly walks, looking for some sign of where he is or what he is doing there. After walking a good fifty feet and crashing face first into three trees, Caesar grabs a pilum and uses it as a walking stick to help him navigate through the dense fog. As he continues to walk through the forest, he starts to hear a terrifying, quiet voice in the distance. Caesar turns his head, looking to see if someone is following him, to no avail.

????: You thought this was over, didn't you?


Caesar tries to ignore the voice, trying to think of the many times he had placed Mercury in an embarrassing situation, like the time when he made a mountain lion chase him when he was training Mercury to face Guiomar's tiresome servant, Servente. Caesar starts to laugh at his rigorous “Caesar's How to Become a Man” Training Session when the voice pierces the silence and his thoughts again.


????: You figured that you had me locked out and destroyed, didn't you? Tell me something, oh Caesar? Why have you been losing you mind over the last year and a half? Why can't you gain a true grip of reality, even though you know that your true self was always in control when in battle? A battle like this! You remember this field don't you?

Caesar: Who are you, fiend? Show yourself! Why cower like an Egyptian whore?

????: I believe you are the one cowering, Caesar! Do you recognize this field?

Caesar: Why should I answer this? Even if I wanted to answer this, I can't see anything in front of...


Before Caesar can finish his sentence, the darkness and fog dissipate and gives Caesar a glance of the grounds. It was on the grounds of Gaul, where he had one of his last great moments as a General in Rome. And it was the place where he shared one of his last moments with Marcus Aurelius before he passed away.


Caesar: So what if I know this place? Show yourself, I said! You don't want to know what happens if I find you! You will be wishing my lion would have maimed you once I am done with you!

????: Your idle threats are nothing here, Caesar! I brought you to the scene of your last great triumph. Fitting because when I am done with you, it will be the only good memory that you will have when you die!

Caesar: You can't kill me! I have my bodyguards!

????: Ah yes, your bodyguards! One who you constantly abuse and the other who you have yet to help fulfill his quest!

Caesar: Then you don't have the pedigree to kill me!

????: Who said I needed pedigree to kill you? Look behind you Caesar!


As Caesar turns around, a man covered in a cloak jabs him in the gut with a staff, than smacks him in the face, knocking Caesar down. Caesar tries to get up, but is kicked by the clocked man. Caesar stirs, only to feel the sharp pain of a sword stabbing his shoulder and impaling him into the ground. Caesar cries out in agony over the pain from the wound. It is the same shoulder that King Guiomar stabbed a few years ago. He looks at the blade, noticing it is the same blade that Guiomar used on him.

Caesar: It can't be you, Guiomar, you cowardly pleb! Even in a dream, it can't be you!

????: You disappoint me Caesar, you really do. Guiomar wasn't the first person you wronged. Did you not forget who you deceived to gain your consciousness in the modern day? Did you think you got rid of me forever?

Caesar: There is no way possible...


The dark figure removes his clock and shows himself to Caesar. Caesar's face his filled with horror as he sees it is not Guiomar, but Manny Gallego, Mass Chaos, who's body and spirit Caesar had stolen many years ago.

Chaos: As I was saying, Caesar. This is a dream unfortunately. But you will continue to suffer as long as I am still in your consciousness! Not physical pain like this puncture wound. But a mental anguish that will drive you to a sense of insanity that will drive you to destroy your mind! And when you mind is finally destroyed, I will reclaim my soul, my life, from you!

Caesar: I will not...

Chaos: You are too late, Caesar! Why do you think you have gotten more and more insane since you lost the Television title? Why does a man of your glorious past, a man who cursed the name of men like Nero and Caligula, act as they did? You have your dark magic, Caesar. I found mine!

Caesar: What if I should kill this body?

Chaos: You won't do that. You enjoy the thrill of life and your code doesn't allow for suicide. Let's just say I have nothing to lose. And it is a risk I am willing to take.


Chaos grabs a spear and jabs it in the other shoulder of Caesar, further pinning him to the ground. Caesar is about to black out from the pain. Chaos goes to the ground and whispers into Caesar's ear.


Chaos: The two of us can not co exist. I was willing to help you and you fucked me! You fucked me and stole my life from me, my career! The hells I have planned for you, the torment I will wreck in your brain, will make the madness of Napoleon, King George of England, and your forebearers Caligula and Nero look like a summer holiday! Until our next encounter. Hail Caesar!




Caesar wakes up with a load yell, drenched in sweat from the horrific nightmare. He checks his shoulder that bears the scar Guiomar inflicted upon him, seeing that he is not wounded. He looks around his room and fears to be alone, a sensation that has never befallen Caesar. Caesar walks to the balcony of the hotel to get some fresh air and clear his mind.


Caesar: What can I do to stop this? Why am I like this? All that I have been doing is not the true me. Is it?


Caesar looks out in the skyline and notices a familiar sight to him. And he knows a certain mentor of his has his urn resting in that particular building. Caesar grabs a shirt and some of those jeans that Mercury keeps whining to him about putting on in public and makes his way for his destination: Castel Sant'Angelo. As Caesar walks outside, Judas de Dios runs to catch up.


Judas: Where are you going, my lord?

Caesar: To the Castel Sant'Angelo, Judas.

Judas: The former fortress of the Holy Popes?

Caesar: Popes? When did some pockey Christians besmirch the resting place of my mentor and emperor?

Judas: Ah...yes. It served as the resting place of the Emperors after Hadrian as well as used as a fort by the pope.

Caesar: Damned Chris...No matter. I must go. Accompany me if you wish, just keep up! Excuse me, you there? What is the quickest way to the Castel Sant'Angelo?


The young man turns around, causing Judas to have a look of shock. The young man gives back an equal look of shock to Caesar and walks off. Judas goes to follow him, but Caesar grabs him viciously...okay, Caesar steps in front of him to stop him.


Caesar: What a rude bastard! I hope someone throws a limestone rock on his head. Come Judas! His rudeness doesn't concern me, though I thank you for being so kind as to break such a rude person's neck for disrespecting me.

Judas: It wasn't that, Sire.

Caesar: Than what else could possible get you so indignant if it isn't the disrespect to your master?

Judas: That is the man that I have been searching for. The man that left me in the wilderness! That was Craig Christ! I know it was!

Caesar: Craig...Christ? Only Craig I have seen is some bloke named Craig Ryans. Haven't met him personally, but I doubt he is as rude as that fellow who wouldn't give us directions.

Judas: They are one and...

Caesar: Come now, Judas! We are wasting time. We must break in to the Castel Sant'Angelo! I have a great plan on how to get in.




Caesar and Judas are inside the Castel Sant'Angelo, having subdued the guards after three failed attempts from Caesar's “great plan.”


Judas: Mercury told you, sire, that saying you where the pope was not going to get us in. Especially the crude way you decided to dress.

Caesar: What? Didn't your popes where revealing clothing and eat Jewish Children for breakfast?

Judas: Except for rumors of the current one, Pope Benedict, no pope has dressed like that.

Caesar: Oh well. Those guards won't be sitting on chairs or having fun with their whores or wives or whorish wives anytime soon.

Judas: I understand knocking them unconscious, but was it really necessary to do that...thing you did to them with the pineapple?

Caesar: It was not necessary but was needed for one important thing.

Judas: What was that important thing?

Caesar: Giving me something to laugh about!


Judas groans at the raunchy humor of his master, understanding more and more why Mercury always is in a foul mood. Both men walk around the museum, trying to locate the urn of Marcus Aurelius.


Caesar: Judas, go pray to your popes or something. I must go into the area where Aurelius' ashes lay in private.

Judas: Yes, sire.


Judas walks off as Caesar walks closer to the area where his mentor's remains are held. Caesar is calm and composed, almost as if his mind is clear and the madness is momentarily gone.


Caesar: What is wrong with me? Why is a general of my stature acting like a fool? What can I do to rid myself of this madness that befalls me?


????: Go to the one that offers you a chance to redeem yourself. Channel your madness against your adversaries instead of against your servants. Defeat this Smitten, and any other that stands in your way. My boy, I saw you rise from a child to one of my trusted commanders.

Caesar quivers at the familiar sound of the voice. He turns and sees the spirit of Marcus Aurelius appear before him.

Caesar: Am I dreaming?

Aurelius: Of course you are dreaming, you dolt! Ghost are about as real as that myth that Christians took over the world...they took over didn't they?

Caesar: Yes, master.

Aurelius: Anyway, the point of this little day dream of yours was to get you back on track. You have been slipping and this madness is consuming you. You will have to decide how to deal with it. Will you allow the one who torments you to cause you pain and agony? Will you find a way to destroy him forever? Or will you hold up your end of the deal that you made with him long ago? One body, your combined experiences together. Whatever you decide, you must do it soon. And please start controlling your actions? Really, I expected this kind of behavior from Commodus, not you! Anway, I must be off. The next shift of guards are five minutes away and I doubt they will be happy seeing their friends with pineapples in their rectums! You had to use the legionary punishment for back talk didn't you?

Caesar: What can I say...

Aurelius: That you will stop acting the buffoon and start acting like the man I know! Until we see each other again, my boy.


Caesar snaps out of his trance and hears Judas running toward him. Caesar grabs the urn and takes it with him. Both men run out of through a tunnel that Judas had found in the lower chambers that suspiciously lead to a house a block from their hotel. After a long journey in the tunnels and having to persuade the people in the house where the tunnel is finished that they are Priest on a mission from God, Judas and Caesar walk toward the hotel.


Judas: What shall you do my lord?

Caesar: Prepare for Smitten. Maybe by actually concentrating instead of acting the fool will yield results that will benefit all of us? Maybe I will find this one that gave me this card before Mount Vesvius? Maybe he is the one that will help me solve this riddle of what to do inside my head?

Judas: And what of me?

Caesar: I know you want to go after that Craig Christ or Ryans character, young Judas. But I will be needing you. I will need your aide in breaking this madness. Will you help me? When it happens, I will allow you to find your answers from this man. I swear on Aurelius, my mentor.

Judas: I don't know why, but I will take your word.

Caesar: Thank you. Now, let us get something to eat...what do you think you are doing you big oaf? What is the meaning of dumping water near our feet? Judas, stay here! You sir will learn respect of your betters!

Judas sighs as Caesar throws the street cleaner through a plate glass window with the ferocity of Charles Barkley. Caesar sees the man's prosthetic arm falls off. Caesar grabs it and proceeds to use it to beat the man some more.

Judas: He has a lot of work to do to improve that temper of his. A lot of work.

The difference between complete self control and out of control madness is very small. When we think we are losing our minds, we have the capacity to strengthen ourselves and fight back. When we believe we are in control, we are actually the puppet on the strings for someone's amusement.

I don't know what the future holds for me right now. This madness actually puts fear in my heart. Chaos...returning in my mind scares me. I thought I was rid of him and his memory!

I guess I must take out all the abuses from my mind messing with me on this Smitten character. No, he is not a character! Stop it! The man is a former FMW World Champion and has been a major power broker in this FMW. This is not a man to underestimate!

See. I am making a little progress. Of course I am confident in victory. Any true Roman is confident in his abilities. Yet a good general, something I haven't been in a long time, never underestimates his opponent. Especially one as dangerous and decorated as this man.

Time to gird my sword and go to battle,

Time to see where this road takes me.

Time for the first step in curing my madness, my disease! And you are the first stop in my path, Smitten.

The Die has been cast. My future is in my hands. What will I do with it?

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX


Sorry to those who didn't show, but I can't wait any longer as I don't forsee myself being near a computer anytime before Voting ends.

Back when Seth Rotunda was a mere six year old……

We go to an old terraced house in Birchgrove, Swansea, home of Seth Rotunda and his single mother. We zoom into the house, up the stairs, go down the landing and into a children’s bedroom. Sat on his bed, in a foetal position, crying his little heart out, is Seth Rotunda. The young Rotunda turns to face his wall and swings a punch at the wall, unfortunately, the wall is stronger than the punch and Rotunda howls in pain.
The door of Seth Rotunda’s bedroom opens and in steps his mum, a thirty-five year old single mother. Seth’s mother is about to tell him something that will change Seth’s life for either the better or worse, it depends how you look at it.

Miss Rotunda: Seth?

Miss Rotunda sits on the bed and puts her arm around Seth, trying to comfort him, Seth just keeps on sobbing and wailing.

Miss Rotunda: What’s wrong Seth?

Seth sniffs and wipes his nose with his hand

Rotunda: The kids……at school. They made fun of me…..for having no dad.

Miss Rotunda: Oh……honey, ignore them, I’ll have a talk with the head teacher, Miss Erickson. We’ll stop the kids from making fun of you.

Rotunda: Mum, please don’t.

Miss Rotunda: I’ve got to Seth, I don’t want my little boy being bullied, especially over something like that.

Rotunda: But mum, who is my dad? Where’s my daddy?

Miss Rotunda bit her lip, not wanting to let slip the truth, which would harm her child. Something like this could affect her child into his middle ages.

Miss Rotunda: But why do you want to know, it’s just me and you, we’re happy aren’t we?

Seth: Mom, everyone in school talks about their dads. Brian’s got two.

Miss Rotunda: Did his mummy get divorced from his daddy?

Seth: No, Brian said he doesn’t have a mummy.

Miss Rotunda: Oh.

Seth: Tim’s dad is a builder. Steve’s dad is a farmer, Ashton’s is a police man and Luke’s dad is a baker. What does my daddy do?

Miss Rotunda: Oh, well, he……..

Seth: What’s wrong mum?

Miss Rotunda: Seth, mummy doesn’t know how to say this. I’ve been keeping secret who your dad is for a long time. See, daddy is like a superhero, I’ve got to keep his identity safe, so nothing bad happens to us, because there are a lot of bad men outside, Seth.

Seth: Like?

Miss Rotunda: Like things that little seven year old boys shouldn’t go near, like people who offer you sweets, or monsters.

There’s an awkward silence between Seth and his mother. They both stare at the floor, thinking.

Seth: Mummy, please, tell me who my daddy is.

Miss Rotunda: Son, your father is……........

Miss Rotunda stares at the ceiling thinking of an answer.

Miss Rotunda: You’re father is. *Sigh*, Muhammad Ali.

Miss Rotunda’s eyes widen, knowing that she’s lied to her son.

Seth: Who?

Miss Rotunda: He’s a world famous boxer, he beat many people, son. He was the greatest fighter ever.

Seth: Oh, wait until I tell the boys at school, they’ll be so surprised.

Miss Rotunda: Honey, please, please , please, you cannot tell anyone. Got it? Otherwise nasty men will come after us and then monsters will eat you. Okay?

Seth: Yes mum.

Miss Rotunda: Now off you go, Seth. Why don’t you go out to play with Mikel?

Seth: Okay.

Miss Rotunda ushers Seth towards the door. When she thinks Seth is out of ear shot, she sighs

Miss Rotunda: I hope to god, Patrick doesn’t find out Seth is his.

The camera pans back to a walking seven year old Seth Rotunda. As he walks, his appearance changes. Seth is now in a school uniform, he loses his baby fat, he grows taller, his hair becomes long and greasy, spots begin to appear with a thin little moustache, he mutters to himself in a deep voice,

He grows even taller, his shoulders broaden and his school attire becomes a black and red checker shirt. His long hair becomes short with cropped spikes. Eventually, he grows part of a goatee, his spots disappear and he pulls out a pint of Carlesberg, which he downs and chucks aside.

Rotunda keeps walking on, his attire and appearance changing a lot more times, until he’s his modern day self, dressed in boxing attire. Rotunda walks and stops in front of a punching bag, unloading a swift combination to the bag. We can tell the background is that of a gym. Rotunda continues to fire away at the bag, as his agent, Thomas ap Gruff, dressed smartly in a suit, walks up to him.

Thomas: Hey, hey, how’s the newest member of The Pack and Muhammad Ali’s son?

Seth Rotunda: Angry.

Thomas: What’s up, mate?

Seth Rotunda: I lost.

Thomas: What? At Mount V? Don’t worry about it.

Seth Rotunda: I didn’t win, that’s a loss, my first ever one in any sport.

Thomas: Mate, it was an over the top battle royal match. You didn’t pin or submit, therefore you didn’t lose.

Seth Rotunda: I.Didn’t.Win.

Thomas: Who gives a fuck? All eyes were on you, Seth. You got rid of that Justin Bieber sissy, Shaker Jones, eliminated Nate Stone and injured Dussy. Three dreams were killed, and you did that by yourself, you made an impact, sir.

Rotunda’s expression changes to one of cockiness.

Seth Rotunda: I sure did. Damn, one match, three more added to the list.

Thomas: Plus, now that Jack Eastwood has taken you under his wing, glory is coming the way of “The Dream Killer”. I can picture it now, all eyes, all the lights, all the cameras on The Pack and Seth Rotunda. Screw all the other rookies, you’re one to watch.

Seth uses a left hook that sends the punch bag spiralling in its place.

Seth Rotunda: You know how I like having my ego stroked.

Thomas: You haven’t called your penis, “Ego”, have you?


Seth Rotunda: Quiet, any news from management?

Thomas: Yep, you’re on the Corruption roster and you’re booked. You and The Pack leader, Jack Eastwood, versus, two gutter rock folk, called Trey Spurance and Axel Van Osbourne.

Seth Rotunda: I shouldn’t have to worry about them, should I?

Thomas: Not at all, they are no threat to someone like “The Dream Killer”, heck, they’ll be lying in a hospital bed come end of day, just like Osbourne was doing after Mount V.

Seth Rotunda: With me and Eastwood, there won’t be any survivors.

Thomas: It’ll be like the end of a world war. It is time for you to add a couple of people to the list.

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Sorry Leon. I voted against you just because I liked it better for storyline in the end

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX

-Corruption 13.1-
LIVE from the O2 Arena in Dublin, Ireland

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta

Tag Team Match
The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt)

Votes could change pending rest of the promos

Votes will be pending until the end of my work shift (4hrs time) after that I’ll be away all weekend.

The Dude, Trey Spruance and Axel Van Osborne are at a McDonalds eating big macs.

Trey: See, way I see it, we're on a roll.

AVO: Hows that exactly, we didn’t do to well at mount V.

Trey: Well yeah but that was difficult, besides, only one of us could have won.

AVO: True.

Trey: We won our last tag match and I have a feeling this won't be too difficult ether.

A skinny black man walks over to where Trey Spruance and Axel Van Osborne are sitting.

“Hey can I have the rest of your big mac fella?

Trey: No, I paid for it and I'm hungry. Go away crackhead.

Crackhead: Ok well could you spare some change? I need to get high.

AVO: Piss off, I need my money for beer.

Crackhead: You don't understand, man.

The crackhead starts itching himself.

Trey: I understand fine.

Trey eats the rest of his burger and goes into his leather jacket to get a pack of cigarettes out.

Crackhead: Could I at least have a cigarette?

Trey: Ok.

Trey hands over a single cigarette to the crackhead and gets up to go and smoke.

Crackhead: I swear I've seen you on TV.

Trey: That's right, me and my friend here are wrestlers.

Crackhead: I saw you on TV a couple of weeks ago, then I sold my tv for more crack.

Trey: Jesus. You crack fiend you.

Trey lights his cigarette and gives one to Axel who lights his.

Axel: Are you gona leave us alone now crackhead?

Crackhead: Yeh ok, I'm gona go get high.

Trey sighs and smokes his cigarette.

Trey: I'm so glad I gave up coke.

Scene fades out.

The O2 Arena in Dublin, Ireland is a buzz with anticipation. The crowd eagerly awaits the start of the show, and for the pre-show entertainment. Like all FMW shows, the live pre-show is being broadcast WORLD WIDE through FMW.com. The sultry voices of Corruption’s very own Jack Boice and Janus Flare work over the microphones, as they use this opportunity, as they always do, to warm up their vocal chords.

Boice: That’s an extremely warm welcome to everyone around the world joining us through our exclusive webcast. I’m Jack Boice, here with Janus Flare, and we’re preparing for a killer night of Corruption tonight.

Flare: I don’t know about killer Boice. I’ve tried that stuff, and it’s not a train you want to ride twice.

Boice: I have no idea what you’re talking about Flare...

Flare: No, you wouldn’t. You were never very outlandish or experimental, were you?

Boice: No, but I’m not a porn baby.

Flare: Uncalled for.

Boice: Well, I think it’s going to be an explosive evening. This sell out crowd is certainly hoping for that. We’re still a couple of hours away from the kick off of our show, but we have local talent performing for us for the next few hours, before the FMW superstars take the skills up a level, and unleash their arsenals.

Flare: Of course, the wash up of Mount Vesuvius begins tonight, as we continue marching towards Ultimatum 3. Nick Bryson speaks tonight, and we see our new FMW Champion, Hannibal Frost, in our ring.

Boice: Don’t forget, we had a slew of veterans and returning superstars make impacts in Mount Vesuvius. We’ll see and hear from a number of them...

Jack Boice is cut off, by the screaming big band sound of “Friend Like Me” by Wayne Bergeron cuts through the arena. Although the crowd is still filling into the arena, the boos the come from the stands are quite loud. The FMW Commissioner, Christian G. Smitten walks out. Not yet dressed to compete, he looks pissed off as he makes his way down to the ring to address the crowd.

Flare: Speaking of veterans who made an impact in Mount Vesuvius...

Boice: If you think Smitten made an impact in that match, you must have been watching a completely different match to what I saw.

Flare: Oh no, I was doing a smart ass segue, implying his 30 seconds or so he was involved in the match was all that Anwyl needed to soften his impact on the ground.

Boice: That’s not very clever, you can do better Flare.

Flare: Why, where would you go with that?

Boice: Think about it Flare. You’ve got the brain there, and I know the spider webs and jizz stains in there can impair your thinking sometimes, but really...

Flare: Spiderwebs?

Boice: There’s never been a former FMW Champion who’s had less of an impact on the outcome of a match than Smitten’s effort at Mount Vesuvius.

Flare: That is kinda better, but not very creative. More factual. Anyway, for those of you who haven’t had the priveledge of attending an FMW Show live, you’re about to see something rather mundane. Smitten’s welcome is more boring than listening to Ethan Black speak.

Smitten now stands in the center of the ring, microphone in hand, ready to speak. He looks around the arena, waiting for the crowd to settle down. As they quieten down, Smitten begins to speak.

Smitten: Every single one of you... all of you eternal peasants... have had to wool pulled down over your eyes.

Boice: That doesn’t sound like a particularly warm welcome from the Commissioner.

Smitten: I’m sick and tired of this. All of this. From me coming out to welcome you all, to the death threats, and everything in between. I’m past it. It’s high time all of you out there realised that regardless of flukes of nature, and the disrespect I get thrown in my face, I am Full Metal Wrestling’s number one asset.

Flare: Number one at blowing chances, that’s for sure.

Smitten: Without me, I can guarantee you that Full Metal Wrestling would not exist. Many a time, when a cancer has come in, and tried to kill our federations, I have done everything necessary to keep this federation alive.

Boice: Does that include enabling a murder?

Smitten: For those of you who doubt myself, or what I’ve done, I challenge you. Step into my shoes. Look at the facts, and honestly look me in the face, and tell me you would have done things differently.

Flare: I think he would be. He’s saying look at ALL the facts.

Smitten: You see, what you all seem to forget is the thankless job I do as the commissioner of Full Metal Wrestling. Not only am I required to administrate the running of two prominent institutions, and the combined powers there of, but I am the one who spends many sleepless nights, a long way from home, to get this production off the ground, so you inbred hicks can spend your hard earned dollar to get a few hours of entertainment.

The crowd starts to pipe up again, booing Smitten’s words. Smitten takes little notice of this as he continues.

Smitten: Of course, while I may have been forced to take up an active roll on the roster again, and I may not be the “Commissioner” in the eyes of some, it’s my brain, and my logic which keeps this company a float.

Boice: He’s floundering. I have no idea where he’s going with this. I don’t think he does either.

Flare: Shhh... It’s like watching two virgins go at it who have never seen a porno. It’s a classic train wreck. Stop ruining it.

Smitten: Unfortunately, this has meant that my performances in the ring have not been at a level which I find acceptable for my high standards. Believe me, how Mount Vesuvius ran for me was not what I had planned.

Boice: It sounds like he’s trying to justify...

Flare: SHUT UP AND WATCH THE HIGH SPEED COLLISSION!!!

Smitten: I make no excuses, nor do I make any apologies, my performance at Mount Vesuvius was an embarrassment, and an embarrassment to all who have held the Full Metal Wrestling Championship, except for Hannibal Frost, John Derrick, Hostyle and Eric Scorpio.

Flare: he did NOT just call Hostyle an embarrassment to the FMW Championship, did he?

Boice: Are you all butt hurt now?

Flare: That’s unrelated...

Smitten: Tonight, though. A different story. Tonight, is Full Metal Wrestling Corruption 13.1 It is not Mount Vesuvius. It’s a new night. A new story. A new chance. You see, I’m not one for the old school “I will defeat Mass Caesar because I will” train of thought. I usually like to be a bit more philosophical, and well prepared for a performance.

Boice: Is he now trying to justify a poor performance later tonight?

Flare: I really don’t care anymore to be honest.

Smitten: But, I thought tonight, since I am pressed for time, I would come out, and just tell you all that I am the best man in this company, regardless of what form has told you. Ladies and Gentlemen, the wool has well and truly been pulled over your eyes.

The crowd boo loudly once more, as Smitten continues to stand there, doing nothing.

Smitten: The wool has been pulled over your eyes, and hasn’t allowed you to truly see the greatness that is what I do. Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight, at Corruption 13.1, the leadership of the one true leader of FMW will take another step forward.

Boice: You’ve heard it first. Jaro is making another move tonight.

Smitten: Not only that, but I will be the man standing tall at the end of my contest with Mass Caesar, victory in hand.

Flare: Unlikely.

Smitten: If you haven’t seen these truths yet, perhaps you should clear your vision, and open your eyes. I am the Honorable Christian G. Smitten. All I’m asking every single one of you to do is...

Smitten pauses for effect, waiting to get some sort of reaction out of the crowd. The audience boos at him, before he raises the microphone to his lips one more time.

Smitten: Trust me.

Smitten calmly removes the microphone from his face as “Friend Like Me” by Wayne Bergeron hits the speakers once more. Under a growing chorus of boos and hate, Smitten calmly exits the ring with grace, as he starts heading back up the ramp to the backstage area.

Boice: Well, if there’s anything I know, it’s you never trust a man who says “Trust Me”.

Flare: If there’s one thing I know, it’s you never trust Smitten. Man has his facts all mixed up.

Boice: Well, we will be kicking off this pre-show action very shortly folks. We’re about 4 minutes away from seeing the local talent of Diddly Dee take on Potatoes.

Flare: Is his name Potatoes, or is Diddly Dee fighting some Potatoes?

Boice: Either one wouldn’t surprise me. We are in Ireland after all...

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match*
Kiyoshi Ryu vs. Casper King vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Xander Kross

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta vs. Daniel Prideman

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbournevs. The Pack (Seth Rotunda & Jack Eastwood)

Singles Match
MASS Caesar vs. Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice vs. War Machine

Main Event Tag Team Match
Sons of Attrition (Hannibal Frost & the Celt) vs. Faith and PX

Fatal Four-Way Young Blood Match
Kiyoshi Ryu

Singles Match
Blake Vendetta

Tag Team Match
The Pack

Singles Match
Christian G. Smitten

Contract on the Line Series, Match 1
Leon Caprice

Main Event Tag Team Match
Faith and PX