CORRUPTION 13.2 VOTING & PROMO THREAD

The blue glow on the black walls bounced off and fluctuated like a dancing light show, as the camera pans out to show that they are in a room with walls of glass holding back the water. In this aquarium-like display, there were multiple fish and small sharks swimming around in their surroundings. Two people were sitting in the middle of the floor, playing a card game usually played by nerds and young teens that can’t even stand up to the bullies that torture them on a constant basis. One of them was the Linguist, and the other was, in its original terminology, a Luchador enmascarado wearing a black t-shirt with blue jeans. The Luchador is a ‘teenaged’ wrestler that was considered the bastard offspring of an underused wrestler that was once a part of TNA. As such, he was called Son of Shark Boy.

The Linguist: It’s your move, SoSB.

What would be considered a child’s hobby, the Young Shark loved to play this particular trading card game, and he managed to convince his manager to share in the hobby while they were working on the Indy circuit. He wasn’t much for words, for the air is much thicker than he was used to under the sea. As such, he couldn’t speak at all while on land. Though he can’t express himself without aid from his manager, his inner dialogue is voiced by Jude Law.

“Read ‘em and weep, Linguist!”

SoSB had just played a card combo that defeated his manager. It took the interpreter by surprise, being defeated in a card game by a fish… well, a shark-themed Luchador. The Linguist scratched his head as he calculated damage. He dropped the cards that made up his hand, realizing that the Young Shark’s strategy actually worked!

The Linguist: I didn’t know that you could do that.

“It’s all within the cards, friend.”

The Linguist: In more ways than one, Champ of Underdogs.

Reaching into his blazer, The Linguist pulled out a print-out of an email that was sent to him by Full Metal Wrestling.

The Linguist: You’ve been signed to FMW on its Corruption brand.

“YES! I knew that I had a good feeling about being a part of FMW! We should go celebrate with a Tuna Sub!”

The Linguist: Hold on, SoSB. It also says that you were signed to a match in Nashville, against a returning Dallas Roland and a person called Mick O’Connell. That mean you have to double up on your training efforts.

A short moment of silence occurred between wrestler and manager, as they looked at each other. After that, the self-proclaimed Champion of Underdogs had to ask the question that always itched his mind when facing a couple unknowns in a match.

“Are they bullies?”

The Linguist: I took the liberty of pulling a few strings to see if I can get some info on your opponents… They aren’t as much of a fight against bullies as far as I know.

“I’m not sure. I came to fight for those who’ve been bullied by those on the FMW roster… They probably aren’t even an ounce of bully.”

The Linguist could see that his client was a bit confused. Most of the people SoSB faced before were bad guys, with MOs to bully even the rookies, and some children in attendance at ringside. Too much of his youth he had seen in the children that were bullied by wrestlers. Since seeing that in the kids, he made his resolve not only be an advocate for those who’ve been bullied, but those of the wrestler who’ve been toyed with by the big guys.

The Linguist: Look on the bright side, friend. Maybe we can use this debut of yours to show those bullies in FMW Corruption that you aren’t another plaything for them to mess around with.

“No… I am the Champion of Underdogs, and if they need an exhibition of skills, then so be it. I can leave them surprised. I am going to have to prove that unlike the one I am named after, I have teeth.”

The Linguist: That’s the spirit. You’ll be able to prove to them why you are called the Deep Sea Sensation, even when landlocked.

“And how…”

~~^~~

In his silver and blue wrestling gear, and an ocean blue ‘SHARKS ARE FRIENDS, NOT FOOD’ t-shirt, Son of Shark Boy was walking through the backstage area of the Bridgestone Arena with his manager close by. The Linguist was dapper in his suit and tie. His support for the Young Shark was shown in the design of his tie, and a stainless steel shark on the front of his tie clip; not very flamboyant, but subtle, nonetheless.

???: Well, it seems that I am disgraced with welcoming a fish out of water to Full Metal Wrestling. I’d rather fire the caterers for bringing YOU into the arena with the spread for the wrestlers.

That voice belonged to the FMW Commissioner, Christian G. Smitten, whom was a bit irritated even to see the Luchador. SoSB was not happy for being considered an appetizer by the likes of what he viewed as a rich, self-worshipping bully. He was about to show Smitten why he is not happy, but he was held back by his manager. This time, it wouldn't be appropriate to reveal his inner dialog.

The Linguist: Why are you insulting what could be the Deep Sea Sensation that will spread across this nation?

Smitten: The only thing that spreads through this nation was the sadness from when that pedophile Michael Jackson died. The rage the nation felt when our nation was attacked by them terrorists spread like wildfire. All this cheap knockoff of a TNA wrestler will spread is the worst case of food poisoning.

It was now obvious that Son of Shark Boy was angered by that. He was expressing his body language towards the FMW Commisioner angrily, but still, the Linguist stopped SoSB, reassuring the Young Shark that he can handle it for him.

The Linguist: Son of Shark Boy is making it known to you that he will take you on anytime, anywhere. He knows you are a bully, and bullies are what he makes his business to take care of.

Smitten curled his lip in disgust, and thought very less of the rookie that was before him.

Smitten: Please do me, the Honorable Christian G. Smitten, a favor and put your pet back in his fish bowl. Full Metal Wrestling is not a place for a flounder like your client. You don’t have to heed my warning and watch him get gutted in front of millions; all you need to do is… Trust me.

With a perfectly timed turn, the Commissioner walked away from the rookie and manager. SoSB was now expressing his anger to the Linguist. Feeling very insulted by what Smitten said.

The Linguist: I know you have every right to be angry, but there is a time and a place for dealing with him. We must bide our time, SoSB.

After calming down a little, the Deep Sea Sensation agreed, continuing his walk toward the ring shaking the rest of his annoyance off as he walked towards the entrance.

~~^~~

With a return of old stock, also comes the debut of the Champion of Underdogs
A rookie I may be, but a pushover I am not.
This Young Shark is going to make his first real splash as the Deep Sea Sensation.
Corrupt Bullies of said Corruption Brand of FMW, you best be watching.
For Son of Shark Boy can smell blood in the water.
And trail leads not to the victims, but the bullies who made them suffer.
It’s time for me to be the advocate for these victims.
It’s time for me to stand up to these bullies.
The Corrupt shall feel the first bite!

Perfection Abandoned

A DAY IN THE EXCITING LIFE OF THE ABANDONED CHAMPION: TUESDAY!

We start with Apostasy waking up, with sun flooding his apartment. Apostasy rolls out of bed wearing nothing but his boxers. He picks up his Abandoned Title off of his dresser, and tossed his old wrestling trunks into his hamper. He walks to the window, belt over his shoulder, as people are eating lunch at the bistro across from his apartment.

Apostasy: Fuck… I love sleeping in. One of the greatest pleasures in life.

Apostasy walks through his apartment, which is littered with clothes, days-old takeout and dishes. He peers into a pop-tart box on his kitchen counter, grabbing the last package of cinnamon-sugar pop-tarts before throwing the box onto an already overflowing trash container. Apostasy walks out his front door, eating his pop tarts on his way to check his mail. He is stopped by a male resident.

Resident: Apostasy, right? Congrats on your big win.

Apostasy motions his hand as if to tip an invisible cap

Resident: So… why aren’t you wearing any clothes?

Apostasy: Just getting my mail. I’ll get dressed before I head out to the gym. I’ve got to make sure I’m in tip-top shape for my match next week.

Resident: Do you really carry around that title everywhere you go?

Apostasy: Yup

Apostasy walks towards the mailbox. After checking his mail and only finding coupon magazines, Apostasy makes his way back to his apartment. In his apartment, he turns on his IPhone and begins playing Freedom Fighters by The Music (Click to play!) at full blast.

I don’t know... why these people can’t get it on

Apostasy checks his refrigerator for something to drink, but finds it empty.

What you didn’t know… is that it’s just people having fun. Eh-yeah-ah

Apostasy: Fuck, I guess I’ve got to hit up the store

I thought that there was something going wrong with me

Apostasy walks back to the bedroom, and looks through his t-shirts, pulling some of his old wrestling shirts.


I thought that everyone in this life should be free

Apostasy: Oooh, retro. But not today

But now I realize that something here is wrong

Apostasy pulls out another shirt



Won’t you come and let me sing to people, c’mon help me sing this song!

Apostasy: Why do I even still have this shirt? I mean, it’s funny, but… not me.

Dance for the freedom! Fighters of the world

Apostasy pulls out another shirt



Feel the walls. She’s real, real love

Apostasy: That reminds me…

They don’t love you! They’ll help you on your way…

Apostasy makes his way towards his phone, and begins fumbling through the menus.

I don’t love you baby, though… it’s okay!

The Music cuts out, and the sound of voicemail blares through the speakers

Please enter your password.

Apostasy enters 1-2-3-4 into his phone

You have one new message, sent yesterday at 9:02 AM

Edible: Apostasy, it’s Edible Smith.

Apostasy: Good to hear from you, old chum

Edible: I just wanted to congratulate you on your title victory over Leon Caprice

Apostasy: You sound almost depressed to say it

Edible: Winning a title… any title…

Apostasy: Even this shitty title

Edible: It’s a big accomplishment.

Apostasy: Something that you never…

Edible: An accomplishment I never got, and, well

Apostasy: You’re jealous…

Edible: I’m proud of you. I know we’ve had our differences

Apostasy: Really?

Edible: But I’m really proud of you. I just wanted you to know that. Anyway, take care. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but you’ll have your first defense next show against Seth Rotunda. I’ll be rooting for you. Catch you later.

End of message. To delete this message…

Apostasy hits 9

Message saved. End of messages.

Apostasy removes his phone from the docking station/stereo.

Apostasy: I’ll be damned

Apostasy walks to his bedroom, tossing the phone into a pair of black sweatpants draped over the hamper. He quickly puts on the sweatpants and reaches down and picks up another shirt



Apostasy: Hmmm… appropriate, I think.

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

To be honest, I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about it all.

Winning a title was something that neither Edible Smith nor Edible Matthewson ever did. When Edible Smith gave me that call, I could tell how much my accomplishment meant to him. I mean, some might consider it lame to live vicariously through your pupils, but I imagine that Edible saw his own teachings and his own effort being rewarded that night. I imagine he got some validation for himself, and that he had something to be proud of. He had a story to tell others, to boast about his pupil becoming champion.

I thought to myself, was it really worth it for him?

You probably have no idea the amount of effort it takes to get me to give a shit about anything. You have no idea how hard he must have struggled to get me to learn all of these moves that I learned from him. They aren’t easy, and they take practice. An intense amount of practice that someone of my age and background was not inclined to give. I gave that man so much shit over the years about his uptight and overly proper tone. I told him that he should just fucking cuss every once and awhile. I made fun of him endlessly for a promo he cut where he simply instructed people on table manners.

Yet, he put up with my apathetic demeanor. He put up with my crass attitude. He did it for little pay and less thanks. At the end of it all, he left me on my own in FMW, just because he decided he didn’t like the Broken Saints. He’s been through so much on my account, and perhaps he felt like this was his payoff. A brief moment of pride in hard work paying off. Hard work that might easily have never paid off. A wee tiny bit of pride over a student winning the least prestigious title in FMW since the TV Tag Titles were merged.

I suppose that sounds a bit harsh. I am lucky to have any title, even if it’s the worst title in FMW. To be honest, I quite enjoy it. It fits me perfectly. I am by no stretch of the imagination an achiever. I did not struggle to earn this title shot, and I won the match over a guy clearly having an off night. To be honest, I didn’t expect to have that title match in the first place. The guys in the FMW front office handed me that match because I was part of Team Distortion, the winning team of the FMW games that won the coveted prize of… cancellation.

If anything, I have withered in big moments. I’ve been a non-factor in both Gold Card Gauntlet matches I’ve been involved in. I was easily eliminated in the Mount V matchup. I choked away TV title shots against Seth Omega. I couldn’t even win my own Through Hell and Back ladder match at last year’s No Holds Barred. By all rights, I’m a mediocre wrestler who doesn’t try hard enough, and yet I’ve achieved this. And I am damn happy about it.

Most people think that delayed gratification makes the reward sweeter. The best things in life are struggled for. Everything great is hard to get. There’s a thousand ways to say it, but it’s all the same thought. The thought is that life’s best pleasures are those that are hard-earned. And yet, I’m damn sure that I feel great about what I’ve gained. Edible Smith can’t feel half as fucking awesome as I do right now. And I didn’t struggle for it.

Not to shit on the man. I’m happy he’s happy. But, be honest. Which is better, toiling for years for the slightest of payoffs, or achieving effortlessly. So many people in this world endeavor for perfection, and ruin their own happiness in the pursuit of what they hope will be an amazing payoff. You know what’s way better? Enjoying what others call mediocrity, and still getting rewarded. This title is about as close to perfection as I’ll ever get. Unless I somehow earn a world title shot and win it on a no-show. That, by my own theory, would be about as perfect as life can get. All the reward, a fraction of the effort.

That’s what this title is about to me. It may be mediocre, but damn if it isn’t perfect for me.

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

Apostasy walks into an office, with the nameplate “Jim Hopkins” engraved on a nameplate on the door. Apostasy is wearing an FMW hoodie, his title and jeans, which is comically out of place amongst the sea the suit-and-tie clad pencil-pushers in FMW’s offices.

Apostasy: So, you’re the guy in charge of merchandising?

Jim: Jim Hopkins, at your service.

The two shake hands, and sit across from each other at the desk.

Apostasy: So, I was told that you’re the guy to talk to about getting the nameplate changed.

Jim: Absolutely. Just tell me what color you want the name in, and we’ll have it ready before the next show. We’ll get the new plate in right before showtime.

Apostasy: That’s cool…

Jim: What color shall it be, then?

Apostasy: Black? Does anyone ever choose anything else?

Jim: Not really, but I thought I would offer.

Apostasy: Thanks, I guess.

Jim: No problem. So I’ve heard that you have some sort of merchandising idea?

Apostasy: That I do. I’ve got a shirt idea, and I think it will be a real smash with my fans.

Jim: Okay, let’s see it.

Apostasy pulls off his hoodie to reveal…



Apostasy: Here it is.

Jim: That looks… familiar.

Apostasy: It’s a t-shirt my old mentor, Edible Matthewson, used to wear when he was tagging with Mass Chaos. They called themselves The Abandoned.

Jim: Isn’t that an LPW trademark?

Apostasy: Actually, Edible trademarked it himself. Wasn’t even available on the LPW website as a result. I had one of the only ones.

Jim: Would we even be able to make this, legally?

Apostasy: Yup. Apparently he left me the rights to his merchandise when he died. His will said, and this is a direct quote, fuck LPW.

Jim: That’s quite surprising

Apostasy: A little. I felt that this shirt would be a great tribute to him, rest his corpse.

Jim: Don’t you mean soul?

Apostasy: Atheist, remember?

Jim: That’s… wait… is that duct tape? Did you seriously just slap a piece of duct tape and write champion?

Apostasy: Yup. Though, obviously we can’t do that for the fan versions.

Jim: That’s very….

Apostasy: Lazy?

Jim: Minimalist, I would say.

Apostasy: Jim, I understand. But this title, and this shirt… they embody me. I am the most apathetic man in FMW, and I’m still champion anyway. People will buy this shirt… maybe… I don’t really know.

Jim: We’ll consider it.

Apostasy: Good enough for me.

Jim: Is that all.

Apostasy: Yup. I better get going, I’ve got to get back to… training?

Jim: Fair enough. Pleasure meeting with you, Heath.

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

I never did get to the gym that day, as I had planned on doing. Honestly, I procrastinated on it, until I said “fuck it” and put it off until the next day. Instead, I went home and ordered another pizza. Why? Because I could.

Perhaps you think my sloth is abhorrent. Perhaps you think that I’m too crass. However, I know that a certain percentage of you know just what it’s like to be as carefree as me. You know that the value of a hard day’s work isn’t what it used to be, not when there’s also the value of a day’s worth of playing Borderlands without a goddamn care in the world. You know at the end of the day which one is far more rewarding.

Our predecessors worked hard for us to enjoy these luxuries. Edible Matthewson built himself up from homelessness and became a member of one of the most important stables in all of wrestling history. Edible Smith worked hard to gain the respect of the FMW locker room, becoming so respected that he managed to retain a job even after retiring from active competition. They both worked hard and passed on the fruits of their labor to me. So now I have made it. Should I feel bad for being unmotivated just because I won?

No. I have always been unmotivated. I will likely always be unmotivated. I won this title because I was better than Leon Caprice, and I know I am better than Seth Rotunda. I don’t care if life isn’t fair to those who have to work harder. It’s not that I don’t feel for them, I do. I haven’t always been gifted, and I know how much it sucks to watch others skate by. But I am not going to feel bad because I accomplished what I am capable of accomplishing. That just doesn’t make sense.

The world has abandoned me on many an occasion. I’ve lost my parents, my adoptive father, both of my mentors, 3 different shows (Distortion makes 3! 3 brands I’ve been on that have been cancelled!) and plenty of matches. I am perfect for this title, and this title is perfect for me. This title is my ethos.

I gave up on chasing perfection. I abandoned that idea, and perfection came to me, in the form of this belt. And I've never been happier.

It is early morning, New Years, 2011 in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Amidst many celebrating students, one man sits alone in the corner of the campus pub. His heavy set jaw is shrouded by a grey hooded sweatshirt and even more often by his beer bottle. His gaze never leaves the table, but to take another sip of his drink.

A smaller, also hooded man steps through the front door of the pub, eyeing the large man with a seemingly puzzled look. It is hard to tell, his face is concealed by his hood and a tuft of hair.

He slowly makes his way across the pub to the man with the drink, and sits down across from him, removing his hood. The man is Dallas Roland. His long hair is matted and frizzled. His hazel eyes stab at the other man with confusion.

Roland: Seth?

The other man grunts in acknowledgement

Roland: …I’ve been looking for you.

Omega: Well. You found me.

Roland: Why aren’t you celebrating?

Omega: What is there to celebrate?

Roland: New opportunities.

Omega: Opportunities? Where the fuck have you been?

Roland: On…vacation.

Omega: Have you not been paying attention to what’s going on? I had to close down the school.

Roland: Really?

Omega: Really. So now, the place where you learned to do what you do best has gone under, and you walk in here, asking me why I’m not celebrating opportunities.

Roland: I’m….sorry Seth. I’ve been gone.

Omega: News to me….

Roland: Please hear me out. I need your help.

Omega: What’s with you? You walk in hear out of no where. No one’s seen you in, fuck, like a year. All you have to say is that you need my help?

Roland: Seth, please. I need to wrestle again.

Omega: Well…talk to the big men, I can’t help you there.

Roland: No, no…I plan to talk with them. I need to explain something to you…but it may be difficult, or even unbelievable to you.

Omega: I’ve got no where to be this evening.

Roland: There are a couple of Los Angeles detectives after me.

Omega: Are they from missing persons?

Roland: Very funny. No, they don’t know that they are after me, yet.

Omega: Make sense of this.

Roland: About two years ago…

His voice trails off

Omega: Yes?

Roland: You remember when I graduated from Hard Knox.

Omega: Of course. You’re possibly one of my finest students.

Roland: At the time, you had begun your tenure at FMW.

Omega: Yes, I was wrestling with Jip.

Roland: That’s what I’m here to talk to you about.

Omega: What are you getting at?

Roland runs a hand through his hair, and his eyes get wide, bugging out staring at Omega with a look of dismay.

Roland: I killed him.

For the first time, Omega moves his eyes and looks at Dallas.

Omega: I knew you were gonna end up being a sick little fuck.

Roland: I…. I didn’t want to.

Omega: You fucker, Why’d you kill him?

Dallas stands up with a look of anger in his eyes. His fist meets the table with brutal force, putting a small crack in the wood.

Roland: I WAS FUCKING MADE TO.

Roland looks around, realizing that everyone in the bar has gone quiet, and is staring at him and Seth. A man from across the bar calls out.

Man: Is this guy giving you shit, Seth?

Omega: He’s not worth my time…Get him the fuck outta my sight.

The bartender, who is polishing a glass peers over and calls out to Dallas

Bartender: Listen, buddy. We don’t tolerate any shit here. This is primarily a college pub.

Roland: Please, Seth. I can explain this. But I need your help.

Omega: I don’t want to hear it. He never did anything wrong.

A man comes up behind Roland and puts his hand forcefully on his shoulder

Man: Let’s go, dude. You’re not gonna fuck with all of us.

Roland: Do you know who I am?

Man: No, but if you don’t fuckin’ leave, you’re gonna know each and every one of us on a first name basis. You got that?

Roland throws the first punch. The man is caught with an alarmingly powerful right hook that sends him off balance and eventually down to the ground.

Someone calls out, “GET HIM!”

The scene becomes calamity. At least ten men gather up against Roland. He is punching, and kicking. A few men go down, but eventually they overwhelm him. They all grab him and as they force him out the door, his eyes meet with Omega’s, who is still sitting in the same corner, drinking his beer.

Roland: Please, Seth.

Roland is thrown out into the street.

Man: Don’t fucking come back. You’re not welcome here.

Roland spits, and starts to walk away. As he walks away from the pub he hears a voice call, and he turns around.

Omega: Dallas. Why don’t you start from the beginning?


~

Quote :

Voice: Welcome to hell, motherfuckers. If you were looking for an easy ride or something to suddenly catapult you into the stratosphere of superstardom, you’re sadly mistaken. There is nothing easy about this business.

There is nothing freely given.

There are dues paid. And I’m not taking about going in the ring and losing fifty million times like some of these more scripted, ‘pre-determined’ action soap operas.

There are families you will no longer see

…friends you will no longer have.

There will be broken bones you have to piece together in order simply to function or merely limp impotently around the ring with.

There will be contusions.

There will be concussions.

In some cases, there will be death. But there most certainly will be blood.

Let me emphasize that so I can make that crystal, non-murky diamond clear for all of you illiterate, smug, doe-eyed dumb fucks gazing at me like I’m making this shit up.

Ring ropes clutched between blackened, bruised knuckles; each phalange appears queer, awkward, and bent as if they had been broken in several different places. This led to two wrists that connected to muscular forearms. The veins beneath his skin pulsated with a vibrant, lively intensity that was palatable to the female portion of his audience. His strapping, broad chest and hulking squared shoulders loomed over the top rope with a lackadaisical, slovenly grace. Even with his intense, grizzled voice, one could tell he was at ease. Despite his large, imposing figure, the most unnerving quality about him was his eyes. The pupils could not be seen past the irises that were as black as coal and they tore through the audience with a capricious fury to cause even the most courageous at heart to tremble beneath a wicked pathos. This figure have the gravitas of an angry god, each breath a crashing swell in a storm raging out at sea. Behind this passionate maelstrom was proud dignity buried beneath years of tarnish or rather anguish, grief written in the lines and wrinkles of an expansive face. He appeared guarded as if aware that the vulnerability underneath the callous exterior could break at any time. Control for this chaotic amalgamation of rage seemed difficult and forced. For the moment, however, it had the attention of the crowd of young faces.

All save for one.

His eyes were focused on a very different portion of the room, entranced with the allure or perhaps disgusted with the dingy décor of the poorly lit gym. To even call it a “gym” was a bit of a stretch: it was truthfully a rented industrial warehouse that formerly housed a paper company. Sweltering and poorly insulated, it smelled vaguely of body odor with the candor of iron. Blood had been shed here on many occasions. The stains on the concrete floor told this story quite well. The focus of this young man’s eyes was a worn poster, torn and frayed from neglect and abuse albeit it appeared relatively new.

The figures that stood on it appeared intangible to most; gods amongst men to some and to most young boys whom never grew out of a childish fantasy. The thrill of the bloodsport called to these uniquely minded individuals. Some from necessity and others due to love. There was even a small portion of these demigods that belonged to both categories. This young man in particular, however, fit in with the former especially. Filled with the arrogant impetus of youth and accompanied with the intrepid, boisterous swagger of ignorance, the words of the orator did not reach this person who clearly contrasted the myriad of his peers. As opposed to being small and wiry or stocky and muscular (perhaps too much so to be obtained through natural means), his build was slim and elongated as if stretched too thin over the canvas of his bones. A litany of tattoos scarred his body, appearing to be the musings of a self-deluded braggart more concerned with the cosmetic appeal rather than cultural significance. His smooth, boyish features were impish and devious in their nature, his countenance screwed up in a half-smirk of self-awareness. He appeared to relish the idea of being like these men pictured - to be so revered, one was granted an iconic status.

And so this is the day that Fredrick Alexander Douglas was pushed aside, the persona of Xander Kross burbling beneath the surface of exultant, smiling eyes.

Quote :

Dante: Now like every wrestler on the face of this planet, I’m going to make this about me for a short minute. I’ve been wrestling since I was fourteen years old. That’s sixteen years of experience I’ve invested into this profession. Sixteen years of training and of sacrifice and of both failure and success. Some of that time was spent, as you well know, in Full Metal Wrestling. Shameless plug but I really don’t give a shit. It’s what made me into, at the very least, a household name. It’s how I can afford to have homes in California, Texas, and Nova Scotia. Also how I can afford to send my daughter to a prestigious all girls school, how I can pay for the medical bills for my knee, and the reason why I’m not a drug addict, thug, or some nigga on the street, selling his child’s clothes to buy a new stereo for my shitty car with overly-large rims.

I will say this first to avert stupid questions about the nature of storylines or what-have-you. Everything I’ve ever done on screen is based in realism. I’ve never been one of those cats that felt they needed to embellish on their upbringing or shy away from what’s going on in my life and through my head. Some of that, as has been well-documented by the derision I receive from my peers, has been to my detriment. I can’t speak for all of my fellow FMW Alumni but everything you’ve ever seen about me, heard about me, or even suspected about me is probably ninety-nine percent factual. I do struggle with alcoholism, I do have anger issues, my daughter was abducted by one of my fellow co-workers, and my boss did both send me to prison and legally adopt my child. Now then. Given my propensity for rash acts of violence, are there any of those aforementioned stupid questions?

Silence overtook the crowd. All save for Xander Kross intently listened to Dante as he paced the ring. Jones paid no heed to this. Instead, he removed a crushed pack of Newports from his back jean pocket and procured a single cigarette. He lit it unceremoniously and took a prolonged drag before he exhaled with a fresh plume of smoke.

Quote :

Dante (sardonically): Filthy fucking habit. Never pick it up. It’s bad for your health.

This would solicit a nervous laughter from the crowd, unsure if it was Dante’s intent or attempt at humor. He would place the cigarette butt on the hang of his bottom lip.

Quote :

Dante: To continue my point, in this ring, there is no scripts. There are no storylines. There are no pulled punches or mics underneath the canvas to increase the realism of a spot. There is you and the other guy..or other girl depending on your gender. Will the style we teach, affectionately or not so much known as ‘shoot style’. This is a sport where we come from – a full contact one. Yes, ultimately the point is to entertain and not kill the person inside the ropes. And it very much is a communal effort to make it ‘fun’ for the audience. However, this is not sports entertainment. Else we’d be branded as such. This is wrestling in its purest form. And I’m not speaking of it being a bunch of suplexes, wrist locks, tie ups, and submission holds. If you’re good at brawling, we will teach you to be the nastiest sumbitch out there who can go blow for blow with the best. If you’re good at high flying, we’ll teach you to soar. If you want to invest the crowd emotionally into you, we will teach you to make them weep when you fall and scream themselves hoarse when you triumph. We will make your technique an art form. We will make you into a better you. If that means breaking a few nasty habits and jaws along the way, so be it. But make sure that it’s what you want.

In my ring, you need to eat, sleep, breathe, bleed, and shit wrestling. There is no fall back plan if this is your goal. This is the only thing that matters. Between these ropes of steel mesh, this is your temple and your church and the crowd…

Dante would pause and point out to a vacant, vague generalized area outside of the ring.

Quote :

Dante: They are your Alpha and your Omega. Fuck…they’re your Lambda, Epsilon, and any other Greek letter that is failing to come to me at this moment. Well I’m running out of motivational shit to say. And just in the nick of time too. The guest of honor has arrived. Fashionably late might I add.

Dante chuckled as a dull murmur spread through the crowd of hopefuls. A lone figure parted the sea, and upon the first glimpse, age was not kind to this man. Faintly visible upon his brow behind the brim of a dusted cowboy hat and beyond a smattered mop of straw colored hair was an ‘x’ shaped scar. The stubble around his rugged chin was salt and pepper, flecks of the bacon burger he consumed greedily sprinkled in between his mustache and beard. A loud belch heralded his presence to those that were unaware (this included Xander Kross who gave him a curious glance) before he disregarded his wrapper and tossed it haphazardly. It gently tapped a large ethnic man sandwiched between a smaller man and a woman in large black glasses; the large man who was otherwise preoccupied with the task of lust-filled purveyance of the smaller man. Broken from his reverie, he quickly snapped to attention of this relatively small, decently built man. With a crude scratch of his groin, the man made his way to the ring and slid beneath the bottom rope to take his place beside Dante, dwarfed in comparison to his larger compatriot yet matched him in presence and confidence .

Quote :

Dante: Malf-Pro hopefuls. If you need an introduction to this man, you’re in the wrong building. For those of you whom are too dumb to educate yourself before coming here, he is a record nine-time Malfeasance Pro Wrestling Texas Heavyweight Champion, a five time Internet Heritage Champion, a four time Texas Tag Team Champion, and head booker of Malf-Pro…which means he owns your balls for however long your stay here is. Hailing from Rowlett, Texas, standing at six-foot and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-seven pounds, he is the Demon of Dallas, the living legend.. this is Snake Wraith.

Snake: Well as Blackeh ever-so-affectionately gave me such a glowing intro, there isn’t really any way to top it other than to say well..I’m pretty fuckin’ bitchin’. No, my name isn’t really Snake. In fact, my friends call me Randy. Since I don’t see any of us ever becomin’ friends, you can call me ‘Mr. Wraith’, ‘Sir’, ‘Grand Poobah’, or ‘Your Royal Highness’.

The crowd, still jittery and off-put by this blunt and crass level of wit, nervously laughs once again. When they see that there is no smile nor laughter on the mien of Snake, this peters out gradually into a dead silence. Xander Kross rolls his eyes, unimpressed by Snake’s aura of self-imposed superiority.

Quote :

Snake: I know what y’all must be thinking. ‘Oh man. This guy is going to be a hardass’. Yup. I’m not here to be your buddy, your partner, your lover, or your friend. I’m here to play daddy and hold your little hands through the dark, scary woods. And if you keep yanking on my damn hand when I’m trying to keep you safe, I’m going to smack the shit out of you complete with a patronizing stare and a condescending lecture afterwards. I don’t have time to mince words or explain to you step-by-step how to work a match properly. Or how to clean-up when your opponent FUBAR’s it up the ass after I’ve told you once. I’m not going to argue with you until your blue in the face. I’ve got a wife and two twins who are a pain in my ass already if I have to do that. And if I really wanted to argue with someone over semantics, I’d talk to Flowers over shootin’ the shit with you. Guy who’s only wrestled matches ‘in theory’ tries to argue with me the physics of a drop told hold. I swear on my whore of a mother’s tit…yes...singular… I don’t need the added aggravation of answering to a bunch of snot nosed brats who couldn’t catch the Clap in a brothel. I’ve already got the distinct pleasure of telling the owner of this shithole he can’t stick his dick into anything that bats an eyelash at him with their boobs smooshed in his face. More babysitting isn’t in my goddamn timetable.

Xander was interrupted from his silent thoughts by the large ethnic man with curly hair (much to his dismay). A subtle nudge garnered him a cross look from Xander who continued to look towards the ring as Snake yammered on. The nudge became harder as the man really vied for Xander’s attention, almost akin to a whimpering dog. A third followed this one before Xander finally responded.

Xander (annoyed & whispers): …the fuck is yo’ malfunction, dopey?

Large Man (whispers): What’s your take on this guy? Looks kinda scrawny, right braddah?

Xander: Do I look like I give a flyin’ two shits what the nigga looks like? He’s old, outdated, and corny as shit. I don’t even know why I wasted my time flyin’ down here. Shit’s bunker than Leprachaun in tha Hood.

Large Man (laughs quietly): I’m just sayin’ . I mean..at least RAMPAGE! is somethin’ to look at if you know what I mean heh heh..

Xander (irritated): ..Nah blud. Can’t say that I do.

Quote :

Snake: ...Malfeasance Pro Wrestling is a goddamn nuthouse. You name it? We've done it. Death Matches, Inferno Matches, Hell in the Cells, Barbed Wire Matches, Exploding C-4 Matches, ect. Plenty of our alumni have gone on to work in companies around the globe. From the most prestigious to the most underground of the slums. Blackeh himself was sent here in the late Nineties. Him and I have knocked the piss out of one another, won tag gold, and even traded the Big Strap back n'forth. Never once did I hear the fucker complain. He went on there, did what needed to be done, and always did what was asked of him for the betterment of the company. He was a team player. We look for team players because, let's face it. Not all of you are as unique and individual as a snowflake. Look around you. The asshole next to you could washout the very next day or shit in the very next hour. And they will leave this program a very different person. Not just this promotion alone but the entire professional wrestling experience will make you bitter, cynical, and jaded. I require you to go contrary to your fucked up natures and be selfle...

Large Man (whispers): My name is Keioki. Keioki Maoru.

Xander: And? Why am I supposed to care, cuz? It ain't like we gon' be folk or nothin' like that.

Maoru: Well I figure, braddah, the best way to get through trainin' is to group together. Teamwork.

Xander: Team? What team? All I see is a bunch of squares I'm finna leave in the dust. Ain't none of y'all really on my level. I damn sure ain't teamin' with no homo-ass Wild Samoan reject. Names aren't goin' to be necessary, smell? You just do you and I'm gon' do me. In the mean time, take the lil' funky ass dick out ya ass. You was squeezin' about half a chub lookin' all up and down Mighty Mouse's jock like five minutes ago. And I swear to God if you rub me in any which wrong way, I'mma bust out ya front teeth.

Quote :

Snake: ...the key here is communication. Teamwork. Let's face it. Most of y'all will not be singles stars. Some lack 'the look'. Others lack the talent. Most lack the intangible factor of charisma and stage presence. If you're cutting a promo and you think it's the best promo anyone ever heard only to come and find out that everyone tuned out what you had to say, congrats. You've officially been relegated to being a curtain jerker. You might have the best message ever to convey about your opponent. It doesn't even necessarily need to be unique or outstandingly verbose. But you better make every minute of every second of limited time you have to catch the intensely short attention spans of the audience to make them notice you. If you don't have it, you may never get it. So either you need to be here every day, training, rehearsing, and working on 'it' to make 'it' happen or you need to quit right now. The need here is to will yourself to matter in this industry. One way of doing this is the forgotten art of the tag team. Most people set out to be some uberdrkdth slayin' god of the apocalypse or some kind of badass who goes toe to toe with any and every challenger that has the balls to step up to them. Most people who go through either one of these routes peters out fairly quickly. Not every single one of you have the latent psychopath brewing inside you or the fortitude to go through intense pain. Not all of you are really as badass as I am. A tag team is a good way of learning from someone who is better at certain aspects of the game than you are while also covering the weaknesses you have.

Marou (taken aback): I’m just tryin' to be friends, braddah. No need to be huhu about it.

Xander: Friends? I ain't yo friend, nigga. We ain't pals. We ain't coo'. We ain't fam. I want absolutely nothin' to do with you or any of y'all for that matter. Get that through them nappy ass locks and that thick ass skull. We. Aren't. Friends.

Marou: But I thought..

Xander: You thought wrong. I ain't gon' repeat myself again, bruh. I ain't here to carry some sappy fuckstick to a watchable match. I here to make skrills, dig me? Paper. Green. Scratch. Gouda. Cheddar. Maybe get a lil' pussy on the side. Not dick. And even if I were into dudes, I'm not pickin' some island beach bum as my insignificant other. Period point blank, I ain't givin' you the time of day. Get to steppin' and hit the bricks, you twink.

Snake: Well..now that we know certain parties are more interested in making a love connection, I guess they'll be the first victims..er..'trainees' in this exercise. You. Sir Mix-A-Lot. In the ring. Time is money. Hip hop your black ass on down. Don't be shy. I don't bite. Nigger Charlie actually might but..that's a different story.

Xander would look around to find that all eyes were on him. Snake's expression was one at dissatisfaction; he apparently didn't appreciate the fact that Xander found what he had to say more important than his speech. Dante's expression was incomprehensible; mingled between amusement, vague interest, and slight annoyance (or was that embarrassment), he lifted the ring ropes to create an entry. Xander swore beneath his breath as he removed the hood that covered his features. This earned him incredulous and scandalous stares from the female portion of the audience whilst the male portion appeared to be generally unimpressed. He scaled to the outer canvas and his eyes lifted to meet that of Dante's. In them, there was no fear or trepidation but a calm before the storm. They reflected one anothers gazes, the animosity between the two as vivid and palatable as though they were age old rivals. Xander's gaze, however, was broken by a quick jerk of his hood, his feet lifted vertically before his head connected with the ring with a loud crack. Where there might originally be laughter, there was silence, amplifying the echo of Xander's carcass as it thudded clumsily against stiff wooden support cleats. A new sensation would flood Xander's consciousness - pain. It groped its way around the base of his skull and pounded dully around his temples while blood flow thundered in his eardrums. Red faced and abashed, he quickly got to his feet to get nose to nose with his assumed assailant - Snake - whom he easily dwarfed in height but was far outmatched in mass.

Xander (angrily): THE FUCK WAS THAT, BLUD?! THAT WAS SOME CHICKEN SHIT STUFF, CUZ!

Snake (mockingly): Your powers of observation must fuckin' suck. That? That was a hard bump. You will be made to do a hard bump every time you show disrespect in my house. Wipe your goddamn feet before you come in here, blood.

Xander's nostrils flared while Snake leered mockingly onward. This only further incensed Xander whom took a wild swing towards Snake's jaw. Snake side-stepped, hands stuffed in his jean pockets and stuck his leg out to trip Xander. Xander again fell with a loud smack and the bridge of his nose bounced off the ring. Before he could react, however, the heel of a boot was placed into the small of his back while the other situated itself on his neck. His arms and legs flailed wildly at his sides while he tried to right himself or at least catch Snake's leg but to no avail.

Xander (angrily): GET THE FUCK OFF ME, NIGGA! I SWEAR I'MMA MOLLYWHOP YO' ASS!! GET OFF ME, BLUD! GET OFF ME!!

Snake (amused): 'Nigga'? So not only do you not know what a hard bump is but you also can't differentiate race. Tsk tsk. You sure do spend a lot of time on the floor. Here. How's the dirt that you tracked into my ring taste? Good? Good.

Snake would release his hold on Xander who scrambled to his feet. He prepared to swing once again to only be impeded by the same callous, awkward digits closed firmly around his wrist. Xander looked up savagely to once again meet the eyes of Dante who, for once, appeared calm.

Dante: Put your hand down. You look fuckin' ridiculous..

Xander attempted to swing again to only find that Dante would not yield an inch. Finally, he submitted seemingly defeated. Dante released with ease while Snake merely chuckled.

Xander: He don' know me, cuz. I swear on momma's this nigga got me straight fucked up. You attacked me when I wasn't lookin', you punk ass bitch. Bet you duckets I'll whoop dat ass. Put me in the front seat, you geriatric ass hill billy!

Snake laughed while he cracked his neck and subsequent other joints his body.

Snake: Well do my ears deceive me? Sounds like Mush Mouth and the Cosby Kids want a match! Gladly, kid. Gladly.

Dante: Not entirely a fair match, Randy. The kid's greener than baby shit. He's got no training and obviously no background in combative arts. It'd be like beating a crippled kid with his own crutch.

Snake: You've got a better idea?

Dante: Tag match.

Snake: Usual wager, then?

Dante: Sure. I could use a beer. Who you got on your squad?

Snake would take this time to scower the crowd. Meanwhile, Dante pulled Xander aside to speak to him privately.

Dante: You got a name, bruh?

Xander (mumbles):..Freddie.

Dante: Speak up when I'm talkin' to you, damnit. Use your words. Do. You. Have. A. Name?

Xander: Freddie, aiight?! My name's Freddie.

Dante: What's your ring name?

Xander: Freddie Dangerous.

Dante (snorts): That's a shitty name.

Xander (angrily): My pops gave me that name, cuz.

Dante: Oh? And did your mommy make your ring attire too?

Xander glowered at Dante who merely shrugged off his vehemence with indifference. Snake pointed into the crowd after he inspected them directly at Marou.

Snake: You. Lover boy. Strap up. Get your goofy ass in here.

Xander (grumbles): Sheeyt. He would pick that muahfucka.

Dante: Don't worry, Freddie. I'll protect you from the big gay dude.

Xander: I don't need yo' protection, bruh. I can handle mines. Just stay the fuck out of my way, dig me?

Dante (shrugs): If you insist. Try to keep them asscheeks tight, aiight? Tag out when it gets too rough. Isolate him away from Snake's corner. I'll handle the bulk of it. Think you can manage?

Dante swatted Xander on his left butt cheek in jest and gave him an overly dramatic wink. Xander would fume, incensed at being embarrassed and belittled as though he were a mere child. He shook this off and removed his hoodie before he discarded it over the ring ropes and made his way back to the center of the ring. Dante exited the ring promptly to his corner and wrapped his hand around the tag rope. On the opposite end of the ring Snake, after a brief deliberation with Marou, would also exit the ring and do the same. Marou lumbered his way adjacent to Xander who, still peeved at the larger man's implication in his lampooning, tightened his knuckles into a fist. Before they could begin, however, Snake spoke out.

Snake: For the benefit of the class and for the two competitors, let me make the rules crystal clear. This is a tag team exhibition. Pinfalls or pinning your opponent's shoulders to the mat for a three count and submissions or placing your opponent into a hold where they are unable to answer either a three count or they tap out are null and void. You go and keep going until I say otherwise. Other than that, tag team match rules apply. One on one of the legal men encounter one another inside the confines of the ring ropes. The man outside the ring must have both feet firmly planted on the canvas and his hand on the tag rope in order to make a tag. Tags constitute as physical contact of any sort between partners. Once a tag is made, the teammate must return to their corner after a five count or the entire group is running endurance drills until I feel like not watching you sloppy fucks huff and puff any longer. Ass Viking. Do you understand the rules of this contest?

Marou would nod solemnly as he chose to remain silent.

Snake: And how about you, Flavor Flav?

Xander: I got you, blud..

Snake: Good. Now. RING THE DAMN BELL!

Ding Ding Ding...

Voice: DUNT STOP....BREEEEVIN'!!! HO ON TO THA 心持ち!!! STREETWRIGHTS!!!! P-P-PEP-ピープル

Drunken slurring and incoherent babbling are the buzzing noise beneath the din of the obnoxious music stylings of Kiyoshi Ryu. The setting is a dingy dive bar in Nasvhille, Tennessee or, more specifically, a dingy karokee bar. The putrid smell of urine and alcohol intermingle to create a unique pungent aroma that wafts over the haze of cigarette smoke and chattering. The poorly lit stage is cluttered with sound equipment, a live band, and a DJ booth - all of whom look increasingly more confused than the drunken patrons. Center stage and beneath the burn of the spotlight is the aforementioned Ryu garbed in a horrible hairy brown suit and tie but also adorned in his traditional puroresu's mask, swaying belligerently and comically gesticulating his hips to Journey's classic "Don't Stop Believing" (his choice). In his gyration, he knocks over an amp, causing feedback and jeers from the predominantly white, southern, Bible Belt crowd. Catcalls and heckling commence after this. Undaunted by their hatred and perhaps braver still due to his masked persona, Ryu continues his rendition.

Ryu: J-JUS A SM-SM-SMALL TOWN G-GIRL/
孤独な世界に住んでいる/
彼女はどこにも行かない G-GOIN' ANYWHHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEERE/
JUS A SH-ITTY BOY...BORN N'RAISED IN SOUTH DETWOIIIIIITTTTTTT/
彼女はどこにも行かない G-GOIN' ANYWHHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEERE

The Japanese mixed in with English does nothing to help warm over the crowd and, in fact, incites more boos. The camera pans around as the background noise fades to find Xander Kross sitting in a lone corner, attempting to not draw attention to himself. Given that he wasn't that well known, this wasn't entirely too difficult which worked favorably for him. Sipping on his preferred blend of apple juice and Hennessy, he turned to the camera while attempting to stifle his laughter.

Xander: Heh heh..what's poppin' y'all. Yeah, it's ya boy that Hustle Kang aka The REAL Truth (no Paul Pierce) aka Doctor Beast Mode Xander Kross. Already, I have to apologize to y'all for that last joint I did. Shit was mad bunk and I didn't expect it to win me any die hard Beasties. Still, y'all Tweeted y'all love to @XKBeastMode and I appreciate that. Big ups to my nigga Bootise in Pelican Bay. I'm surprised they let yo' felonious ass anywhere near a computer or a television so for you to be able to peep ya boy doin' his thang on the screen was a bit humblin'. AY! FREE MAH NIGGA BOOTSIE! He was jus' tryin' to feed his babies, y'all. He wuldn't causin' no kinda trouble. I mean..yeah he was pushin' a lil' tree but who among y'all don't smoke now a days anyway? Anywho, I'm comin' to y'all from Nashville - the birth place of Rock n' Roll to the eyes of many but also a place where wrasslin' is still doin' big thangs. So when I heard that Corruption would be filmin' here, this took precedence over some of my other obligations. I ain't gon' say no names cause a nigga don' wanna get fined by the suits but let us say that Doctor Beast Mode was none-too-pleased with havin' to straight up beg to get on the last card with no build, no billin', and then thrown into an impromptu match with niggas I didn't even have any beef with.

I ain't no angry cat, y'all. Generally, I get along with everyone. I might talk a lot of shit, yeah. But when you on the court, that's how you gotta get in these nigga's heads. You gotta keep yo' name on they mouth to even get a lil' attention. Lo' and behold, ya boy's movin' on up the card why other suckas *cough*DallasRolland*cough* still jerkin' dicks, curtains, balls, and any other assortment of limbs they can get they grubby lil' hands on. They put me in a match against Axel Van Osbourne and Trey Spruance. And let me tell y'all that..I really don't dislike neither one of these crackheads. In fact, these niggas got me straight rollin'. They really is a fuckin' crack up. If they didn't take themselves so seriously, they might actually go places. But both dudes have pretty much been fed to every one under the gotdamn sun to build up fresh faces. They don't complain. They do they job and get paid. So respect for that. I ain't never one to hate on a) a nigga who loyal to his patna and b) a nigga who stays on his grind despite other people cappin' on him. Kinda like how all these niggas be talkin' mad shit about people like Jeff Watson or my nigga Slegnadamus.

You see, America. Muahfuckas can't stand a team on they grind. People be hatin' for the sake of hatin'. They always wanna hate and laugh at cats who just ain't really gettin' a fair shake. I'm speakin' directly to the dirt sheet writers who be clownin' but ain't never a day stepped in the shoes of a professional wrestler. They don't know how difficult shit is to not be gettin' top billin' like the Hannibal Frosts and the Drew Michaels who have nice little incentives like paid airfare and better hotel accommodations. But, again, I ain't hatin' on them. They earned their quap and they spot. But have y'all actually talked to AVO and Trey Spruance? Asked them about where they at in they lives or where they came up from? Trey himself's a fellow Cali-boy. And he's never made no bones that he enjoys the Cali-herb. I don't smoke no more myself but this business is pain. Everything you be seein' us do hurts to holy hell. So can anyone really hate if dude wanna toke up once and again to keep his shit together (or as together as one might possibly be blitzed out of they mind). We travel all year with limited vacation time to entertain you, the fans, at great personal expense. There is no family on the road 'scept the patna you got at yo' side and maybe a handful of other dependable niggas who is down to roll when shit gets grimy. I, myself, am findin' that Kiyoshi is pretty dine. And if I was closed minded and into myself, I would've never known that.

Which brings me to, I guess, is my point in this lil' fireside chat. This industry, despite what anyone might tell you, is a community. It is tightly knit, insular, and self-governed. Professional wrestlin' has its own laws, its own creedos, its dos and don'ts. It's very much a caste system or like-like a microcosm of what people classify as "real life". Sometimes, the only person you got to rely on is yo'self. But with an attitude like that, you might never grow. It took me a real good look at myself to come to this realization, y'all. I ain't no perfect individual or some cherubic angel. I be doin' dirt some times and it gets paid back to me ten fold. Is that by the Good Lord himself? Who knows? Sometimes, you gotta take a risk and step outside yo'self to find a kinship or bond with a like-minded individual. A wise cat once told me 'in order to create opportunity for one's self, one must create opportunity for others'. Some real deep, Ghandi-level shit SON!

In short, I'm takin' these opportunity as it comes by. If that means tryin' to find common ground with a dude I normally wouldn't associate with? That's coo' by me. If that means encounterin' people and goin' hands wit them for no other reason other than a desire to be the absolute best, that's also coo' wit me. I'm just a Cali boy with a Dolla and a dream.

Come take a ride wit me and I promise y'all won't be disappointed.


Deuces. Beast Mode out. One.

To Be Continued (CLICK)

4-19-2011-As I watched and beheld Caesar actually putting up a fight and win, a small sense of relief came over me. We wouldn't have to suffer his last return, or the fact that during that last return, he hadn't had a win since late...2008? Is that how far in time we are? Anyway, it was good to see Caesar gain that victory, especially against a man of importance like Smitten.

Yet even in this relief, another sense of dread came over me. What is going to be his reaction to his victory?

Caesar has been haunted by some spirit the last few weeks, making him break into cold sweets and frantic fits of fear and rage. There are nights when even the strength of young Judas cannot contain Caesar in his mental fear and anguish.

What can I do? Even though most days I would be willing to shove him into a volcano and throw random cups of water on top of him while he's burning, he is my charge. I must see him through to the end.

Even if it is the death of my insanity as well.

We see Flavius Mercury in his study, finishing another one of his chronicles on his master. The next morning, they fly to Tennessee for Caesar's next match up. Mercury had just found out that very night the match and the reward if Victory comes. He just decided to wait until Caesar awoke to give him the news. He sees young Judas approach him. The young man always maintains a stoic demeanor. Even when he may be down, you can never tell.


Mercury: Beautiful night Judas, don't you think?

Judas: Indeed Master Mercury.

Mercury: How is our little tyrant tonight?

Judas: Actually sleeping well. The victory I assume did something to ease his mind of some things. And for tonight at least, the thing that haunts him has not struck. A good omen, I think.

Mercury: Good, good. Judas, I have a question.

Judas: Yes master?

Mercury: What happened in Vatican City? Before we all left to come back here to America?

Judas: We went to the Castel Sant'Angelo.

Mercury: The burial place of the late Empire emperors and Roman popes?

Judas: Yes, master.

Mercury: Why did he go there?

Judas: He wanted to get the urn of the ashes of Marcus Aurelius. While there, I believe he actually had a vision from his old master. He seemed more subdued after we left the Castle. And made me a proposition to help me get Craig Christ in the future.

Mercury: That is right. Craig just joined up in FMW. And he was normal after you went to the castle?

Judas: Yes...within reason. He still has his temper. That power street cleaner...

Mercury: I have to admit, he was very subdued after his victory against Smitten. The man beat a former World Heavyweight Champion, and instead of having a drunken revelry like I was expecting, all he did was throw javelins at multiple pizza men that he prank called to deliver and had them chased by Aurelius the Lion. Sad to say, that is an improvement for Caesar. Maybe the vision will show us a new, more understanding Caesar. Maybe...


Caesar has groggily entered the room, unknown to Mercury and Judas. In his tired madness, he picks up a his personal copy of Marcus Aurelius' “Meditations” and brains Mercury with it before he can finish his sentence. The poor man can never catch a break. That bit of senseless violence does for Caesar though what coffee would do for a normal man.


Caesar: Oh, I am now awake. Judas, be a good man and fetch me some coffee and a good steak for Aurelius. My lion did proud work the other day. Got four of those drivers, I believe.

Judas: Yes master.


As Judas walks off, Mercury stands back up, holding his head in pain. The part about being human that Mercury hates the most. Pain! Because he is subjected to it on a daily basis.


Caesar: Ok, my guardian, secretary, paper boy. What am I up against next time? I am assuming they are giving me a match after my triumph last show?

Mercury: You needed assistance to pick up that win. Smitten was killing you before...


Caesar, not amused as always from Mercury's backtalk, brains him with the book again. After being down for 45 seconds, Mercury gets up again, a huge headache following him.


Caesar: Now, as you where saying about my match?

Mercury: You will be facing War Machine. The man is a former champion.

Caesar: I recall the name. Though it is misleading. I am the true War Machine! I have actually fought in actual combat!

Mercury: Guiomar did nice work on you, didn't he Caesar?

Caesar: You know? I will let that one slide, as there seems to be more of this match than meets the eye. So finish what you where saying about the match. Or else the next time I come upside your head, it won't be with this book. It will be with my lovely Meteor Hammer. Do we understand one another?

Mercury: Just like your understanding with whores.

Caesar: Good, good! Proceed.

Mercury: You must face War Machine in a regular match. The winner seems to be getting a championship title shot.

Caesar: Trophies? Glory? More women?

Mercury: Yes, Caesar!

Caesar: Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get to where we need to go! Come on! Let's go now! We must prepare! We must order the whores to be ready for my impending victory!


Mercury sighs as Caesar is going frantic over the chance to raise his prestige. That and already dismissing his opponent.



We are now seeing Caesar and company driving out of the airport in Nashville at a fast pace.


Mercury: Did you have to throw that guy into the baggage claim door?

Caesar: He made fun of my glorious outfit! And he called Judas a greaser!

Mercury: How did you know that was a slur against Judas? And he called me a fairy, yet you didn't defend me?

Caesar: I know the truth hurts sometimes, Mercury, but you are going to have to accept that you just look like something from a girly Greek play. As for me knowing it was a slur to Judas, the man's demeanor and the hate you could see in his six teeth said it all.

Mercury: This is going to be a long ride. I just know it is going to be a long ride.

Caesar: Onward! To glory! What is that infernal ringing noise?

Mercury: It is the cellular phone Caesar.

Caesar: Oh. So it is. Judas, would you be so kind to answer that...cellular phone?

Judas: Would you like for me to put it on speaker, sir? So you can hear what they are saying and talk back to whoever is calling?

Caesar: Sounds like a wonderful theory, Judas.

Judas: Hello. You are on speaker phone, so please speak clearly.

??????: Hello there gentlemen. My lord Caesar. I believe you remember our little meeting in Rome before Mount Vesuvius?

Caesar: Ah yes! The regal gentlemen that was such a fine host. How are you, fellow? And I feel like I am crazy, talking to someone that isn't here.

??????: Thank you for the compliments. I just wanted you to know that I have, shall we say, a wide spread influence in parts of the world. And I like to take care of friends. Please young master Judas, relay these directions to Mr. Mercury, and it will take you to the top 5 star hotel in Tennessee. You won't have to deal with the hayseeds that are normally found in this state.

Caesar: Forgive my ignorance. But what is a...five star hotel?

??????: Let us just say that it accommodates only those that are wealthy and important. Everything in the hotel will be taken care of. Just go to the receptionist, say Mr. Caesar and Company, and you will be taken care of.

Caesar: Thank you for your very Roman like kindness. I still don't know your name sir?

??????: For right now, we must only be on terms like this. I must be off. But we will be in touch soon. I might need a man like you to help me do what needs to be done.

Caesar: If you keep all this regal hospitality up, if you need anyone tortured, I would do it for free.

??????: I will actually keep that in mind. Farewell, Caesar.


As the phone clicks, the car is at a stop light. Caesar opens the window to get some fresh air. A native of the city who is walking on the side walk, starts to make disparaging remarks toward Caesar for his choice of clothing and makes anti-immigrant comments toward Judas. Caesar proceeds to smash the man with a 10 foot mallet...



...or that is what Caesar would have done in his cartoon like memory when thinking about how to punish someone. Put out that he doesn't have a mallet, Caesar walks out of the car and starts to pummel the man. He does his work quickly, than shoves him head first into a trash can. He pants the man and pulls out a nowhere a flag and violently shoves it where the sun doesn't shine. The starts to flail about, but Caesar kicks the part of the trash can where his head is at and he is out could, the flag waving majestically from the pole in the man's ass. Mercury shakes his head.


Mercury: Was there really a need to put a flag that says “Caesar owned your plebeian behind” really necessary?

Caesar: He was rude to Judas. And what is more odious is that he was rude to me! Enough of this talk. To the hotel. I must be bathed and oiled and screwed by three beautiful women! Onward!


The three men drive off, leaving behind the stupid man who is still out cold with a flag pole up his ass.

-Corruption 13.2
LIVE from the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee-

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

Where the fuck is everybody?

Trey Spruance is sitting backstage listening to reggae, smoking a cigarette when Axel Van Osborne walks in.

Trey: Whats cracking man?

AVO: We got ourselves a tag match!

Trey: Shit I better prepare!

Trey gets a bag of grass out and starts rolling a spliff.

AVO: That's right, you do need to prepare, and from the looks of things, you know how to.

Trey: I'm always prepared, as long as I have money and a guitar.

Trey gets a electric guitar out and starts playing “Master of Puppets” on it.

AVO: Dude that was awesome!

Trey: I've been practising haha.

Trey goes back to rolling the joint.

Trey: Shit I've ran out of tobacco! That was my last cigarette.

AVO: Guess we're heading to the shop then.

Trey: I've got no change have you got any?

AVO: Nah man.

Trey: Looks like we're gonna have to steal the tobacco.

AVO: No problem.

Cut to a liquor store near by. Trey Spruance and Axel Van Osborne are wearing masks to cover their faces. Trey walks into the store.

Trey: Gimmie all the money in the till, 20 cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey.

Store Clerk: Have you even got a gun?

Trey: Yo Axel, did you remember the gun?

AVO: Yeah man!

Axel Van Osborne pulls out a semi-automatic pistol and points it at the store clerk.

Store Clerk: Shit I guess you're serious.

Trey: Damn straight!

The store clerk starts packing a bag full of the stuff Trey asked for.

AVO: Where are the police?

Trey: Up your ass.

AVO: Logical explanation.

Trey grabs the bag and runs off with Axel following.

Cut back to backstage at FMW.

Trey: Right, back to rolling this spliff.

Axel: I'ma drink some whiskey and play your guitar.

Trey: Don't scratch the paint work.

Axel: No problemo.

AVO starts playing “Sweet Child Of Mine” on the guitar. Trey finishes rolling the joint and lights up.

Trey: Holy shit.

AVO: Strong weed?

Trey: Chronic is mad.

AVO: Hahaha, lemme have a toke.

Axel inhales some of the joint and starts choking.

AVO: Woahhhh.

Trey: Now we're ready to beat the shit out of Kross and Ryu!

AVO: Yeah man. Only thing is, Kross is one angry bastard. We better double team the punk until he stops moving or something.

Trey: Maybe we could go to his lockeroom and lace his water with LSD.

AVO: That might work but it also could make him stronger and more dangerous.

Trey: Yeah, thats true. This one time on LSD I beat up a bum for no reason other than I was high.

AVO: Probably not a good idea then.

Trey: Shit. I'm all out of ideas, guess we're just gonna have to stick it out.

AVO: We lost last week, it can't happen again.

Trey: We won't lose, not with marijuana on our side!

AVO: True. We got this in the bag.

Trey: Dude totally.

Scene fades out.

I walked into my shabby one bedroom apartment, brushing past my sickly mustard coloured curtains, which still had the effects from having a couple of larger cans covering it, luckily, the vomit had blended in, but the stench of sick was still in the air. I kicked the stray cat which always seemed to end up in my apartment, scrounging bastard. I then saw, sat on my coffee table, a rather large cardboard box with a note attached. The note read:


I chuckled slightly and opened the box. Trophies I had won when I first started boxing instantly caught my eye. I lifted one trophy at a time and read the inscription on a couple: Port Talbot U-14 Invitational, West Wales Open Winner, Llewellyn Smith Tournament Champion, there was more of course, but why include meaningless ones?

I searched the contents of the box, I pulled out a framed newspaper clipping, “Rotunda decimates Cornell”, read the headline. I remember that fight well, I absolutely battered him. Within a couple of punches his eye was in tatters. He had to retire from boxing because of it, and then blamed me for it, Should have kept your guard up, whiny dickhead.

I then came across the photo of my dad, Muhammad Ali, despite him being famous, mum didn’t like to talk about him much, never knew why. The only reason I did go into boxing was to be like dad, and yet, I….I failed. Sure, it’s pretty sad. But now I’m part of The Pack and a lot of people are starting to fear us, and many a dream shall be killed, much like mine was. I like to think of others as pests, while I am the exterminator, slowly killing off those who don’t seem fit to live or compete.
With my desire, hunger, and overall ability, I will soon become a champion, better than most of those guys, and then I will finally been known worldwide.


“Hey Thomas, what we’re doing in this shithole?” I said to my agent, Thomas Ap Gruff as we sat in the Yellow Knight Inn. The pub was dimly lit and dead, smells like it to. Thomas raises an eyebrow, before staring into his pint.

“Look, we’re here for about 15 mins, tops. How are things going in FMW?”

“Good, things are going swell with The Pack, I’m getting a decent wage and I’m doing better than some of the roster,” I chuckled.

“Well mate, I’ve got something great to tell you, something to propel you to stardom.”

“What is it” I pressed.

“Title Shot,” He said excitedly. “You don’t really look surprised, Seth.”

“I’ve had it coming,” I said cockily as I leaned back in my chair.

“Well, yeah, of course……” Thomas replied, uncertainly.

“Do I deserve this?” I stared at Thomas.

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

“Nice to know we’re on the same page,” I nodded.

“So, lets have a look at your opponent,” He announced.

“What’s his name?” I enquired.

“Apostasy, the newly-crowned Abandoned Champion. He’s a youngster, five years younger than you,
atheist, was under the tutelage of one, Edible Matthews, who I think is deceased. Anyway, he then went under the tutelage of another guy called Edible, went to Distortion, which went on to be cancelled, he got a title shot, cashed it in and now here we are today.”

“Interesting,” I say as many images of me knocking out Apostasy, and having my hand raised with the title on my shoulder, flood through my mind. Thomas can tell what I’m thinking of as he smiles and nods.

“See I told you, screw boxing, that shit sailed ages ago, now, you’ve got a chance of being a champion, I can see it now, your name at the bottom of the card, defending that title, your name up in lights.”

“Wait, bottom of the card? I thought the title was prestigious,” I questioned.

“It is, it is, everybody on Distortion aimed for it, surly it must mean something if people have cashed in their title shots on it.”

“But it’s bottom of the card. I repeat bottom. I don’t like that word,” I said.

“It’s a start, you’re getting there, it’s a title, take it,” Thomas encouraged.

We both paused for second, taking swigs from our pints. Thomas stroked his chin, as if he was trying to bring words to his mouth.

“You’re bound to win anyway,” Thomas said, as if he was trying to change my perspective on the match.

“I’m Seth Rotunda, I win anyway.”

“Anyway, this guy is a choker and that’s not the worst part. He thinks he’s better than you.”

“Could you repeat that?”

“He thinks he’s better than you,” Thomas squeaked.

I clenched my fists and stood up and sat back down immediately, trying to find something to do, something to supress my mental rage. Sure, I’m a rookie, but I don’t like being told that some people who I think are below me, go against my opinion and think they are better than me.

“Oh, I’m so going to break his jaw, Thomas,” I said, before slamming my fist down on the table. Yeah, that felt good, that let out the rage.

“Take it out on your opponent, not the table.”

“Nobody looks down on me, I look down on them,” I muttered.

“If it helps, the guy has abandoned trying to be perfect, in fact, he loves mediocrity,” Thomas said.

“It’s simple then, I’ll show him that you’ve got to be perfect to stand a chance of beating me.”

“Yep, you do that, future champ and soon, you’re gonna be all over the TV, performing in many different countries, and you’ll become a house hold name, not to mention all the ladies who’ll be swooning after you,” Thomas said.

My eyes lit up.

“I like the sound of that.”

-Corruption 13.2
LIVE from the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee-

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

[center]-Corruption 13.2
LIVE from the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee-

Return Match
Dallas Roland

Tag Team Match
Trey and Axel vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy
Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

I need mo' promo and such. I'll decide on the Tag match after I see De's Promo

-Corruption 13.2
LIVE from the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee-

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Shark Boy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

That final breathe
That last ounce of strength
Those fingertips on the edge
Heart in mouth
Stomach clutched
Bottom Lip bit

Mt. V 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!!!!

Boice: CELT HAS FINALLY DONE IT! FINALLY WON IT! AFTER SO MANY YEARS IN FULL METAL WRESTLING, THE CELT HAS WON HIS FIRST CHAMPIONSHIP!

Flare: …Isn’t that sad? His brother, whom we all thought was inferior, and that’s saying something, was able to win a championship before he can.

Boice: But let’s look at the guys who have held this title! Nick Bryson! Jaro! Harley Quint! All future Hall of Famers! The Celt has just cemented himself in the halls of the greats with this victory!

Flare: Well, congratulations to Celtykins, then. Let’s hope he doesn’t showstop the title.

Boice: Indeed!

The referee gives Celt his championship, and he forgets his rage. His expression finally changes to that of happiness and ecstasy over his first title win.

Boice: There we go! There’s a happy Celt!

Flare: …That sounded wrong.

Boice: And Celt should be happy! He’s worked his ass off and nearly killed himself just by chasing that championship!

That flood of oxygen
That rush of ecstasy
Warm relief washes over
And wipes away the pain
Frustration and anger cast out
And joy carries the body home

The Celt takes the Ultraviolent title, the lynchpin of Corruption, and thrusts high into the air. It’s not just for the enjoyment of the crowd, but also as a symbol of validation, of finally making right all those broken promises, all those commitments he made to winning the title and restoring a sense of pride in Corruption. He’d finally made good on his word, he’d finally shown he could be trusted to guard over the red brand. And that meant everything to him.

Bloody Redemption
Path to paradise
Breathe easy now

The Celt lays there in the bathtub of his hotel room; warm water cleaning the wounds of broken down body, one arm wrapped around the Morrígan, another around a cold beer. For the last number of years he committed and dedicated himself to Corruption, and while he didn’t do it for the glory, the constant berating and character question had run him down just as much as the fighting.
Whenever Celt lost matches he was criticised as irrelevant, a joke and incapable of being the enforcer he said FMW needed. Now in more recent times with his fortune beginning to change and his win count beginning to grow once again he was criticised for being too “brutal” in his approach, showing a level of violence beyond what is required. So often it felt like he couldn’t do right for doing wrong, and most jading of all his loudest critics are the ones with no moral code at all.
It was a subtle blow to his morale, like the small cut that annoyingly and stubbornly pours blood like water. He didn’t want to care what his peers thought, but in his heart he knows a simple pat on the back and recognition of what he been through would at least clear the grim tone of his life. Sometimes it seem he was the lone figure who seemed to care about the scandals that so often rocked the shaky foundation of FMW; when Andy Savana killed to hype a match, he cared. When Corruption caused a riot in Kansas City of all places, Celt cared. And throw together the combine effect of HavOc and Jaro over the last few years, Celt came close to losing hair.
That grim tone coupled a poor track record for keeping friends and a love relationship that makes Ross & Rachel look stable makes for a hard-bitten attitude. But now finally, after thirsting for so long in the desert he found his reward, something undeniable to speak to his hard work and toll.

Heavenly reprieve
Food for the soul
Precious subsidence


Post 13.2
A fresh looking Celt sits at a table in the hotel canteen. Instead of his usual somewhat tired and drained appearance, Celt appears far more presentable with his hair actually brushed into place for a change and no dirty stubble to cover his face. Celt is quietly working his way through breakfast, eating some toasted sandwiches having already finished off a bowl of cereal. For the average person this scene couldn’t seem more average, and yet for Celt it’s actually a pleasant new addition to his schedule. It taken him quite some time, but Celt was finally breaking out of a highly chaotic sleep pattern that saw so multiple days slip away with barely any sleep. Prone to being ravaged by stress and the pressure to succeed, Celt had experienced many a night turn into a fever like sleep free nightmare. Thankfully with the benefit of a few months what qualifies as “calm” for FMW, he’d been able to put that behind him.
Celt reaches out to one side and picks up his complementary newspaper. With FMW normally being a whirlwind of controversy it was actually quite easy to be highly disconnected with the real world, luckily these days there’s a chance to actually catch up with the world.

HhahahLibyahahaHAhGaddafi'sAHACorresHAHApondentHhHAHAhaHSyriaAHahHAhaHunrestahahaha 100 protestorswereHahaHahahAHAhahAa front line of Misrata'shhHAHhA HAhaHahaHOHoo hohohh heheheeh adhheheMISS ME CELTYBOY????heohohaahahaoheheoha

Every headline, every caption, every photograph, every word of every report is covered in black ink clearly from a pen. Randomly sized Hahahas cover the vast majority of every page, although occasionally half finished jokes, cruel cartoons and moronic one-liners appear in between the insanity. In a section discussing France’s banning of the burqa a half conclude joke about strict Muslim women appearing like British postboxes appears in the margin, while in a section covering the war in Libya cruel doodles cover children forced to live in the streets. Amazingly in one section is written “I forget how the joke ends, but your mother’s a whore”.

“He’s back”

Celt scans the canteen nervously; he picked up this paper at seemingly random, yet glancing over the manic scribbles it’s clear hours went into creating this.

“Guess the rest bite is over...”

Later, at the SoA Clubhouse
Celt stares across a coffee table to the other members of Corruption’s seemingly premier alliance; the Sons of Attrition. The four are sitting on arm-chairs cantered around a coffee table. Formed as a reply to the re-emergence of Jaro as CEO of FMW, the effectiveness of the alliance was something Celt was only questioning more and more rather than then less and less like he hoped. Ever increasingly it feels like the SoA are the equivalent of getting a Butcher’s cleaver when the call goes out for a surgeon’s scalpel, like a military solution to a political problem. The most contentious part of the whole thing for Celt was joining the group meant having to interact with none other than Hannibal Frost; former HavOc member.

“See anything you like in the paper Frost?” asks Celt as he tosses the newspaper

Frost shoots Celt a questioning look, he knows by now anything Celt verbally throws probably has something behind it. The Full Metal Champion casts his eyes over the jumbled piece of madness in front of him.

“Then the woman at the till says, “But I already gave you the money! And the robber says “I know” says Frost, reading aloud “Boom goes the grenade...”

“Where’s the start to the joke?” asks David GS.

“Doesn’t exist” replies Frost, “It’s just a mess of random thoughts”.

“I’m sure Harlequin thinks it funny because he “gets” it or something” pipes in Leon Caprice

“What I want to know is...do you find it funny Frost” Celt says to Frost

Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to fold up the paper and toss it back to Celt

“It’s sick” Frost says in a very final manner

“Yeah...but are you laughing?” Even Celt knew he said that in a pretty dickish manner, but it’s not like he could go back and change his tone now.

Frost stares at Celt for a moment, one eye half closed

“Ha...Ha” Frost says drawn out and slowly, mocking Celt’s question.

“Look, what are we all doing here? Is this what we really all gathered for?” asks David DG, attemping to cut the tension

“I don’t know, why are we here? I tell you guys Harlequin is back and you’re looking at me like “Well, what the fuck do you expect me do about it Celt?” so yeah, why are we here people. I mean, what is the damn agenda? Frost, you’re the one who was calling me on the phone telling I should join up and make a difference and that all the pieces were going to fall into place once it got started...just what the fuck are we going to do?”

“First off, if you’ve a problem with Harlequin Celt then don’t worry, the SoA will do whatever it takes to keep him in line, and secondly, being the FMW Champion, if Harley wants a piece of this he can come get it because frankly... we’ve unsettled business” declares Frost.
“...That’s it, that’s your go to response? Let’s all just...take him head on and see what happens?

“Well, isn’t that what you did the last time with him?” Frost snaps back at Celt berating

“I don’t know if I can ever do that a second time...” Celt says quietly

“Look, can we cut out all this nonsense? Celt, if you’re worried about people like Harlequin you’re best choice of action is to stick with us, there’s strength in numbers” says Leon, attempting to be the voice of reason

“I tell you what, I ain’t afraid of Harlequin, and If the chance comes my way to face him, you can bet I’ll take that match” pops in DGS, almost cheerily.

Celt stares sternly at David, and leans forward towards him.

“You’re not afraid of him huh?”

David GS purses his lips a little bit before shaking his head side to side

“I know what he put you through Celt, I know how brutal he can be, but I’ll take him and show him who the boss is”

Celt looks down from David and rubs the blackened fingernail of right middle finger, the fingernail that had to grow back after Harlequin tore the last one out.

“If you don’t fear Harlequin, that’s fine...but always fear what he’s capable of” Celt says poignantly.

“Look Celt, maybe now not the time to be getting worked up about Harlequin, shouldn’t you be gearing up for Jack Eastwood?”

“You mean the other guy we’re not dealing with effectively as a group? Yeah...he’s on my mind. In fact, he could be a hell of a problem”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” chips in Frost “I thought he’s the one person you’ve got something over”

“Eastwood is an animal I’ve backed up against into a corner, he’s hurt and he’s angry and now I’ve no idea whether he’s got the strength to lash out or not...it’s going to be interesting” replies Celt before pausing to reflect for a moment.

A silence falls over the group as no really has anything to add.

“So is this it?” asks Celt

“I don’t think anyone else has anything major happen just now Celt” replies Leon

“...or was my question one directed at the nature of this seemingly aimless group” says Celt

“We do have a purpose Celt” responds Frost

“That’s nice Frost” says Celt, raising from his seat “Now find us a damn agenda or else I really don’t know why any of us are wasting our time with this fucking thing”.

We see our intrepid FMW reporter Alex King roaming the backstage area. She stops at every door she comes to, slowly pushing it open and peeking inside. At the 5th door, she walks in and we see War Machine emerging from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Oh, I’m so sorry! I can come back in a few minutes!

Why? You ain’t never seen a schlong before?

Alex’s face turns bright red from embarrassment as she turns her back to War Machine, who quickly pulls on a pair of boxers under his towel.

Oh grow up. What do you want, anyway?

W-w-well, you just had you first match back in some time, and you lost. Th-th-there were some -

Oh, for shit’s sake, will you look at me?

Alex slowly turns around and finds that WM is dressed from the waist down in black dress pants, black shoes, and pulling on a tank top undershirt.

There was some talk leading up to your match, as well as during it, about you having some ring rust.

Yeah? No shit. Anytime anybody leaves the ring for an extended period of time and comes back there’s always talk about ring rust, no matter who it is. Hell, I KNOW I got a little bit of rust. But my match tonight, even though I lost, shook it off. My next match, make no mistake about it, but there won’t be ANYBODY questioning that.

War Machine finishes putting on his suit, grabs his gear bag, and makes his way to his car with Alex following behind him. The duo make their way through the arena and to a waiting black Jaguar XJL in the parking garage. War Machine gets into the back, and the door is closed before Alex can join him. He rolls down the window and looks at her.

Speaking of your next match, the card for 13.2 was already posted outside Jaro’s office before I came looking for you.

Yeah? And?

Your facing MASS Caesar. The winner gets a shot at the Abandoned Title.

Interesting

War Machine rolls up the window and the Jaguar pulls away and heads for the hotel. He leans back and closes his eyes.

[color=gold]So, a title shot if I beat a mental patient who thinks he‘s actually a Roman emperor, huh? Seems doable. But I know I‘ll have my hands full. It‘s always the crazy ones you have to watch out for.


Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall, and it is a Last Man Standing match for the XWF Intercontinental Championship! Introducing first to my right, the challenger. Weighing in tonight at 294 pounds. From Boston, Massachusetts, accompanied by his manager Dennis Williamson…ANEURYSM!

The man now known as War Machine is standing in the ring, with Dennis Williamson standing behind him. He bounces back and forth from foot to foot as Williamson exits the ring.

And now introducing the man to my right. Weighing in tonight at 300 pounds. From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, he is the current XWF Intercontinental Champion…SARKHAN!

The crowd cheers wildly for the local champ, who takes off the belt and hands it to the referee.

Welcome ladies and gentlemen to XWF’s Resurrection. I’m Will Kattan and with me as always is my broadcast partner Charlie Ferrell. Looks like we’re gonna kick things off tonight in a big way.

Yeah, And the champ Sarkhan looks like he’s gonna have his hands full here with the upstart Aneurysm. Not much is known about the guy, but in the 5 months he’s been here he’s been on fire and earned the title shot for the Intercontinental title.

The bell rings and Sarkhan charges out of his corner and face first into Aneurysm’s raised boot. He drops to the mat, and Aneurysm starts stomping on the back of his head. He picks Sarkhan up off the mat, whips him into the ropes, and drills him with a tilt-a-whirl back breaker.

Holy jeez, I think I just heard Sarkhan’s spine snap on that one! The champ is in trouble early on as Aneurysm is coming out of the gate hard and fast.

That’s funny, I came out of the gate hard and fast with your mom last night.

Really? Still with the mom jokes?

Aneurysm throws Sarkhan over the top rope and to the floor. He backs up to the other side of the ring, runs, jumps to the top rope, and nails Sarkhan with a shooting star press.

Holy shit! I can’t believe a guy that size could be so agile! He just nailed a shooting star press off the top rope like he was a cruiserweight!

1...

I don’t think Sarkhan even knows where he is right now, and Aneurysm hasn’t even broken a sweat yet. Nails him with the powerbomb,

2...

and right into the sit-out facebuster! WMD! WMD! This could be it!

3...

Sarkhan is knocked out, laying lifeless on the floor as the referee stops his count from Aneurysm rolling into the ring under the bottom rope. He gets up, stares a hole through the ref, then goes back outside. He picks up Sarkhan into a fireman’s carry, walks over to the Spanish announce table, and drills Sarkhan through the table with a Death Valley Driver. Aneurysm drags him over to the ring, lifts him up, and bangs his head repeatedly into the ring post until he’s busted open and bleeding. The crowd is booing loudly and fans at ringside are throwing trash at him. All the while Williamson is at ringside barking orders at Aneurysm.

What the hell is he doing now? Just make the cover and end the damn match already! Sarkhan is knocked out on his feet. He doesn’t know who or where he is, he can barely stand, and Aneurysm just keeps beating up on him.

Sarkhan makes a weak attempt at a closeline, which Aneurysm just backs away from, only to turn Sarkhan inside out with a closeline of his own.

War Machine! End it!

What the hell was that all about? Dennis Williamson just called Aneurysm “War Machine”, but as far as I know, War Machine is another wrestler that Williamson manages, but he’s in FMW. Why would he call Aneurysm by someone else’s name?

I don’t know. What I’m more worried about is that Williamson told him to end it, and Aneurysm got this crazy look in his eyes.

Aneurysm rolls Sarkhan into the ring, reaches under the ring, and pulls out a table that he slides into the ring. He sets up the table near the corner, and Williamson tosses him a bottle of lighter fluid, which he sprays all over the table. He tosses the empty bottle into the crowd, picks Sarkhan up off the mat, and throws him back first into the corner. Aneurysm gives him a few stiff shoulder tackles in the ribs, then sits him up on the top turnbuckle.

I don’t think I like the looks of this.

Aneurysm pulls a silver Zippo out of his pocket, lights it, and sets the table ablaze. The crowd is buzzing wildly as he closes the lighter and tosses it into the crowd as well. He climbs up on the turnbuckle as well…

Oh man, I think he’s really going for it.

…cinches Sarkhan into the hold…

No doubt about it, he’s definitely going for it.

…and jumps off the turnbuckle and drills Sarkhan through the flaming table with a vertabreaker.

SPINAL FUSION! HE JUST NAILED SARKHAN WITH THE SPINAL FUSION OFF THE TOP TURNBUCKLE AND THROUGH THE FLAMING TABLE! HOOKS THE LEG, 1...2...3!

Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, and NEW XWF Intercontinental Champion…AAAAAAAAAANEURYSM!


War Machine is standing in front of the window, looking out but not really looking at anything. Lost deep in his own thoughts.

Another chance at redemption. It won’t be my first shot at gold, but I’ll make damn sure that it won’t be my last. And no nut job is gonna keep from climbing the ladder to the top of the FMW food chain.

-Corruption 13.2
LIVE from the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee-

Return Match
Dallas Roland

Tag Team Match
Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine

Abandoned Championship Match
Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt

Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt

Jack: Wake up! Wake up! Come on you lazy sods, get up!

The floor of the Church stirs with a sea of bodies, every member of the Pack rising up from the cold, hard floor. Jack stands at the foot of the stairwell that leads to the Tower, his personal bedroom – certainly a lot better furnished than this en masse sleeping quarters. Daniel rises up from the crowd, cracking his back by stretching his arms out.

Daniel: What time do you call this?

Jack: Who cares, I’ve been lying awake for two hours.

Seth and Blake also pick themselves up, noticeable amongst the crowd. A few of the old guard, Dunnwood’s Congregation, are alert as well, having gotten used to their leader’s insomnia. Unlike Jack’s fellow wrestlers, however, they are standing to attention, backs rigid and respectful, awaiting the obvious announcement.

Daniel: Not all of us have insomnia, you know.

Jack: True. But this is an early start for everyone. I know you’re all sick of sleeping on the floor-

Blake: Too right.

Seth: Yeah, we all have homes, I don’t know why we’re staying here-

Jack: Let me finish, for fuck’s sake – and Seth, half these people were homeless, watch what you say.

Seth: Fair enough, sorry to everyone who was a homeless bum before Jack helped you.

Jack: Enough. Today we’re going to be cleaning out the Asylum, so you’ll all have a room to sleep in.

Daniel: Or a place to crash when I’m too far away from London.

Jack: That too. So what I want you all to do is to gather in teams of four to eight and go out, clearing as much waste out as possible. Don’t pick a room or anything like that, you’ll be given rooms each when this place is cleansed from top to bottom. So let’s get cracking! Grab the people next to you and get to work.

And with that said, scores of human chains begin to appear across the floor as people link arms, grab shoulders, hold hands. Jack himself cuts a swathe through the throngs, the sea of humans parting to let their saviour and leader pass. He quickly grabs Blake by the collar and drags him along.

Jack: Come on, you’re with me.

He then plucks up Daniel and Seth, and after a moment’s hesitation also takes his two trusted followers, Congregation members 56 and 148. Heading up the sextet, he walks at a fair pace through the arch that connects the Church to the Asylum with a sense of purpose.

Blake: So where are we going?

Jack: To the kitchen. I’m getting sick of eating take-out food and shit freeze-dried food. So if we at least get the kitchen done today, we can eat proper home-cooked, decent meals.

Seth: Or, you know, we could not live here?

148: I happen to like it here.

Seth turns to look at the feral young woman, her stunning beauty overshadowed by the snarl warping her face. Before Seth has a chance for a rebuttal Jack places his weighty hands on 148’s shoulders.

Jack: Alright, let’s chill, yeah? You don’t have to live here if you don’t want to, Seth. But this is Pack HQ, and you’re the Pack. So I’d appreciate it if you helped out.

Seth: ...whatever. But I’m not picking up any mouldy food.

Jack: Not a problem. Why do you think I brought 56?

56: Please, bitches know it’s because I’m awesome.

Daniel: You wish. It’s because you have no sense of smell.

56: Not true, I’m just desensitised.

Jack swivels on his heel and lashes out with his other foot, breaking down the door to the ruined kitchen. He glances around, black eyes twitching.

Jack: ...something’s been in here.

148: Someone?

Jack: No... something. Can’t you smell it?

56: You know I-

Jack: Shut up a sec. Let me think. What the hell is that scent?



Wrapped in a thick cocoon of layers from crown to foot, Jack Eastwood stomps through the wasteland that is rural Poland, snow and ice whipping into what parts of his face are not covered from the freezing elements. He searches around himself for a shelter of some sort, his brain screaming obscenities in his head for a sweet dose of nicotine. He plods on, tracks left quickly covered by the falling snow.

Looking across over the horizon, he spies the remnants of a farmhouse and treks over to it, happiness renewed. He slings his large duffel bag off his back and drops it down by a ruined brick wall, digging his hand into the top for a packet of black cigarettes. He slides one out, but it is whipped out of his grasp by the wind. He takes another one, clutching it between thumb and forefinger, and manages to jam it in between his frost-bitten lips. A brief flash of a Zippo lighter later and he is in ecstasy, leaning against the wall with his cigarette lightly smouldering, the very vision of nonchalance amidst chaos.

As he stares around his surroundings once again, he sees, dark against the white of the snow, smoke rising in a column, the gale taking it at a sharp angle. Jack smiles, frost on his face cracking and dropping to the ground. Smoke might mean a warm bed for the night and, while he didn’t mind setting up shop in this abandoned house left to ruin, a warm meal and maybe a bath wouldn’t go amiss. He sets off, racking his brains for the rudimentary Polish that he knows, not noticing two yellow eyes watching him in the murk.



Jack searches through the Asylum’s kitchen, looking for evidence of what has come before. He immediately notices the tarnished fridge, swinging from one hinge, its plentiful if aged stock ravaged by some wild animal. A window at the back sits broken – not an unusual event in itself, as inmates during their time would break their windows in a bid to escape. However, there hadn’t been an inmate at the Hartman Institute – as it was still called by the elder members of the surrounding community – for nearly thirty years. And there was fresh blood on the jagged glass.

Jack: Hey. You seen this?

Daniel comes over and peers over Jack, who has dropped to his haunches.

Daniel: Ugh. Whatever’s been in here heard us coming and got out in a hurry.

Jack: Human, maybe?

Daniel: No. Human blood smells more metallic. This is... tainted.

148: Let me try.

She leaps over the kitchen counter deftly and lands next to Jack, a little too close for his comfort zone. He edges away, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her right hand stretches out and a little of the blood is brushed onto her index finger. She withdraws the hand and licks the blood off, unaware that the rest of her team is staring at her aghast.

148: Tastes like... dog? No... different...

Blake: Does dog tastes like chicken, then?

He snickers and Daniel smiles.

148: Actually, more like really stringy beef. What you have here, Sir, is wolf.

Jack: Wolves, huh? Interesting you should mention-

They are interrupted by a horrific scream from down the corridor.

??: Moje dziecko! Moje dziecko! Przez Boga!

Jack: Son of a bitch!

He turns and sprints out of the kitchen, to the sound of the screaming down the corridor, followed closely by his entourage.



Jack approaches a run-down house in the middle of the Polish countryside, rapping on the door with a gloved hand. A wizened woman opens the door, looking up... and up, into the dark eyes of the six foot eight Englishman, his lips taut from the bitter cold and the makings of a smile – or at least, what can be made of a smile in the white abyss of this country. He nods at her, and with her glance towards the flickering light of the interior he follows her into her homestead.

The inside of the woman’s house is somewhat slipshod, not out of laziness but because everywhere there are essentials for living in a wild area. A large, blood-stained shovel rests against a table covered in clutter. Across the far side of the relatively small room sits an open-hearth fire, to which a young woman is tending, her surprisingly broad shoulders heaping coal and wood onto the blazing pyre, desperately trying to provide light and heat to the household.

Jack looks to her curiously, before returning his attention to the older woman, who is working at the stove in one corner, laboriously creating some pleasant-smelling concoction from the tall, rusted pot on the hob. Another smaller flame licks at the grille underneath the food, threatening to burn the hem of the woman’s unclean skirt. He examines her with one eyebrow cocked; taking in her immediate surroundings as he does so. The whole scene is tragic to the point of ridiculous, the place a hoi-polloi of objects ranging from the early twentieth century to the mid-seventies.

She motions for him to sit at the one free edge of the table and he accepts, conveying his thanks with a barely perceptible nod. Returning to her cooking, the woman pours some oily-looking soup into a bowl with a ladle and, alongside a spoon, places it in front of Jack. He takes the meagre portion carefully, enjoying the fruits of a lifetime of home cooking. When he is done, he places his utensil into the bowl with a clatter and manages to muster up enough Polish to thank her, to which she unveils her first emotion since meeting him: shock.

Woman: Pan mówić Polski?
(You speak Polish?)
Jack: Trochę.
(A little.)
Woman: Widzę. Jaki jest Pana nazwisko?
(I see. What is your name?
Jack: Jack. I łączę?
(Jack. And yours?)
Irena: Irena Ochódzka. Jest to przyjemność spotkać was, Jack.
(Irena Ochódzka .It is a pleasure to meet you, Jack.)
Jack: A także was, Irena. Dziękuję ponownie w żywności.
(And also you, Irena. Thank you for the food.)
The younger woman stands up from the fire and approaches the duo, inclining her head stiffly at Jack, before turning to Irena and pointing at the food. Irena manages something of a smile before dishing up a noticeably larger portion to the broad-shouldered woman. They have a brief discussion in Polish, the words being used too fast for Jack to fully comprehend, before the younger turns on her heel and walks into a back room, irritation setting in on her face. Irena sighs and, finding a chair, sits in it, looking at Jack.

Irena: JA muszę przepraszać za Aleksandra. Ona nie był ten sam zaczynając od jej ojciec umierał.
(I must apologise for Aleksandra. She has not been the same since her father died.)
Jack eyes up the blood-stained shovel, its hilt pointing at his face like the barrel of a gun.

Jack: Jak zrobił on umierają? Jeżeli wy nie pamiętacie mnie pytający...
(How did he die? If you don’t mind me asking...)
Irena: Nie jest to problem. Zmarł walk wilków.
(It’s not a problem. He died fighting wolves.)
Jack: Wilki?
(Wolves?)
Irena: Tak. Pojawiają się partii w tej dziedzinie. Przede wszystkim jednak właśnie wykańczają zwierząt gospodarskich... jeden dzień, mąż mój - Aleksandra ojca - stało się tak z ich ciągły biorąc naszego kurczęta, które zaatakował on je. Oni trafiło do jego szyi jako walczyli wstecz. Do szpitala nie mógł go wybawił.
(Yes. We get a lot in this area. Mostly they just kill livestock but... one day, my husband – Aleksandra’s father – became so incensed with their constant taking of our chickens that he attacked them. They got to his neck as they fought back. The hospital could not save him.)
Jack: Jestem przepraszamy.
(I’m sorry.)
Irena: Nie dotyczą samemu sobie z takich rzeczy. Nie jest twoja winy.
Do not concern yourself with such things. It is not your fault.
Jack: Szanowna Pani Irena, chciałbym aby dziękuję za Pana gościnność.
Madam Irena, I would like to thank you for your hospitality.
Irena: Zapraszamy, Jack. Zapraszam więc do pobyt tutaj noc.
You are welcome, Jack. I invite you to stay here tonight.
Jack: Dziękuję. W zamian... Będę rozwiązać problem państwa Wilk.
(Thank you. And in return... I will solve your wolf problem.)


Jack enters an Asylum bedroom to find Aleksandra on the floor. She is dead, or if not then she soon will be. A wolf has left its teeth marks on her neck and is advancing upon the cowering Irena, who has curled up in a ball in the corner of the room, sobbing. Instinctively Jack snatches a sledgehammer from the floor and caves in the wolf’s head, swinging the hammer round as if a pendulum. He checks to ensure it is quite dead, then turns to Irena, still crying.

Jack: Irena. It’s alright. It’s over.

Irena: No! My baby! My poor baby!

Jack: Irena... please... we can help.

Irena: Get away from her. You monster!

She lunges for him, raining blow after blow on his chest with her fists. He absorbs the pain, being the martyr for her anguish. When she has expended her energy she drops her head and fresh tears begin to well up.

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

-Corruption 13.2
LIVE from the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee-

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

How times change, from moments of indecision to clarity and success. From the brink of falling into an endless spiral to finally being able to open my eyes and see the light.

Times have been tough, the pressures of a new family, the pressures of being part of the Sons of Attrition and most of all, the pressures of the critical voices on the outside. Those endless voices that would only plague the thoughts of the mind, leaving it unaided, it was particularly the voices that say you’ll be nothing in the end, nothing but a name on a belt, nothing but a flickering shadow. The barrage of voices would aim to taint the very attitude of Leon in these trying times, as it was brought to light at the beginning of 13.1 that his job was no longer safe, that it relied on victory to be sustainable.
So with time set aside to find a solution Leon would assess his words and actions to the critics, purposely believing that his name was to be engraved upon the title once more. And within assessing himself, he would be drawn into the light once more.

But why the sudden self-assessment? Why would Leon now raise the questions to his predicaments?

Well amongst all that would revolve in his life, his life on paper was falling to pieces. His bank balance was continuously taking hits from both the extra costs for Joy’s baby supplies and the everlasting expenses of The SoA’s Clubhouse, but it was also the fact that as of Mount Vesuvius he stood as the only member of the Sons of Attrition without a title, without a piece of accomplishment to call his own, and although he displayed the emotions of careless features, he truly dissolved to the weight of his inequality.

So here he was, asking questions of himself; who was he now? What was he fighting for?

What did he believe in?

Of course the mention of God is obvious to those who know Leon, however his respect and acknowledgement of the almighty, all-knowing God was lacking of late. As he simply fell into the trap of being too busy to care, to busy to pray and to busy to give thanks. That alone would give guidance and insight to the questionings of Leon Caprice, however amongst the battling thoughts of Leon Caprice there was something deeper. Something darker…

It wasn’t the clouds of sin or the power of deception but something else, something that would consume his faith and replace it with a power unyielding towards God. And although Leon could not piece together what it was, or what would purge himself of it, something in his possession would give such a clue to it.

If only he knew.

***Yo-He-Va-He***

As these times have past, a realisation hit Leon Caprice upon the victory at 13.1, three deep dark words that would channel how he would express himself now. In the weeks approaching Ultimatum, Leon would gradually dive deeper into the words. Giving a deeper meaning to each and escalating the power within their emphasises. Yet with the hope to find a realisation within himself he would push the characteristics further, pressing their meanings to the very boundaries of his life and career.

But unlike previous moments brought to life by the career of Leon Caprice, these words, these emotions, these characteristics would etch the darken borders that surrounded Leon’s body, entrapping his being to the weight of their power.

Per-se-cuted
Verb
1. To be pursued with harassing or oppressive treatment, especially because of religion, race, or beliefs; harass persistently.
2. To be annoyed or troubled persistently.

***Yo-He-Va-He***

Pastor: And with that please take part in communion as we seek to be reminded of the peace to love given to you and serve wisely.

The church was overflowing with despondency on a miserable fall day. Winter was gradually gaining on us, and in a time generally associated with the joy and love of the Easter holiday period with people consumed in rejoicing the relaxation, but not today. Today, it was as if the skies had once again been filled with the commission of the final hours of Christ. Sobs echo throughout the great vastness of the stone space as they regained themselves from watching the video. Men and women, all dressed respectfully in black or white, sat together as the pastor addresses the congregation for a final time in the house of the LORD.

There was no escaping the facts at hand, it was Easter Friday and it was a day of remembrance. That upon this day thousands of years ago, one man died for all, so we may all live freely. It could be said that no individual had been more giving, nor influential than him. Yet he has risen, so that we would be left to be free in him. Now, as the final moments of the services would take place, with the elements of bread and wine being consumed in remembrance, the out pouring of emotion showed exactly how much of an impact the Son of Man had, The Son of Man and of God in one, holy is his name.

The metal dishes of unleavened bread were to be dispersed amongst the congregation, with the glasses of wine to follow.
The bread and wine were carefully given to every man and woman that stood before the altar in the large service, giving them time to see the elements at take them faithfully.
With the churchgoers partaking of the bread first and then the wine we can see amongst the hundreds a familiar couple. There close to the back of the gigantic church was Leon Caprice with his wife Sarah and baby daughter Joy. Leon was keen to keep a very low profile, and avoid the attention of the audience in this sacred environment, on this sacred day, it would be almost disdainful. So in addition, he’d situated himself strategically near an exit to the church for this exact reason. To slip out un-noticed.

This didn’t mean by any stretch of the imagination that people hadn’t realised he was in attendance. Many astonished comments had been passed in his direction throughout the service, but Leon allowed them all to flow off like water off a duck’s back. As far as he was concerned, he was only here to pay his respects to one of the fallen members of his extended family. Not to let his fame control his actions, not to take this holy day from the one who gave all his fame to be tested and tried.

That’s how Leon saw the situation anyway. The whole service, he had been in deep thought. Many thoughts crossed his mind, from the sheer weight of what was given for him, to thoughts of the blessing he and Sarah had received in Joy. One very powerful thought played on his mind though.

Leon: Do I deserve to be here.

Leon’s comment went un-noticed by those around him not that hearing those words pass Leon’s lips would have changed their opinion of him. With the service now concluded, he would shift his gaze to Sarah who by now had already collected all her valuables and was ready to tail Leon to the exit. Picking up his black overcoat, Leon gracefully walked out the exit. The early winter chill hit Leon instantly, with the ice-cold rain now falling thinly to the ground. He spied a dry area, underneath an oak tree. However, this was quickly turning into an unattractive option, with some if the church gathering under it to shield themselves from the elements.

Leon opted for the solitude of the rain. It would act as a deterrent for people to approach him, and thus avoid much un-necessary conflict. It didn’t deter everyone though, with a few furious soles approaching Leon with the intention of speaking their mind. Giving fame and thanks to him. Couldn’t they see it was Easter, there was no reason to bring glory to Leon, and that alone gave Caprice the need to leave this place as more and more of the church goers would begin to recognize him and start widely commenting, so it was time to go. With a few moments to allow the impatient people to reach their cars and leave the grounds Leon would push the pram of his daughter Joy. She was 10 weeks now, and everyday she grew more and more beautiful, a fact that just consumed Leon every time he looked at her. Almost with a face of astonishment he would look at his child and be overwhelmed with the weight of what he was looking at. This was his child, his daughter, his Joy. And she was amazing.

But although he wish he could spend the rest of his days watching over his daughter, his life would be drawn to everything else that was happening, that right now there was jobs that demanded attention, and there was a new Corruption card to look at. It simply signified that his mind was consumed in his actions and events, he couldn’t even allow himself to be drained of thought and consumed in watching his daughter. What a broken state.

Although he wished to spend more time with Joy, he would seemingly pass over spending time with his wife. Who was finally regaining her lost energy, her bubbly attitude, she was returning to full health. But oh how painful the traveling schedule of FMW was, as it gave nothing more than the 4 days of rest of the Easter long weekend. But even that was pressed for time as the show would be happening the day after. A fact that Leon despised. For here he was, spending time with his loving family, in the house of the LORD giving time to what means most to him, but still he is restricted in time and effect to the parameters of FMW. Almost like a chain to a wall, it gave him no happiness.

As Leon continued to ponder about the scenario with his family and FMW he eventually signaled to make a beeline for his car. As there amongst mostly middle ranged cars was a deep red Maserati GranCabrio, with the few moments to reach the car passing by, Leon would signal for Sarah to enter the car as he fiddled with the baby seat in the back. While attaching the last of the seat belts around Joy, he jerked back with a slight snicker. If he was to remain hidden at the services, he might need to invest in a middle-ranged car.

With the seat firmed locked in and his daughter safe at last he would eventually emerge into the driver’s seat and slowly reach for and press the ignition button within the car. Giving a moment to be soothed by the tasteful roar of the engine as it immediately started he would be distracted by the giggles of his wife who was watching him intently as he found relief within the sounds of one of his cars. In seeing the large smile that was emitted from the lips of his wife, he returned in kind, yet with a slight sarcastic tone to his expression. And soon after he would disengage the handbrake and slowly move through the car park, giving the final scenes to be that of the side of his car as it prowled through the soft pebbled gravel, giving many of the churchgoers a glance at the FMW superstar as he gradually quickened his pace and swiftly left the church in his wake as he left the premise.

Jesus was persecuted for being who he really was: A man who carried his faith and held no sin. A man to follow, a man to listen to, a man to remember, a man to thank. He set the bar to jump, but because of what he did, anyone can get over it.

Leon was persecuted for not being the champion he really was: He wasn’t strong in his faith and he was consumed in sin. He followed no-one, he listened to nothing, he didn’t take notice nor did he give thanks. Yet he jumped, he threw himself into it all at the sight of defeat, but achieved victory. A glory given by Christ, blessed be his name.

***Yo-He-Va-He***

Brok-en
Adjective
1. Reduced to fragments, ]Fragmented
2. Interupted; Disrupted
3. Ruined; Bankrupt
4. Incomplete


The scene would open to the back of Leon Caprice as he stood before The Mansion, giving time to be in awe of its magnificence before he eventually would step into its boundary. With a few steps over the white marble flooring of the entrance Leon would swiftly halt his progression within the building and leave his ears open to hear what was going on within The Mansion. Surely as he slowly passed through the many rooms of The Mansion he would come across one of his fellow SoA members, but alas, no-one. With the sudden peace of being the only person within the boundaries of The Mansion now evident in Leon’s expression

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.

By now the room itself had finally provided the solitude away from everything as Leon slowly walked around the jarrah desk and gradually sat down upon the black leather seat. Upon sitting down Leon would see the pile of letters in front of him, no doubt from the maid who would deliver the letters to his desk. But unlike the friendly letters that Leon would receive from friends abroad or notices of events, these were the bills of The Mansion and upon opening a few, it became noticeable that owning such a Mansion would be hard to keep all the expenses under wrap. But it seemed as though people must have been abusing the privileges of the premises. After the Post-Mount Vesuvius party held at the Mansion, the costs had sky rocketed, costs for the maids tripled, the pebble driveway had to be relayed after someone decided to lock in some burnouts out the front and the golf course needed a fresh layer of green grass after tyre marks were found all over the course. Needless to say, these expenses weren’t foreseen.

Within minutes of relaxing into the chair and dwelling on that night, Leon was already nursing a whisky and looking out of the large study window, seemingly reflecting firstly on what happened that night and the sheer costs of repairs and maintenance, but then onto matters more important. As it was revealed to him just this morning of his upcoming fixture against Vendetta as it continued all that Jaro promised. Realizing that even though he may have won last show against War Machine, it meant nothing if not for another win at 13.2, that if he truly wanted to attain the Abandoned Title once more, victory was needed one more time.

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. Instead it responded with the sharp twist of a dagger in his head as the mixture of alcohol and over-thinking came together.

Seemingly having the glass fixed to his hand Leon would take a few more sips to dilute the severity of his stress through the recent 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 3rd page of the journal of Phil Barthers.


After reading the third entry of the journal, Leon would dwell over its words as he rested back into his chair, seemingly to think of what it meant, however as Leon would begin to truly let go of the thoughts of before and just rest peacefully with this one interesting thought within him, he was interrupted.

There suddenly in the doorway of his study would stand the head maid of The Mansion. Dressed in a collared white shirt and shorts she would enter the room with what seemed like dirt on her clothing, however as she proceeded to come closer to Leon and allow him to see her fully, a certain smell followed her and that alone awakened Leon from his state with a frightening cough.

Leon: What in heaven’s name is that smell?

Lifting his eyes to see the maid standing before him Leon would gradually lean forward in his chair and close the journal and gently place it back into its permanently residing draw. With his sight deferred to placing the book back into its draw, the maid would wait until he looked at her again til she would speak. A polite gesture that she was taught.

Maid: My apologies Mr. Caprice.

With his gaze reconnecting with hers once more, Leon would reach into his pants pocket and remove a clean handkerchief and gentle place it over his nose, until he would speak once more.

Leon: So what is that smell, what’s wrong?

The maid’s expression was one of recent anxiety, which alone painted the question of what was wrong. Something had happened, but what?

Maid: Sir it would appear that the water system is clogged somewhere within the pipes.

Leon: Ok, so what?

An unknowing Leon would ask as he began to unravel the details of what just happened.

Maid: Well it’s the water system for the toilets Sir. They aren’t flushing anymore, they are all clogged and filling up.

Leon: So that is some bodies poo on you?

Maid: Yes sir.

In that split second it was pleasing to note that Leon had already consumed one glass of whiskey, something that would prevent the stress and anger of this situation from escalating to a higher degree. Although to be certain, Leon would drink again soon after the maid would leave.

Leon: Ok so what’s the point, have you fixed it?

Maid: No Sir, the pipes all run into one in the basement and we believe it to be clogged down there, however the pipes down there are old copper pipes which wont be so easy to get into.

From bad to worse it couldn’t get worse for Leon Caprice, however the point of the head maid needing his attention was just about to be said.

Leon: Ok well what’s going to happen then?

Maid: Well Sir, we will need to replace all the copper pipes below and install a new steel pipeline and then flush the toilets through and hope we removed the clog.

Leon: Ok and how much will this cost?

The moment of suspense and tension was just about to hit, as the maid humbled herself more and said in the quietest timid voice.

Maid: Four hundred thousand dollars.

The figure threw Leon back into his chair with his handkerchief falling by his waist as his mouth was left wide open in shock by the maid’s figure.

Maid: I asked the repairman and he said that since the pipes run through the stone walls it would be difficult to remove them all and that he would require a special drill for the job.

Leon: Four hundred THOUSAND Dollars though surely we can do better.

The maid shook her head.

Maid: He said that this was the only option. Because the pipes are so old they wouldn’t react will to being welded back together, plus with the weight of the walls on the pipes as well.

Leon: Well Fuck…

Leon would again lean back into the chair and grab the bottle of whiskey that he had already befriended just minutes before, however this time pouring the golden liquid to the top of his glass, not allowing one fragment of glass within the cylinder object to be free of the potent liquid. Then before he took the glass into his grasp the maid would bid her farewell and leave the room in a quiet method, no doubt to now wash up. Yet now the attention was on Leon Caprice, already fixed with costs of the party now with another almighty cost to control, it was without hesitation then that Leon grasped the cold glass and threw back its content with little thought of anything but numbing his mind. With the glass soon crashing against the desk with nothing but a golden drip rolling down its side Leon would close his eyes and completely rest back into the chair.

The scene would begin to fade on this, however as a fitting last moment, Leon would close with some final words.

Leon: No more parties for Hanny!

And as evident as his words were, it seemed that his current predicaments all drew back to that one night. As the pipes probably would only become evident of a blockage after a few days of it piling up.

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 somewhere else, anywhere.

***Yo-He-Va-He***

For-sak-en
Verb
1. To quit or leave entirely; abandon; desert:
2. To give up or renounce (a habit, way of life, etc.).

“Life can end in the blink of an eye. That's one thing you're taught as a samurai, always expect the worst possible thing that could happen, because if it can happen it will happen eventually. I had my first match in Full Metal Wrestling, and it was good to start to earn some of the redemption back. By now you're wondering what exactly I've done to be forced into wearing this mask.” said Kiyoshi in a calm tone.

“For a samurai it is custom to work for one man in power, and you do your work for the Daimyo and that was that. What was untold is, if your Daimyo is ever killed in action it is traditional Samurai tradition to kill oneself...” said Ryu as he voice started to trail.

“Their bodies were everywhere, blood soaked the soil that was once ever so green. A man's insides would be carved out from a swipe of a razor sharp blade, and the armor of the fallen soldier would be picked through by those looking to upgrade. It was then, and only then did you truly realize the road you were on. Seeing a dead man's pale skin before you is enough to give you nightmares for a week of Sundays...I know I still feel those effects.” said Kiyoshi.

“You never know the true meaning of evil into you hear the sound of steel piercing a man's flesh and digging deep into his guts. That makes this wrestling thing a little bit easier I guess. As the story goes each side started with well over 1,000 men apiece, but after a week of bloodshed on the grounds near our homes we were down to barely 50 apiece, neither side wanting to throw in the towel.” said Ryu, his voice picking up as he continued.

“You get that smell, the smell of fatigue, agony, blood, and shit all over the place. No better way to put a war, with all the casualties I figured that piece of land was fertilized for a good amount of time. Things were going to end soon, you could just feel it in the rain soaked air. We didn't think it would end like this, not this way...not right now. We'd been in many battles before, I myself had fought in six some more, others less. Normally the Daimyo would throw in the towel before the end was near, but this was unexpected.” continued Kiyoshi.

“I watched as the two older men fought with valor throughout the rain, mud, and cold. I kept my eyes on my own opponent but he too had his eyes fixed on the two Daimyo's fighting among themselves. It was rare to see two of them fighting, and this was no different. The swords clanked back and fourth with sparks flying in the air as they connected. Motion after motion sound after sound all eyes were on them. Then I heard one of the worst sounds I could ever imagine.” said Ryu.

Schtink.

“The sound of the flesh ripping and the guts of my opponent flooding out onto my boot are sounds that haunt me to this day. When his blood spilled out onto my boots it was then I turned and looked. Several Samurai were doing this action. I looked at the Daimyo's both had the other's sword stuck through their chests, both lied on the ground...slained from one another's sword. And suddenly I was alone, I did what anyone else would do. I panicked, and I ran like hell. Big mistake...” continued Kiyoshi.

“In the code of the Samurai it is tradition that one must kill himself when his Daimyo dies in defeat. It's a code most people follow, but those who don't...well they are the ones who truly have to live out their deepest fears. All the people you think you know, all the people you protect, all of them turn on you like a never ending merry go round. That is when this tale takes a dramatic turn for the worst.” finished Ryu.

A small village in Tokyo, Japan.


We see a young Japanese male inside gallows outside of the biggest building in the whole sanctuary. Over him stand a man who is slightly bigger than he is and he is holding a scroll. Outside the buildings , most of which made of fabric and wood, stood his whole village including a girl he went to school with. He had forgotten her name many a times, she was a girl who had a crush on him forever but due to his code he had ignored her for just as long. They stood looking at their former protector all of them staring holes through him. The man who had him shackled up in the gallows began to speak to the crowd of people.

“Today we gather here today to punish a man who disobeyed his code, this man is before us in the gallows today, this man is Kiyoshi Ryu. Many of us lost husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles, or cousins due to this code and it was a completely disrespectful thing for him to ignore the codes.” said the man.

The crowd booed and one of them even chucked a tomato that hit Kiyoshi in the nose.

“For these sins Kiyoshi will be punished for a week without food, and a week without water...if he lives he will then be decapitated by the local swordsmith and his body will be thrown into a hole where he can decompose to give our earth more nutrients.” continued the man. “During these seven days the families of the dead will have a chance to throw tomatoes or rocks at Kiyoshi, with no punishment. However, anyone who is caught being nice to him will be put to death immediately.”

Days had passed and Kiyoshi was soaked with rain drops. His face was bruised from tomatoes and rocks, and heavy scarring had began where he had been hit over and over with rocks in the same place. He sat in the same place, slouched over as he tried to sleep through the dark nights and the cold rain...even if he did sleep he'd wake up to be pounded by a rock. He woke up, the rain had stopped, but it was still dark out. He didn't know what to expect next, he was hungry, thirsty, and he had been forced to use the restroom on himself as the ultimate way of embarrassment. He saw a shadow approaching him out of the corner of his eyes, he thought it was time for his death...boy was he ever so wrong.

“I had better make this quick before I get caught.” said a voice, familiar yet unknown.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Kiyoshi

“My grandpa once told me if you follow your heart and have true love for someone then you can never choose wrong, I meditated on it and decided this was what I needed to do.”

The girl unlatched the gallows, Ryu looked up and noticed it was the same girl he had went to school with. She was prettier than ever, and he was thankful she freed him.

“I have a bag for you, it has a couple of cans of food and a flashlight. I also gave you 2,000 yen in hopes you could find a new life out there.” said the girl.

“I don't kno...” started Kiyoshi before the girl put her finger on his lips and kissed his cheek.

“Just go, be safe and that is all the thanks I will need.” said the girl.

The two smiled at each other before Ryu took off running into the woods leaving everything he once knew behind him.


Current Day, Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.

“I had wandered far away from my homeland, I ended up taking the money I had received plus what was in my bank to fly away to America, I also picked up this mask to cover my scarring from scarring people. I only had enough to fly to New Mexico where I started a career as a pro wrestler. I worked several months until I got a call to come try out for FMW, it was there that I got this job. Even though I left the field of being a Samurai I am always prepared for death. You'll never know when it will hit you, or anyone else...but for now I prepare to face to crafty veterans with my tag partner Xander Kross a man who I defeated before. Now, and only now am I ready to face my true destiny in FMW.”

Return Match
Dallas Roland vs. Mick O'Connell vs. Son of Sharkboy

Tag Team Match
Trey Spruance & Axel van Osbourne vs. Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

War Machine vs. MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs. Seth Rotunda

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice vs. Blake Vendetta (with Daniel Prideman)

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt vs. Jack Eastwood

-Corruption 13.2
LIVE from the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville, Tennessee-

Return Match
Dallas Roland

Tag Team Match
Xander Kross & Kiyoshi Ryu

MASS Caesar*

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy

Contract on the Line Series, Match 2
Leon Caprice

Main Event
Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt