NO HOLDS BARRED VOTING & PROMO THREAD

Cactus Sam vs. The Celt

TV Championship Match
DGS © vs. Ashburn

Nick Bryson vs. Butters

Triple Threat Electric Chair Match
Matt P. Dunn vs. Damien Inferno vs. Jack Eastwood

Drew Michaels vs. Skyler Striker

Contract on the Line Series, Match 3
Leon Caprice & Apostasy vs. Mark Johannson & Seth Omega

Main Event
C-4 Championship Match
Chris Austin © vs. Christian G. Smitten

Storm's Voice: There were rumours looting around the web and media systems that I have already made my last match and was on the verge of retiring. They were wrong.

We fade in to a news desk where we see crew members getting ready for their flagship 6 o'clock news bulletin on a national television network. In the distance, we see a guy wearing shades and a black suit with his arms crossed.

Storm's Voice: News broke out regarding the unfortunate car crash of the Macho Man “Randy Savage”. At this point, I did not know what to make of this breaking development. I thought they were going to talk about my future career and gloat about it but this news story broke. The atmosphere inside the news room was interesting to say the least. There was a sense of sadness and disbelief as well.

A crew member barges past the strange figure who we believe at this point is Storm. Storm remains motionless from this point onwards and observes the proceedings before him. The generic 6 o'clock theme tunes kicks in and we immediately focus our attention towards both of the newsreaders.

Generic Newsreader: Good evening, I'm Dave Jones. In the past hour or so, we have breaking news that there is a car crash in Seminole near Tampa in Florida. Reports suggests that the person behind the wheel is none other than the Macho Man “Randy Savage”. More on this as we get it now onto other news and in Iraq...

We break away from the news desk for a moment and focus on Storm who is still motionless at this point.

Storm's Voice: I keep hearing from other people around me that the cause of the accident was from a fatal heart attack. My heart sank and I just simply stood there for a moment in a state of shock while continuing to try and watch the news with interest. While they headed into adverts, I saw footage of the crash as they unfold, obviously the footage was delayed. Crew members around me gathered in to watch in horror, I shook my head in disbelief and continued to watch it with interest.

Newsreader's Voice: ...we return live to the 6 o'clock news with Dave Jones and Alecia Fox. Weather is coming up but first sport and rumours are flying around that Full Metal Wrestling Superstar Storm has already made his last match with the federation...

Storm turns away and leaves, not even remotely interested in his news story yet he seems to be disturbed of the events that just unfolded moments ago. Fade Out.

~#~

“I can't sleep but it's burning deep inside.”
Within Temptations

~#~

Fade in and we're prematurely placed outside down an alleyway of a busy street where we see Storm walking with his hands in his jacket pockets. Without a care in the world, Storm breezes past a group of men dressed completely in black with shades over their eyes. Without realising it Storm was going to enter into battle against them.

Shaded Man: Excuse me Storm.

Storm stops and turns to face the group of men.

Storm: May I assist you?

Shaded Man 2: You are required to join us immediately.

Storm: I have other interests elsewhere thank you now if you will excuse me I am running a little bit late.

Shaded Man 3: This isn't Alice in Wonderland Mr Storm.

Storm: Please...call me Storm.

From out of nowhere, Storm kicks the shaded goon in the balls and applies the Stunner. What happens next can quite possibly be described as an all out brawl. Storms stops the first man from attacking him any further with a kick to the mid chest which throws him against a trash can. The second attacker then tries to stop Storm but to no avail.

In the distance, two figures on the rooftop of a nearby building overlooks the brawl in it's entirely. They appear to be interested in Storm and his well being for some particular reason.

Voice 1: Are you sure you know what you are doing?

The figures both look at each other and appear to grin, evilly.

Voice 2: This kid will not know what hit him.

Voice 1: Get the tranquilliser out Steve.

Steve: Righto!

We see Steve turning around to reach for his suitcase which indeed does have a tranquilliser in it. Along with the tranquilliser, there are 4 darts with chemicals in them. Steve places each dart carefully into the gun and loads it up, turning off the safely catch. While his friend looks on with glee, Steve lays onto the floor and looks down the target scope.

Steve's Friend: Don't forget to steady the shot. Our boss wants him alive.

Steve nodded and steadied the gun, pointing the crossfires at Storm's left torso. As Storm finishes off the last shaded bloke of some sorts using a Hurricanrana, he stands a notices a red dot on his chest. Without reacting, Storm gets shot and stumbles onto the ground, motionless. We focus back onto Steve who touches his ear to communicate to his men below.

Steve: We got him, move out!

Steve's Friend: Urm...boss? They cannot move!

We fade this scene out slowly with Steve placing his hands over his face in complete and utter embarrassment. Most people call that a facepalm.

The Tag Team Titles have Never Been Held in my grasp...
It's that time of the year where literally all hell breaks loose...
I'm in the thick of it...
One partner...
One scramble...
This shit is going to get messy...

A pair of red dots suddenly appear on your television screen for a brief second. You are suddenly intrigued and interested by this as we fade to black.

I fucking hate you.

That is not an exaggeration. That is not my penchant for flair. That is not me trying to intimidate you or play mind games with you or generally do any of the things I normally do. Skyler Striker, I fucking hate every fiber of your being. You are the antithesis of everything I love in this world and if you ceased being in it, I would not lose a moment of rest over your disappearance.

Actually, I lied. I would lose sleep simply from the massive amount of partying that would accompany your departure from this realm. Sorry about that.

Back to the matter at hand, I truly do hate you Skyler. You are the lowest form of life on the planet, an addict who allows his vice of choice to control his life and manipulate it to the point where your life is not about your job, your family, your faith, or your passion. It is simply about your fulfillment. You work only to sustain your habit, you love only to keep them from stopping you from the cravings you refuse to even attempt to fight. Addiction is a fucked up master and you are eternally its slave to be done with as it pleases.

I should know, I have been there before.

I once sat in your shoes, riding a high for as long as possible in an attempt to sate my base desires; forsaking everyone else around me in the desperate search for the next great high. I was a monster who knew nothing but his own vile wants that overwhelmed even my own needs and the needs of those around me who I supposedly cared for in my life. I pushed them aside in order to feed the addiction because the addiction was all that ever mattered. I was less than a man. I hit rock bottom. I fell on terrible times, did terrible things, and hated myself every single day of my life. I woke up and wanted to die, when I threw up sometimes I prayed I would choke on my own vomit and go out the same way Hendrix did. I could no longer stand to live like that anymore.

And thus I became better.

I beat my addiction and became a better man. I defeated my vice and NEVER looked back. That is why I feel no sympathy for you, that is why I cannot even stand to look at you; I was you and it disgusts me to think that after all we know about addiction that someone like yourself would so willingly throw themselves down that path simply for another high. You have information available to you now I never had as a child, and yes despite my age I still consider myself a child at the time, and you have responsibilities I could not even imagine at the time and you STILL so willingly tossed yourself and your future away simply for another goddamn high. You would give it all away in an attempt to please you and only you.

You are the most selfish sack of shit I have ever had the displeasure of looking upon in my life. I would rather have dog shit on my shoe then even catch a glimpse of you in my peripheral vision. I fully expect you to arrive to this match high and, in fact, a bit of me prays you do. I hope you are fucked up, high as a goddamn kite, and so far out of your mind that you have to take two buses and a train to get back to it. I want you at your worst tonight, I want you to be in the type of state that Courtney Love or Jeff Hardy could only dream of...

That way, I will feel less bad about what I am going to do to you.

I have one goal in mind for tonight and that goal is to end your career. Period. No frills, no questions, no taunts. After this “time off”, you should be healed up. The injuries that were a root of your recent drug problem, along with your complete and total lack of any type of willpower, should have healed up and be things of the past. However, you have not been gone long enough to claim any type of ring rust and in fact should be training hard for your “big comeback” against the man who went out of his way to persecute you time and time again. You have no excuses for what is about to happen to you in the ring and I want it that way more then I perhaps want anything else in the world right now. I am not going for a pinfall in our match Skyler. I am not going to make you submit to the variety of painful ways I would love to stretch you out. I am not going to get you counted out as I stare down at your crumpled body from the apron. I am not going to let you get yourself disqualified in an attempt to again bend the rules to your own sick needs or in fact just to run away from me like the coward you so obviously are. I am not going to do any of those things in an attempt to win.

I am going to break you. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

I will knock you out. I will shatter your bones. I will tear your flesh from your skin and use your blood to exfoliate my pores. I will make a necklace out of your teeth. I will scalp you and wear your hair on my belt. I will drive you as close to death as possible and pull you back so you can know that you will not know the sweet taste of release, a release from both the pain I will be inflicting upon you and the pain you feel everyday due to your weakness and addiction. No, I want you to live a long life after this match knowing you can never step foot in the ring again, you can never again pursue the sport you once held a passion for. You can never bounce your young son on your knee. You can never play football with him in the yard or teach your daughter to dance. You can never run through a field or carry your wife or even walk your either of your daughters down the aisle on their wedding day (that is assuming they would even want you there to begin with). You will be able to do so little when life once held so very many possibilities and I want you to spend decades contemplating one simple fact about that...

It will not be my fault.

It will not be my fault. It will not be the twins' fault. It will not be Leah's fault. It will not be Jade's fault. It will not be Leon's fault. It will not be Jason's fault or Christian's fault or Robb's or Seth's or Dante's or Nick's or Hannibal's or Harley's or William's or anyone else's fault. It will be the fault of only one man, one disgusting son of a bitch who had the world in his hands and threw it all away for a simple high because he re-fucking-fused to clean himself up.

Skyler, I will break you and you have no one to blame but yourself. You will try to shift the blame but no one will listen. They all know you are a liar now, you are unworthy of their attention. You failed the world too many times and no one can bring themselves to even care anymore Skyler. You are an afterthought. You are a blurb at the bottom of the page. You are propped up only by your ego at this point, not by any type of actual importance.

Goddamn do I fucking hate you so much.

The Celt

TV Championship Match
David GS

Nick Bryson

Triple Threat Electric Chair Match
Damien Inferno

Drew Michaels

Contract on the Line Series, Match 3
Leon Caprice & Apostasy

Main Event
C-4 Championship Match
Christian G. Smitten

Friday afternoon. Nothing to do.

David lay upside-down on the sectional sofa, looking directly at the TV but not really seeing what was on it. He'd tuned out long ago; daytime television sucked. At first, he'd been able to revert to his inner-child and get by on cartoons. But over the past few days even that had become too much to bear. Ed, Edd n' Eddy and Courage the Cowardly Dog were great - of that there was no doubt - but after several straight days of those shows and others, David could feel his IQ dropping.

So he lay upside-down on the couch, watching TV without actually watching it. There was nothing to do. Nothing at all.

Rachel working during the day was bad enough, but Anna had gotten a new job a week-and-a-half prior and now he had nobody to hang out with during the -

Wait.

David sat up sharply, no longer staring at the TV but over the back of the couch.

Wait.

What was he doing? He, a grown man of 25 - was he seriously cooped up in an apartment, watching daytime cartoons and moping about how there was nothing for him to do? David scrambled to his feet, snatched up the remote, and turned off the TV. Circling around the sofa, he stepped into a pair of sandals that sat by the front door and grabbed his keys off the hook on the wall.

He didn't need Rachel or Anna to have a good time. He didn't. It was a piece of cake. A walk in the park. He'd just walk out the door, head outside, and...

And...

David stopped short of the door, his fingertips resting lightly on the doorknob. He banged his head against the hard, oak surface. Then he did it again.

"Fucking...there really is nothing to do," he muttered to himself.

He stood like that for some time, forehead resting against the door, hand draped limply over the doorknob. It was all Anna's fault, her and that new job of hers. She wouldn't even tell him what it was, and what's worse, she wouldn't tell him WHY she wouldn't tell him. It was almost enough to drive him insane during the day - he couldn't even go to the gym anymore, he'd grown so accustomed to having her as a workout partner.

David stepped away from the front door, kicking off his sandals as he trudged back to the sofa. It was probably for the best that he wasn't able to see Anna very often anymore - he couldn't admit it to anyone other than himself, but he'd begun to develop a legitimate attraction to her.

It was nowhere near what he felt for Rachel, but it was something. It was tangible.

It was there, and that was the problem all by itself. And every time he saw her, every time he talked to her, every time he did stuff with her, it grew by just a little it. It made sense, then, that distance was the best remedy.

Out of sight, out of mind.

It was all well and good, but it still left him with nothing to do.

Plopping down on the couch, he propped his feet up on the coffee table and was about to flip the TV back on again when his phone went off on the coffee table in front of him.

He leaned forward, picking the device up and looking at its display. Kyle. David furrowed his brow, wondering what his friend could want at this time of day, then shrugged and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he said, his voice somewhat pensive.

"Dude."

David blinked. "...yeah?"

"You showered today?"

No. "Yes."

"Sweet. Well, find something to wear that makes you look sheckshay - a bunch of us are going drinking tonight. Be at my house in like an hour or so."

"All right, sounds good. Later, man."

"Later."

David hit the 'End' button and set the phone back down on the coffee table. Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on the tops of his hands, thinking. Drinking with Kyle and a few other guys. That worked.



It had been a long time since David had gone drinking for the sheer fun of doing so, but damned if he didn't still have a certain knack for it.

The five of them sat in a row at the bar: David, Kyle, and three others that they had known and been friends with since middle school - Bryce, Mark, and DJ. They had been there for less than twenty minutes, and each man already had at least five shot glasses sitting on the counter in front of him. Music and strobe lights pulsed in unison behind them; David glanced back every now and then to see if any of the club's other patrons were dancing, but none ever were.

"So," Kyle said, leaning in close to him and talking loud enough to be heard over the music. "How's things, man? How's Rachel, she doin' all right?" There was a definite slur in his voice, and David didn't doubt that when he replied, his voice would have a similarly dull edge.

"She's good, man," he said. "Everything's good."

"She still teaching at North?"

"Yeah," David replied, nodding at his best friend of ten years. "Student teaching, actually. But she's close to getting her degree, I think."

"That's awesome, man. That's really awes...hang on a sec." Kyle turned back to the bar and downed another shot, and left with no one to talk to in the three second period it took him to do it, David did likewise.

When he was sober, he hated straight vodka - absolutely despised it. But after you got him to down some of the stuff and he loosened up, he could empty most of a bottle single-handedly. You were likely to see most of it again, but that was neither here nor there. David was a far less restrained human being when smashed, both in word and deed alike.

"What about the wrestling thing?" Kyle asked, swiveling around on his barstool to face away from the counter. "I been catching it on TV when I can, but that's not very often...you won some sorta belt or something, right?"

"Yeah, dude," David replied, turning around alongside him. He saw that a few people had gotten up and were dancing. Under normal circumstances, you couldn't get him to join in with a cattle prod, but now...

"Which belt?"

David blinked, gave his head a shake, and looked back at Kyle. "...say what, now?"

"What belt didja win?"

"Oh. The, uh...the TV Title," he said. "It was cool at first, but now it kinda sucks since I gotta defend it every goddamn show."

Kyle reached behind him, searching blindly for another shot glass and not finding one. "Yeah?" he said distractedly. "That does sound like a shitty deal."

"Wouldn't normally be that bad," David continued, "if the management didn't keep givin' me this stream of shitty challengers. I mean, the guy I took the belt from - PX - he was good. But then there was this guy all hopped up on Jesus-juice, this stupid Australian dude, some retarded-ass cowboy guy who called me 'boy' even though I'm like two years older than him..."

He rubbed his face absently. "And now I'm stacked up against this cokehead with an anger problem."

"Gimmick central, then," Kyle snickered. The vodka was really starting to get to him - David checked the countertop behind them and counted nine empty shot glasses.

He turned back to watch the club's dance floor. It had really started to fill up as the patrons' inhibitions were gradually drowned, and the energy levels in the place were as jumping as the beat playing would suggest to passerby outside on the street.

David wanted to dance, but not by himself. He wished Rachel were there with him.

Or Anna.

"...no," David muttered to himself, turning back to the bar and crossing his arms atop the counter. "Not Anna. Not Anna."

"Anna?"

David froze. Kyle was looking at him through cloudy, half-lidded eyes, but he could still see a glimmer of curiosity somewhere in there.

"Who's Anna?" Kyle asked again.

David wrestled with himself. Could he tell Kyle? He wasn't sure if he could tell anyone, decade of friendship or not. After all, this thing with Anna...it was bad. Like, borderline-adultery bad. Kyle's girlfriend, Nikki, was as close of a friend to Rachel as a friend could get, and if word of his chaotic, conflicted feelings towards Anna managed to work its way through that short social web, then...

He gave an involuntary shudder. He was drunk, yes, but not so drunk that he couldn't see that trainwreck coming.

"It's, uh...nobody," he stammered. "Nobody."

"C'mon, Dave," Kyle pressed, his speech unequivocally slurred now. "Lemme hear it - who's Anna? C'mon, you can tell me."

Could he? David looked hard at Kyle, studying his face, searching for some sign as to either the positive or negative.

...yes. Yes, he could.

"Okay," David started. "It started at the gym one day..."



The Penthouse. Bad idea was bad.

"I, I, I'm not sure we should be here," David said as the five of them crossed the parking lot, leaving the taxi cab that had brought them across the Missouri River into Iowa behind them. "I told Rachel we'd just be having a few drinks, and, and..."

"C'mon, Davey!" DJ said jovially, clapping him on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward a step or two. "You wanna forget about that Anna chick, right?"

David stopped short of the front door. It was made of glass, and he could see two huge bouncer-looking guys standing just inside. He wondered if they would look as intimidating if he were sober. "...yeah," he muttered in reply, unsure. "I guess."

"Well this'll help!" DJ asserted, punctuating the claim with an inebriated giggle.

"Yeah, bro," Mark added. "It's gonna be epic. There's these twins that work here Friday nights..." He trailed off, grinning vacantly into space.

"I dunno," David said. He'd never been to a strip club before, and even smashed, he wasn't completely sold on it as a way to get over Anna. Not only that, but if Rachel found out he'd spent the night paying money to ogle other women...

"Come on!" Kyle said, giving him a shove through the glass doors. "It'll be great!"

David found himself pushed right up to the big, intimidating bouncer guys. One of them, a muscular speciment with a marine corps haircut, gave him a curt once-over and asked, "You guys got your IDs on ya? Need those and twenty bucks to get in."

"Twenty bucks each?!"

The bouncer glowered at them. "That won't be a problem, will it?"

Grumbling, the five young men showed their IDs and paid their way into the strip club. They were ushered through a winding series of enclosures that reminded David of the security checkpoint at a major airport, through a door, and into the club proper. Their eyes and ears were immediately assaulted; blue, pink, and purple lights were strobing around the perimeter of the ceiling in time with the music, which sounded a bit out-of-place to David.

He soon recognized it as "The Game" by Disturbed - definitely out-of-place for a strip joint.

David was about to lean over to Kyle and point this out when he noticed the occasion for them being there. He forgot what he was going to tell Kyle - in fact, all capacity for coherent speech left him. As he beheld the Penthouse Girls, strutting and twirling and gyrating on the stage in the center of the Penthouse's main room, the only thought his drunken mind could conjure was that forgetting Anna might not be so difficult after all.

As he ogled, a hand tapping him on the shoulder caused him to turn.

"C'mon, man," Kyle urged. "Let's find somewhere to sit down."

David nodded his consent, and the five of them took seats right next to the stage.

What followed was, for lack of a better term, enjoyable. David and his companions sobered up rather quickly, given that the Penthouse served no alcohol and no outside drinks were allowed inside. David had assumed that a clear head would, for him, bring forth more reservations about what they were doing - as it turned out, though, he actually ended up having a good time.

Jokes were made, laughs were had, singles were spent and erections suppressed, and after about an hour, the internal conflict David had been experiencing had all but vanished.

Kyle leaned over to him. "How you doin?" he asked.

"Pretty good, actually," David answered. "I gotta hand it to you, this was a good idea." There was a second's pause, and then he frowned. "Not sure how this is supposed to help me forget about Anna, though."

"It was never supposed to help you forget, man." Kyle turned back to the stage, where Bryce, Mark and DJ were currently ogling the pair of twins Mark had told David about earlier. "It was supposed to relieve all the pent-up stress you've got from agonizing over it. What you have to realize, Dave, is that you have it better than most guys will ever dream of - a great wife, a great job, great friends..."

David chuckled and punched him lightly on the arm.

"My point," Kyle said, rubbing his arm and laughing a bit himself, "is that this thing with Anna is keeping you from seeing all the other awesome things your life has going for it, and the sooner you forget about her, the chick you met at the gym and developed a little crush on, the sooner you'll be able to get back to - "

"Hey, guys?"

They both turned and looked at DJ, who was looking at them over the back of his seat.

"What?" David asked, slightly annoyed at the interruption.

"Do either of you have any fives I can borrow?"

Kyle's eyebrow shot up. "A five? What for?"

DJ pointed down at the far end of the catwalk, where the girls made their entrances and exits from the changing rooms in the back. "I want a faceful of that," he said, pointing at a particularly well-shaped specimen that had just stepped out onto the stage.

"Geez," Kyle muttered, digging around in his pockets. "I swear, man..."

"Wait," David said, putting a hand on his friend's wrist.

"Come on, man!" DJ urged. "You gotta have the money ready when they walk by, otherwise - "

"Just WAIT."

The edge in David's voice stopped him, Kyle, and the other two cold. The four of them watched, confused, as David's facial expression changed from one of curiosity, to one of recognition, to one of blind, indescribable horror.

He recognized the girl undressing for a group of middle-aged men a few feet down the catwalk; he had undressed her with his eyes two many times not to.

"Dave?" Kyle asked. "You okay, man?"

"Oh...my..." David gasped, not hearing his friend as he got to his feet. "ANNA?!"

Everything stopped. The music kept playing, and the lights kept strobing, but all other activity in the Penthouse stopped dead as soon as the shocked, horrified exclamation rang out. All eyes turned to David, and then to the erotic dancer he was gaping at. Said dancer, in spite of whatever training she might've received as a part of her new job, instinctively covered up as much of herself as she could when she saw who was staring at her. Even in the dim light of the strip club, David could see her face - there was shock and horror, just like his face, but there was something else there, as well.

It took him a second, but he soon found a word for it, a way to describe what he saw in her face: shame. Shame unlike anything he had ever seen before.

Anna fled to the back, disappearing through the curtain with her clothing held tight to her chest and navel. David watched the fluttering curtain for a while, unable to speak, unable to move.

She was a stripper. Anna Ortega, the struggling dancer he was certain he'd see on Broadway or the silver screen someday, had become a stripper.

No wonder she hadn't wanted to tell him about her new job.

Things returned to normal after a few minutes; the dancers resumed dancing, and the patrons resumed whatever the hell it was they were doing. But the atmosphere was different - there was a tension in the air, a heaviness that hadn't been there before.

David's friends closed in around him as he sank back down into his chair.

"Dude," Kyle said in disbelief. "That...what was her?"

David nodded numbly, staring down at his shoes.

"...shit," DJ breathed after a time. The others expressed similar sentiments, but each and every one of them fell on deaf ears.

She was a stripper. Why did that bother him so much? It wasn't like she was his girlfriend or wife or anything like that - she was just a friend of his. Why did it matter to him what she did for a living? What difference did it make to him if she chose to parade her body around on a stage for the enjoyment of other guys...and money? Why should he care?

"...guys, I think we should go," Kyle said.

The other three murmured in agreement, and they all got up to go except for David.

"Dude," Kyle said, grabbing his shoulder and giving him a shake, "come on. We're leaving."

"Oh...okay." David rose and followed them to the door, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes locked on to the floor. As they passed by the end of the catwalk, he couldn't help but glance at the curtain that led to the backstage changing rooms.

Why should he care? He wasn't sure, but he did.

Thomas, my agent, has been quiet the whole journey, not even his phone, which he says is usually filled with calls asking for an appearance from “The Dream Killer”, is silent. Something doesn’t seem right, and the look of concern on Thomas’ face isn’t exactly the best of signs. Our taxi stops and me and Thomas get hastily out of the taxi, the driver demands we pay for the ride, Thomas who usually pays, ignores him, and seeing as I’m not in the best of moods, my payment is a right hook to the face which knocks the driver unconscious.
I mean, if you’re the son of Cassius Clay, why wouldn’t you have the ability to punch like him?
Thomas leads me to a building, a black, narrow building, squashed between a block of flats and a shabby looking betting store. My agent knocks on the door of the narrow, black building. Instantly, a shutter on the door pulls back to reveal a pair of bloodshot venomous eyes, Thomas smiles weakly and darts his eyes around, trying to avoid the cold icy stare of the man behind the door.

“Oh, hello, I’m Thomas ap Gruff. I talked to you on the phone the other day,” Thomas says, as a trickle of sweat moves down his brow.

“The man behind me is the locally famous-“

“Soon to be world famous,” I chime in.

“Yes, yes, the man behind me is the soon to be world famous, the man the Americans were after for possessing a WMD, despite knowing it was his fist, the son of Muhammad Ali, The Dream Killer, Seth Rotunda,” Thomas smiles nervously.

The man grunts, before sliding the shutter until it’s closed, Thomas waits nervously, while I stand with my hands in my pockets, remembering how much better I am than most people, after what must seem like an eternity for Thomas, the door is whipped open. The man still gives us the icy stare, before quickly hurrying us inside the building. My first impression of the man is the fact that he’s probably scum. Ah, prejudice, where would I be without you? The man has a long, grey beard, stained with dirt, a greasy wife beater and faded jeans .

I can feel his eyes piercing me, this doesn’t feel right.

Me and Thomas follow the scum, I mean man down a long corridor, with no distinguishing marks other than there being next to no lighting. After we reach the end of the corridor, we turn left and come to a bar, hardly brimming with life, in fact most of the patrons have black eyes struggling to see my presence and some nursing hands in bandages, almost looks like there’s been a bar fight. Eventually, the three of us come to a cellar. What does this guy want to show me? His liquor collection? He wants to waste the time of The Dream Killer and his agent?

The scum points down the cellar stairs. Thomas nods.

“Thank you, Mr.Peck,” he says.

Thomas leads me down the cellar stairs, halfway down the flight of steps; I hear the sounds of my golden days. Cheers, roars, grunts, bells ringing…boxing. Thomas turns to me, seeing my face light up at the sounds, his face which was one covered with worries, now turns into a smile.

“What do you think, champ? Did you really think I would drag you to this shithole for no reason?” Thomas chuckles.

As the stairs finish, we look around the room. In the middle of the room is a boxing ring, with bright lights above it. Containing the ring is two boxers, both of them in basic red and blue gear, the competitors are cheered on by an unruly mob of around one hundred. From what I can see, the boxer in blue is having his arse kicked all over the ring.

“So, why am I here, Thomas?”

“Simple, Seth. After losing your last match-“

“I only lost because I didn’t stretch,” I replied.

“But I saw you stretching.”

“I tried to do new moves.”

“You were doing the usual.”

“I had a cold.”

“Well why didn’t you say so? You should have postponed the fight, mate. If you were in peak condition, you would have won the Abandoned title,” Thomas nods acceptably.

“So, why am I here again?”

“You’re here because I wanted you to get back into the groove. So where else to go than with the sport you started with, boxing.”

“Isn’t this illegal?”

“Sure is. That’s why I looked worried. Not even Seth Rotunda is above the law.”

“Damn.”

“Anyway, my main point is, you’ve got a fight.”

This is like a dream, I thought.

“You’re up against a local boxer called Ricky Wapper, local boxer, he isn’t much, pretty easy to defeat in my opinion. Then there’s another boxer, Lucas Frith, little bit harder than Wapper, but it will be like child’s play. Dodge, duck, weave, then bang, dreamkiller.”

“So, when am I facing them?”

“Right after this fight,” Thomas muttered.

“I meant, what time am I facing Wapper and then Frith?” I asked curiously.

“Oh, no, no,” Thomas tutted, “Your facing both at the excact same time, first time ever boxing handicap match.”

I felt the colour drain from my face, no idea why, probably because I forgot to get the number from that fit lass a couple of nights ago, no, my haven’t gone pale because of the boxing odds, not at all.

“You see Seth, you’re going to be in the tag team scramble at No Holds Barred at FMW. I thought to myself, how will I get Seth ready? Then it hit me! You’re going to be doing most of the work, despite the fact that you have a tag team partner. You’ll be in the limelight, doing all the work, so to prepare you, I have you two opponents at the exact same time.”

“You realise this is completely retarded,” I glared.

“I see it as genius.”

As soon as Thomas finished his sentence, the boxer in blue, in the ring, was sent sprawling to the floor with a punch from the red boxer. The unofficial referee signalled the fight was over. I was up next.

“Hope you’re dressed to compete, Seth. Good luck.”

After what seems a whirlwind of getting warmed-up and changing, I’m ready to kill some dreams.

Ding, ding.

Right lads, bring it.

Wapper throws a punch, I easily dodge it, this kid is going to die. Bring it Frith; show your strength, oh I see, you’re making Wapper do all the work, clever bugger. Wait, how am I meant to dodge two punches at once?

Wapper throws a punch, the same time as Frith, Rotunda narrowly dodges both punches by ducking and swerving.

God, these kids are pathetic, I’m the Dream Killer. Here’s my plan, brain. I duck and weave, haymaker to the gut of Wapper and then counter-punch Frith, causing him to topple into Wapper, making him topple over and we get a domino effect, although it would be highly amusing, I think I’ll toy with them, go into showman mode, swerve here and there, drop my guard, these people will look like they should be competing in the special Olympics.

Frith throws a punch, which hits Rotunda square on the jaw.

SON OF A BITCH!

I’ll end this quickly.

Rotunda catches Wapper with a right hook, sending him staggering into the ropes. Rotunda immediately goes after Frith.

I’m better than you mate, there’s a reason you’re fighting underground, I am Seth Rotunda, better than scum like you.

Rotunda catches Frith with a flurry of jabs, before turning it up a notch with haymakers and an uppercut straight to the jaw of Frith, who staggers and collapses to the floor.

Leave him ref and get a body bag. Where are you Wapper?

Wapper rises from the ropes and walks straight into a Dream Killer from Rotunda, Wapper falls out of the ropes, to the floor.

Didn’t even last the first round, Thomas didn’t exactly get me the best opponents around, but fuck it, I’m alive.

Thomas climbs into the ring and smiles as the “ref” raises my hand.

“How was it?” Thomas asks.

“Too easy, get somebody better next time, that was less than a minute. Least the Dream-Killer is back, Hold on a sec,” I say.

I still got to get some rage out, so I offer my hand to Wapper, he takes it, but I knee him in the family jewels, making him fall to his knees, before hitting another Dream Killer. I think I’ll add a few kicks to him, that’ll do.

Well it seems that everybody around me, including the crowd, are pissed.

“I’ll take you all on,” I shout.

“Seth, take that back,” Thomas mutters.

“Don’t you all have caravans to get back to? Wives to beat? Inbred children to love? Thank god that fight lasted only to the first round, I wanted to get out of this cesspool before I became one of you lot. See those two fighters on the floor, they’re the best that this place can offer. If anyone wants me to shut my mouth and think they can do better than the two fighters, step into the ring right now,” I glare.

“Fuck sake, Seth,” Thomas whipsers.

Isn’t this great? One hundred people are after my blood. Right hook to Grandpa, head butt to the farmer, knee to the gut of the fat bastard with mustard on his face. I should add each of these to my list. Another one bites the dust, and another one gone and another one gone, another one gets Dream Killed, hey, you’re going to work in Lidl, another Dream Killed.

Thank god most of this audience is fat and frail.

“We’re getting out of here,” Thomas shouts over the ruckus of the crowd.

“Fine,” I yell as I turn and lash out at several people, knocking them to the floor.
I follow Thomas as I make my way hastily out of the ring.

Cactus Sam vs. The Celt

TV Championship Match
DGS © vs. Ashburn

Nick Bryson vs. Butters

Triple Threat Electric Chair Match
Matt P. Dunn vs. Damien Inferno vs. Jack Eastwood

Drew Michaels vs. Skyler Striker

Contract on the Line Series, Match 3
Leon Caprice & Apostasy vs. Mark Johannson & Seth Omega

Main Event
C-4 Championship Match
Chris Austin © vs. Christian G. Smitten

Cactus Sam vs. The Celt

TV Championship Match
Ashburn

Nick Bryson

Triple Threat Electric Chair Match
Damien Inferno

Drew Michaels

Contract on the Line Series, Match 3
Leon Caprice & Apostasy

Main Event
C-4 Championship Match
Chris Austin ©

Cactus Sam vs. The Celt

TV Championship Match
Ashburn

Nick Bryson

Triple Threat Electric Chair Match
Damien Inferno

Drew Michaels

Contract on the Line Series, Match 3
Marky Mark and Seth Omega

Main Event
C-4 Championship Match
©hristian G. Smitten

PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD

THEN, PRESS #

_ _ _ _ #

YOU HAVE SEVEN UNHEARD MESSAGES

FIRST UNHEARD MESSAGE

This is Ben Milne, head of talent relations for Lords of Pain Wrestling. Just calling to confirm your ten o’clock appointment on the twelfth of this month to go over the particulars of your preliminary probationary contract at our Chicago offices and to also inform you that Mr. Kross will be personally welcoming you into the fami-

MSG DELETED

NXT MSG

Freddie - it's Jazz. Again. Just...wondering when you might be coming home. Wish I could be out there on the road with you but finals and all. Call me when you get this. Love you, dahling. Bye.

MSG DELETED

NXT MSG

Freddie the Virgin Slayer!!! Heard you were in town, bruh! I know you don't recognize the number but it's me..Danny. I tried hitting you up on FB but you ever responded. I know the road schedule is tough so you must not get online a lot. Desiree and I sent D & Karma an invitation to the wedding...they still at the same address in Halifax? Any who, holla at ya boy. Number is 415.555.0212. Much love, big brother. God Bless.

MSG DELETED

NXT MSG

...Call me.

[CLICK]

END OF MSG. TO -

MSG DELETED

NXT MSG

Mini-Blackeh. I’ll be arriving at the Oakland Airport shortly. Be drunk accordingly.

END OF MSG

TO DELETE THIS MSG, PRESS "7"

TO SAVE IT, PRESS "9"

TO HEAR MORE OPTIONS, PRESS "*" NOW

MSG SAVED

NXT MSG

X! Oh my God, it's been too long! I know Junior already tried getting in touch with you but I was too excited to wait when I heard you were back in the Bay! Call me, asshole!

We miss you.

I miss you.

Jab

Jab

Jab

Left Hook

Jab

Jab

Left Hook

Circle the opponent

Jab

Jab

Right Hook

The scene opens in a musty auditorium. Empty bleachers and vacant folding chairs are the only audience. The final stragglers enjoying the independent, grungy feeling of a house show have finally been clear out of the small, enclosed gymnasium but the claustrophobic nausea of the setting remain like the settling dusk outside the wide open double doors. Even in spring, the Californian weather is sweltering, causing the venue to boil like a sauna. Yet diligently or rather tirelessly, a lone figure remains, testing the defenses of a local selected to be his sparring partner. His jabs probe the outer sanctum of his foe, mocking him with each poignant thrust and enveloping him in repetition. This continued movement testing hand speed, coordination and footwork looked foreign to the training partner. It was clear that this drug of choice was new to him. As new to him as a virgin whose first time never quite matched his Expectations. Still, his need to be in the ring caused him to step outside his familiarity and dabble in the new product; a sensual and truculent blend of a violent, psychoactive narcotic that ravaged both body and mind. Both fascinated and horrified by its potency, the first hit that connected did not register to the brain. Perhaps this was because its distributor offered only a sample of his wares or a better explanation would be that the mind did not register the pain of this new stimulant. Foolhardily, the youth approached the dealer with the proposition for another fix - another hit to sate his puerile curiosity.

It was then that the dealer knew the fend was hooked, aching to be introduced to a more potent strain. For Fredrick Douglas was once filled with that naivety and wonderment of the intoxicating coagulation of fist meeting fist; flesh breaking flesh. It was then that Fredrick Douglas gave his junkie, so pitiful and so frail, purity. With a rapid succession of moves - a bevy of beleaguering blows to the thorax of the unsuspecting, untrained eye of this..yokel. This mere mortal. He broke the feeble barriers before this unworthy challenger and freed his mind. Winded and astounded by such sweet toxin, the addict's hitting strength was halved and his shortness of breath left him winded. Exposure led to a right cross, blaring across the temple as if Douglas's fists were of heroin. It seeped through every vein, every artery, every organ - fast acting and indiscriminate in its viral discernment of blissful havoc. The lack oxygen and shock had only dulled the new addict to the come down but as fast as it spread, the withdrawals soon followed, symptoms of disorientation and swelling above the left eye socket where the mighty fist connected sending the local into a downward spiral.

Sensing that the child was ripe for the squeezing like a poppy, Douglas followed with a pure cut. A flurry of strikes to the unprotected, unsheltered skull sending spittle, blood, and tooth flying in a myriad of directions. Abrasions and lacerations formed around the mandible of just another nameless victim falling prey to the drug of combat. And it was there that a lone witness, whose feet swam into the shot as they propped up against a chair before him, saw the glint in the eyes of Douglas that was all too familiar to him. Behind a curtain of Camel 99 smoke, Dante Jones saw Fredrick Douglas clear as day. He saw the ravenous hunger in his savagery as bone met cartilage with sickening thuds and cracks as its soundtrack. What a beautiful symphony that was conducted with such a simple harmony and what fervor its conductor orchestrated this nameless foe's misfortune. Jones saw the enraged, enthralled look of passionate bloodlust and the uninhibited freedom of being drunken into a belligerent stupor. He saw the bestial nature in which Douglas had capitalized on momentary weakness - how he fed on this hapless individual's inexperience, presumption, and bluster. Jones saw that Douglas had known these weaknesses all too well. Jones knew that first-hand experience was always the best of teachers. And like this young whelp, Douglas had once been estranged yet mystified by the glory of battle. Douglas was a recovering addict suffering through a prolonged relapse and this was his binge.

Dante: Hear hear...

Jones lifted a bottle with the indistinguishable Crown Royal label, pressing it to his lips and saluting a comrade twisted by loss and grief into becoming a peddler of violent, erratic behavior. Morosely, the warm sensation of liquid comfort drained down his throat sloshed in the pit of his stomach, the fire of spirits searing down the length of his abdomen as he swayed on the spot. Douglas, sparing a glance to the intrusive and unfocused eyes of an unwelcome guest. It broke his stride, compassion and remorse flooded Kross' eyes, his hand clasped around the throat of the unwitting victim, the finishing blow yet to be delivered. His heavy fist slackened from its ready position whilst the expectant player cowered under his towering, imposing stature.

Xander: It’s coo, bruh. We’ll pick this shit up another day, dig me?

Xander walked away, his gaze again settling in RAMPAGE!'s direction only to find no one in the now empty seat. Perplexed, he went to his corner, procuring a towel to mop sweat and blood that festered on swollen, deviated knuckles. The sparring partner sauntered over to Douglas, tossing him a blue ice pack.

???: Use this. Your hand...it looks BROKEN.

Xander: Thanks for the advice but I think it's fine. Just a bit of bruising is all.

???: I think you should take a closer look. Not everything is as it seems.

As the training dummy walked away, Eddie could see his demeanor change. His stature was no longer that of a green horn but one of a weather and beleaguered veteran. His startling blue eyes spoke of experience and appeared bored and unimpressed with Bailey's supply as if it had not given him and adequate fix. He hungered and yearned for something more to whet his self-deprecating appetite. It was if he expected something...better. More potent.

Xander: Who..?

His words were cut short as he turned over the ice pack in his mangled, gruff hands, a shadow crossing his face as he stare absently at the cooling gel that melded and committed alchemy at his defamed touch. What he found was a blessing of sorts. Or a trap. Whatever it was, it was plainly an offering placed upon the squared sepulcher as a tribute to this newly ordained Saint.


BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

FEB 9 2011
21:57:07

SUBJECT(S): DOUGLAS, FREDRICK A.
LAMBERT, RANDALL A.

[INDISNCT BAR NOISES. ‘LAMBERT’ ENTERS ESTABLISHMENT. SITS NEXT TO SUBJECT A - 'DOUGLAS'. LAMBERT SEEN FUMBLING WITH INCENDARY DEVICE. PRESUAMBLY LIGHTER.]

DOUGLAS: How's it hanging you worthless sack of shit? The carrier pigeon was a nice touch. I did get your phone message, by the way. The fuckin’ theatrics were unnecessary.

LAMBERT: Short, shriveled, and slightly to the left. Was there a purpose to me flying out to California in coach in front of Timmy the ten year old with whom aderol has no effect or did you just absolutely need to see me? And I needed to get the point across.

DOUGLAS: 'Eh fuck you very much too, blud. This is home away from home. I felt I needed to share the ambience with you. Obviously, you heard from D’?

LAMBERT: Some ambience. This place is a hole in the wall and smells like vomit. He's kept in contact. It's been nothing if not amicable. We've been trading information on the project. How's he sound on your end?

DOUGLAS: In good spirits.

LAMBERT: Apparently, his fervor has been rekindled.

DOUGLAS: Near death experiences will do that to you.

LAMBERT: I went to see him just before he came out of the drink induced coma about a month back.

DOUGLAS: Touchin’. Mr. 'I Don't Give A Shit About Anyone' has found a soft-spot. If I didn't know you were such a pussy hound, I'd think you was gay for ‘em.

LAMBERT: His honesty moves me. Aside from that, the connection is..

DOUGLAS: Amicable at best. Right. He only talks to me to give me some “Eye of the Tiger” motivational shit. That or directive updates. Shit has me spinnin’.

LAMBERT: Have I become that predictable?

DOUGLAS: Does the Pope shit in the woods?

LAMBERT: Fair enough..so why have you really traveled up this far North?

DOUGLAS: Just… creepin’ up on the old haunts.

[DOUGLAS GESTURES BEHIND THE BAR AT A PHOTOGRAPH HANGING ON THE WALL. PICTURED ARE SEVERAL SUBJECTS – DOUGLAS INCLUDED. ONE OTHER MALE, INDIAN IN ORIGIN, AND THREE WOMEN OF VARYING CAUCASIAN DESCENT. SEE ATTATCHED FOLDER FOR PROFILES ON EACH]

LAMBERT: Or could it be you’re reflecting on what needs to be done. You agreed to this. And throaty calls to the girlfriend you left in San Diego at four in the morning aren’t all that discreet, nigglett.

DOUGLAS: …You been keepin’ tabs on me?!

LAMBERT: Blackeh’s orders. He wants you to keep your focus and the head in the game.

DOUGLAS: Nigga is stone-cold shrewd. And so what if I’m callin’ her? Jasmine and I..

LAMBERT: You’re spoken for, remember? This life has no long distance acquaintances. Neither one of them do. You can’t afford to have it all, Freddie. It’s also kind of pathetic you had to come this close and yet remain this far in order to play the fence. She’s your past. All there is at this point is the mission. It also does her a disservice when you can’t make up your mind as to which spunk hole you like more; the neurotic recreational pot smoker or the woman carrying your step-brother’s love child?

DOUGLAS: Since when did you develop a conscience when it comes to marital affairs? Need I remind you who you hit the sheets with every night?

LAMBERT: Difference is that relationship works to our advantage. There's no need to be a home wrecker on top of a shitty brother.

DOUGLAS: ...To be honest, I have no intent on destroying their relationship. I hope they happy.

LAMBERT: Your self-sacrificing nature both disgusts and intrigues me. It's got to be hard knowing your step-brother and child-hood sweetheart are getting married. Like a knife to the back. Twisting. Wrenching.

DOUGLAS: Has anyone ever told you that you have a shitty sense of humor?

LAMBERT: Just stating the obvious.

DOUGLAS: Please refrain from doing s-

[TRANSMISSION BREAK]

[STATIC]

TRANSMISSION RESUMED

LAMBERT: Not that I particularly give a shit but what happened to you? What's with the self-loathing and drinking binges? You’re starting to remind me of him more every day.

DOUGLAS: Self-loathin’? Nah blud. Just reminiscin’ on a simpler time when I was young, dumb, and full of cum. I’m just tryin’ to enjoy my time as a free man. And do what you did but without the cost of a leg and what Dante couldn’t do without the cost of my sobriety.

LAMBERT: I'm an old miserable failure with whom vanity and narcissism doth clothe my naked, trembling breadth.

[LAUGHTER]

[PAUSE]

DOUGLAS: How Shakespearian of you.

LAMBERT: I prefer Vaudeville.

DOUGLAS: Vaudeville? Oh hell nah.

LAMBERT: Closer to the aspects of our sordid affairs. A tragic comedy - an eclectic variety. Chaos and order summed up with a slapstick punch line.

DOUGLAS: Like I said. Shitty sense of humor.

LAMBERT: On to more...pressing matters. They've asked me to halt investigations pertaining to the affairs of one Jason Roy. I've been "informed" and by "informed", I mean notified that the legal ramifications of continuing to harass his subsidiaries with result in litigation so drawn out, my great-great grandchildren will be bankrupt before puberty.

As it is my legal right and privilege, I kindly told them to piss off and took what I wanted anyway. It seems as though our mutual acquaintances’ revenue increases by four percent annually like clockwork despite a downed economy and trouble holding on to marquee talent. Given that the IRS cannot find any trace of untaxed income being ran through the charity, there's absolutely no way to charge him.

[INDISTINCT RUSTLING. LAMBERT PLACES MANILLA FOLDERS ON TABLETOP. DOUGLAS OPENS THEM]

DOUGLAS: The wonders of capitalism. Greed is a helluve a drug. This has been happenin’ since...?

LAMBERT: PyrogGate. Yes. That college degree was good for something. Whoulda thunk it? Something else I found interesting was that a point off of his yearly average of 75.9 million dollar gains for the past three years has been transferred to a communal trust each year. Now, this communal trust has been attached to a who’s who of scumbags - AIG, Blackwater USA, Bernie Madoff himself as well as a list of South American dictators, African Warlords and gun smugglers, and, of course, my favorite names on this list - D. Hammond Samuels and Alexander Lambert.

DOUGLAS: Swear. His actual name was on the list?

LAMBERT: No. It was a dummy corporation but I traced the money back to a Lucien Milton. Ever heard of him?

DOUGLAS: No.

LAMBERT: I'm not surprised. It's an alias that someone on Public Enemy Multimedia's Board of Directors has been using to do insider trading and human trafficking as well as dabble in the blood diamond trade. They have connections to a Islamic extremist group which Jelani was rumored to be a part of in his Nigerian youth. All quite sticky. It also explains how Alex was able to purchase a stake in MalfPro.

DOUGLAS: So.. is he involved in all this?

LAMBERT: Who? D[static]? Probably. A lot of the munitions, provisions, and medical supplies resemble that of K[static] Industries. Unfortunately, without someone on the inside to get close enough and collect enough data to put his ass in a hole so deep, he’ll smell his flesh burning. Which is why you need to first accept that contract with Lords of Pain Wrestling and use it to springboard your way into Full Metal Wrestling. There’s a contact on the inside who will act as your handler for both. He’s been briefed.

[PAUSE]

DOUGLAS: So..I take it Liz's pregnant? Again?

LAMBERT: What led you to that conclusion?

DOUGLAS: The way you spoke about grandkids. The intonation. It was..compassionate. Sympathetic almost.

LAMBERT: Hrmph. Will you be the godfather then?

DOUGLAS: Do I even have a choice?

LAMBERT: Not likely.

DOUGLAS: I'm, quite possibly, the worst choice for an external father figure. I talk too damn much and I’m hella too young for when yo’ old ass kicks the bucket. Shit, Allie should be up there before I do. At least she’s fams.

LAMBERT: You're also my last, Sally. Remember your promise.

DOUGLAS: Heartwarmin’ and fuck you very much right back.

[LAUGHTER]

[DISTILLED BEVERAGES POURED INTO SHOT GLASSES. BOTH SUBJECTS SILENTLY TOAST. ]

[CHOKING NOISES]

LAMBERT: ACK! Fuck me standing. This is the worst excuse for whiskey I've ever had the displeasure of tasting.

DOUGLAS: Given that we've both been drunk off our asses on dat moonshine you used to make in the tub, this is hardly worse. And it don’t help that you swallowin’ them dame Vikings like they Skittles.

LAMBERT: Might explain the rambling incoherency that both you and I consider conversation.

DOUGLAS: Is that how you cope? Sendin’ yo son to the clink ain’t nuthin’ to joke about bruh. Why did you do it?

LAMBERT: Because that’s what the mission mandated, for one.

DOUGLAS: But he’s yo kin. Yo son. Nigga’s runnin’ around claimin’ to be the answer to God n’shit. Some real cult like shit. Is it real? Is it fantasy? Is the nigga coked out his gourd?

LAMBERT Lex is, point blank, a little shit. He always has been. He always will be. As sure as your people say “haters gon’ hate and players gon’ play”, he suffers from a messiah complex that either is pre-wired into his brain chemistry or was afflicted by some preconceived wrong-doing on my part as a parent. The days of me threatening corporal punishment with him are long since passed. I can’t justifiably put a twenty-year old man over my knee and force him to see the error in his ways. It’s why myself and, logistically, Nigger Charlie have dedicated so much of our time to fix the broken. Guilt is a powerful motivational tool. I deal with it through quipping, punning, and waxing philosophically with an inherent need or in the context of this conversation, an addiction to be affirmed for my level of correct-itude. He deals with it through booze, cigarettes, and self-loathing. We’re all puppets to our vices. Mine lead to fist fights and verbal pissing contests. His lead to..fist fights and verbal pissing contests. They’ve become so ingrained to our biological make-up, the endorphins are only released when we’re either a) taking the piss out of some green as baby shit rookie like yourself to hear their bleating and feeble minded replies or b) punching someone in the face. Lex’s sociopathic tendencies and his ‘addiction’ to his own perceived god-hood are one and the same: he only feels alive if he is being paid attention to. I neither have the time nor the patience to coddle this delusion. A punch to the face is the only remedy.

DOUGLAS: And does it..did it really matter? Did it really make a difference in the end of it?

LAMBERT: It's a pretty significant turning point. There's no reason to piss on it unless you're just THAT desperate about being contrary and stoic. It's okay to be hopeful. At least don't go out of your way to shit on the forehead of people who are and go out of your way to try and diminish something important.

DOUGLAS: So this is just about makin’ yoself feel better. For what? Revenge…that isn’t good enough for me. He hasn’t done nothin’ to me. Neither one of them have. I started this to just be good at what I do and entertain folks. Not be some kind of hero…or entrapped in some bigass game of chess. Who are the good guys in this fight? What the hell are we even fightin’ for?

LAMBERT: Logistically you're just arguing semantics here. Bringing in Alex WAS a mission objective. That mission has now been accomplished. There's numerous OTHER missions, other operations still in place, and even AFTER we withdraw our troops there will STILL be obligations and operations for stability and international policy. It's also just a buzz word for links... you're reading way too much into it, kid.

Other than that, it's the old Rambo fallacy: "nothing is over!" ... it's not over until every last enemy falls, it's still not over until everyone comes home, it's STILL not over until all those men and women receive compensation, THEN it's STILL not over until we're sure we've treated them for every psychological / physical condition they migh- it's silly. Chaos theory and infinite causality are not compatible with the human brain.

My points is I'm pretty sure the directive who voted against this massive operation to begin with HASN'T FORGOTTEN to bring home the troops, it's okay to get excited here...

But I refuse to believe you have no concept of the importance of morale. For the organization or the soldiers still fighting or the worthless assets that were tagged like you and I due to our inadvertent connection to all this as well as the blow to the morale of current / future amoral organizations.

There's no reason to purposely try and deflate this unless you're just too cool for school. And your outright negativity and unwillingness to fulfill a promise you made is troubling. Which can only mean one of two things. One – you’ve pussed out and are unwilling to continue with the directive given to you or two you no longer buy into the Broken Saints mantra. WE trained you. Specifically for this task. Because you asked for it. Now take it.

Really, I think crossing off a small but integral pawn in this massive undertaking is a pretty big accomplishment. But hey, if that's "meaningless" I think they should really take the time to inform the international law enforcement agencies that they just worked for 10 years on something that didn't IMPRESS YOU ENOUGH, I'm sure they'd:
A) feel very silly about wasting all that money / time, and
B) be absolutely grateful at their pissy nihilistic attitudes

[PAUSE]

LAMBERT: The fact is we are much more than entertainers or wrasslers. We aren’t heroes, kid. We’re the wetworks. My son was ill-equipped and badly prepared for the big bad world and that’s a mistake I’ll have to contend with for the rest of my life. On your end, the two of you were separated by pure circumstance and yet you felt compelled to seek out Dante and myself because of guilt for his addictions. His vices. And the terror that he is attempting to unleash on the world. I assuaged my guilt by playing my part and saving my son. Have you your’s?

END TRANSCRIPT

THE UNBREAKABLE PROMISE

I can barely feel the heat from the flames behind me. The world is spinning in my vision, multiples of everything in my sight spinning around like some music video. I'm bleeding severely, wounds on my face and body. They changed me, and I felt all of it.

Behind me burns my home, and several more in a row to both sides of it. Everything burns. My belongings, my neighbors, my “girlfriend.” My life in flames. A life built on a lie.

I am a fool.

Like a mindless puppet I believed everything I was told, and moved along on strings by It. Did what what It wanted without a thought of my own, believing myself emotionless, unattached to what I was doing. And now, the blood on my hands runs deep.

I barely manage to hold my head up enough to watch them. Two, man and woman, dressed up all nice and pretty in suits and dresses, arm in arm as they walk away from the burning remnants of my lies like they were going to a party.

Or a birth.

There's not as much blood pouring from multiple holes in my body, likely due to the fact that I'm simply running out of blood. I manage one more cough before my body weight suddenly becomes unbearable and I collapse into the dirt. As I fade into the darkness...

I make a promise.

– –

It's been a week or two since my encounter in the alley with Frank. Since then, I've stayed in my office. Yes, I know.

I'm scared.

When I realized what was happening, back in the alley, I froze up. I had thought, no, I convinced myself that if I kept to my office, not taking many cases, and being as critical as I could of anyone that tried to hire me, I'd be okay. Everything from before would fade away, and I could pretend to have a normal rest of my life. Having that delusion broken by being smashed into a brick wall was a wake up call. I'm not going to be able to run. I'm still scared.

A knock at the door. I know who it is without having to look through the peephole. After a moment of indecision I open it, finding Frank's wife Susan at the other side. She looks just as tired as before.

Susan: You haven't returned any of my calls...

I look over my shoulder at the phone lying on the floor. Hitting it with a hammer did solve the problem of it ringing, but led directly to this situation. I will have to hit it more as punishment later.

Gray: Ah...sorry about that. I've been very busy. Lots of cases.

She walks right past me into the office, collapsing into the first chair in her path. She looks older than she did before. Weight of sadness will do that.

Susan: Have you found him?

Gray: ...well....you see....

A brief spark hit her eyes, as she suddenly smiles and leans forward, like the weight had suddenly faded.

Susan: You have haven't you? Oh please tell me you have.

Gray: Yes....and no.

The spark goes out, and she sinks back into the chair, the weight crashing back.

Susan: ...I'm sorry?

Gray: I found him but he's...not him. You wouldn't want to see him this way.

Susan: I do.

Gray: No...trust me. You don't.

Susan: I know what I want! I want to see my husband again!

Gray: He...lost all of your money though.

Susan: So? I still love him.

Her head droops.

Susan: The police won't help. You won't help. He told them about it, and...he must have gotten to you too.

She looks up at me, tears building at the corners of her eyes. Just about the only thing I can see in her eyes is the sadness. The glimmer of hope that made me accept the case is so small now, and shrinking as I tried to tell her I was too scared to help her.

In that moment I'm hit with just how much of a bastard I'm being.

It's not about me. It's about this woman in front of me, tearing up because the only person who could help her is too godamn scared. No, fuck that. I am a lot of things, but a coward isn't one. I kneel down and put my hands on her shoulders, looking her right in the eyes.

Gray: I'm sorry. I'm going to help you.

The glimmer grows just a bit again.

Susan: Thank you...

I nod.

Gray: Listen. You said that “he” told them about it. Who's he?

Susan: The uh...the man who runs the gambling place Frank was at...he told the police about how Frank lost all our money. And then he came to see me. He explained how it happened. Frank started winning big, so he tried to bet it all at once, and everything was gone just like that.

Son of a bitch.

Apparently my facial expression isn't a calm one, as she seems a bit scared of it.

Susan: What...is it?

I try my best to be calm. Those cocksucking motherfucks...I know their game. I see how this happened. And like hell they're getting away with it. I stand up, looking down at Susan.

Gray: You have a car, right?

She nods, and starts to ask the usual “What.” question, but I'm already walking to the door.

Gray: Come on. You'll drive.

I'm going to settle this.

– –

I tell her to park the car across the street from the place, not as much so we won't be noticed driving in since there's only one guy at the door if they haven't beefed it up since I was last there, but moreso in case something goes wrong and she'll be far enough away to be able to drive off.

Gray: Stay here, keep it running.

Susan: Wait, I want to go too.

Gray: Trust me. It's better if you sit and wait. Don't worry, it'll only be a second.

I get out of the car before she can protest again. I can't blame her, these guys are scum who ruined her husband, but I don't need her flying off the handle and getting someone hurt.

Well, more hurt then they'll be after I'm done.

I quickly sprint across the road, taking the front steps two at a time because fuck stepping normally, and showing the door my best two-hit rapping skills. Sadly I don't have a mic, or I would throw down the challenge and make the door open itself through pure lyrical annihilation.

...what.

I wait until I can hear the guy posted inside the place coming, and when I can see him through the stupid window paneling around the door, I grab onto the porch railing for leverage and raise a leg up, putting my totally not paltry strength to kick the door. Apparently they didn't use the profits from their gambling operation to buy real wood, as the door practically flies off the latch, slamming into the face of the goon who'd been in the way. Since the young man not smart enough to look out a window before getting close to the door is so stunned from my display of strength (and the wood smashing his face), I decide to assist him by grabbing him by the head and smashing his face into the inside of the door, which solves his being stunned problem quite nicely by rendering him unconscious.

Oh look, the fellow had a pistol tucked in his belt, with a free silencer attachment. With the intelligence shown so far, he's lucky he didn't give himself a lead castration. Well, lucky for him, not so lucky for the rest of the world since there remains the chance he could manage to reproduce. He's also got a pack of cigarettes, so at least cancer might get him before that can happen.

...might as well go all out.

I grab the gun and the cigarettes. I keep a lighter on me in the case I ever need to ignite flammable materials (surprisingly, and a bit sadly, I haven't had to yet.) Sticking the cigarette into my mouth and lighting it up, I turn to-oh god there's smoke everywhere! Jegus fuck it's all clogging my throat up and it burns like a motherfucker, why do I try to smoke when I know this is what happens?! I must look so stupid coughing like this.

Okay, I think I have this under control. I'm going to need some water now.

I turn and look back across the street. From the open-mouthed look of shock on her face, Susan is obviously impressed by my skills. Or she thinks I'm off my rocker. I should reassure her. So I give her a thumbs up, cough again from the godamn smoke, and hold the gun up before rushing off inside the house, down the stairs, into the basement. Perhaps the room is soundproofed. That'd explain why they didn't hear the ruckus upstairs, and it'd probably help to keep people on the street from hearing the anger and despair of the people losing. The prick looks as arrogant as ever, with his puppy dog at his side. They're the only ones not looking scared at the handsome man in the fedora aiming a gun around.

Prick: Ah, Mr. Ghey! How are you doing today?

I walk right up to the desk and stick the pistol in his face.

Gray: Not in the mood today, you arrogant piece of shit.

The big chihuahua takes a step towards me, trying to look menacing but really just looking as dim as before, so I stick the pistol in his face to remind him that, even for an idiot, trying to be tough around the guy with the gun is really stupid. He looks at the gun and seems to be exerting a painful amount of brainpower before looking back at me.

Chihuahua: The...safety is...on.

Really? That's the best he can do? Does that actually ever work, outside of movies and TV? Oh well, he should still be rewarded for trying.

Gray: Oh really? Well, let's find out.

I point it at his knee, pull the trigger, and surprise of surprises, his kneecap gets a nice hole in it. He drops to one knee and starts to yell, so I grab him by the hair and ram my knee into his face. He drops onto his back, barely there. Not much different from how he normally seemed to be, I note. Again, might as well go all out. I step over the big chihuahua, pulling the cigarette out of my mouth (Oh thank fuck), blowing smoke out before dropping it into the big lug's mouth. As I turn to look at the prick, I can hear the stupid puppy yelping and hacking, probably from the searing pain in his throat. Oh well. I give a little smile at the prick as I aim at his face now.

Gray: You want to make a bet about the safety too?

Now he's lost a bit of that arrogance. Realizing that he's in a bad spot, without his big dog to do the actual heavy stuff for him. He tries to bring his hands up in that universal “Now now, let me assure you to not shoot me” gesture.

Prick: Mr. Gray, please listen.

Oh, NOW he gets my name right. He must be terrified.

Gray: Uh-uh. No excuses, no smokescreen. We both know why I'm here.

Prick: About Mr...Frank?

Gray: Start talking. I should warn you, I've got a bit of ADHD, so I tend to get bored easily. And when I'm bored, my fingers tend to twitch without me meaning to...

Prick: A-ah! No reason for that! Mr. Frank was a valuable patron here, and he managed to win very big! But...well, you know how betting works. Sometimes you win it all, sometimes you lose it all!

That story, I know already. And if there's one thing I hate more than being lied to, it's an emotionally-devastated woman being lied to by a scumbag.

Gray: Let me append what I said before. You can slot in “no leaving important bits out” right after no smokescreen.

Prick: Now, Mr. Gray...we run things at face value. We're a legitimate business here.

Except for the being completely illegal part, and that one other part.

Gray: Oh yeah?

I look behind me at one of the card tables, dealer there can't be older than 18, and looking like he's a half second away from pissing himself. This'll be a good lesson to stay on the straight and narrow.

Gray: Let's see about that.

I shift my body weight down so I can bring my leg up, introducing the kid to my boot, superkicks are so overdone, but so satisfying to perform. He goes right down, arms flying up at the ceiling, cards practically shooting out of his sleeves. The formerly scared patrons are suddenly murmuring to themselves, and the bits I can overhear aren't exactly about showering everyone with love and hearts. I don't even need to look back to see every bit of the arrogance drain from the prick's face. Of course, I still do look, because it's a beautiful sight. He's sweating now, nothing left.

Prick: I...that...you don't understand!

Gray: Oh, I understand well enough. You get someone feeling good, thinking of what they can buy for their families or themselves with the money they're winning, then you break them in a second by taking it all away with your dirty tricks. I bet that makes it more potent for them, huh.

Prick: They...it....yes.

Gray: How many.

Prick: That's....

Gray: HOW MANY!?

Prick: J-just Frank was taken by them so far! But we've taken everything from a half dozen people more, to get them ready!

I'm disgusted. I knew this already, but hearing it from this bastard's mouth makes it sink in. I was going to let this happen to these people. Do I really want to know? ...yeah, it'll keep me wondering if I don't.

Gray: Why. Just tell me why.

Prick: P-power. They promised power! Isn't...isn't that what everyone wants?

I stare him down for a moment, watching him start to shake.

Gray: No. Not everyone.

I start to turn around and walk away.

Prick: W-wait...you're not going to hurt me.

I stop, looking around at the former “loyal patrons” as they start to realize what's about to happen.

Gray: What, and take the pleasure away from the people you cheated? That's just rude.

An audible gulp. It's just occurred to him as well. As the patrons start to get up, I wave the pistol around in the air.

Gray: Now children, play nice. Make a line, take turns, be considerate of the body parts others want at. Oh, and don't take an amount more then what he took from you. I'll be back to check on everything, so no being greedy.

I wouldn't worry about it. They'll be joined together in breaking one man's hold of greed over them. I'm almost sad I'll have to miss it, but I have something a thousand times more important to finish. I can hear the first blow hit as I hit the stairs running. Even with all this, I can't keep the thought from popping into my head.

That was SO hard-boiled.

I run across the street back to the car. Susan looks frightened, I must have taken too long. But seeing me seems to calm it a bit, and I can still see what has me going now in her eyes.

Susan: What is it? What happene-

Gray: Susan. I am so sorry for earlier. I shouldn't have tried to get out of helping you and Frank.

Susan: I-it's okay. What happened?

Gray: I...had a talk with the guy.

I don't think she'd react well to being told exactly what happened back there, and she really doesn't need to be wanting to join the line back there right now.

Gray: Listen. Go home.

Susan: But-

Gray: Go home and make dinner for two. I'm bringing Frank back.

Susan: You can find him?

I look down my hand, the glove shielding the proof of what happened from the world.

Gray: I've got ways. Now go home.

Before she can agree or protest, I take off running down the street, guided by the slight burning of my palm.

– –

The burn increases as it leads me down streets, past homes and restaurants, to where it knows he is. As I run, I think.

I had let my fear control me. I had let it tell me that if I acted in any way, I would be back in front of those houses as they burned, bleeding as everything burned. I let myself think that if I didn't act, everything would be alright, and I'd be “safe.” And perhaps that's true, perhaps doing that would've kept me safe. But what about those people that had everything they had taken from them too? What about Frank? What about THEIR safety. THEIR fear. I'd be safe, cowering with fear at anyone I see, while those people, and so many more would be destroyed, twisted, turned, by them. I let myself think that was the right thing to do. I let myself almost forget my promise.

Never again.

I won't let my fear or anything else control me, I will only follow what I think is the right thing to do. After so long of being controlled, of no will of my own, it's time to make decisions myself.

The burning is bad now, we're in the warehouse district now, the part where the unused ones stand waiting for something to happen. Almost there.

For a moment, the thought hits me that I could turn around, run back to my office, lock the door, never accept calls or knocks from Susan or anyone, and just be free from all of what's coming. I instantly kick it from my head and repeat it. Never again. I think I'm ready. I run behind one of the warehouses and see him finally.

It's time.

He's hunched over, like something's holding him down by the arms. Most of his torso and half his face is encased in yellow crystal. I take a deep breath, face to face with it. He lets out the bastard child of a growl and a cry. Half him making a noise, half something else. I put a finger in my mouth and pull my glove off that way. On my palm are circles, one inside of the other from the edge of the palm to the center, all of them glowing the same shade of yellow as the crystals on Frank. Normally I have to touch for it to happen, but being hit by him before was enough to cause the identification to come through. Fear's cousin. Despair.

Gray: Frank, don't worry. I'm here to help.

Too late. Almost as if being near it made it force itself into accelerating, the crystal quickly covers the rest of Frank's body, the cries disappearing as the growls grow louder. First a crack. Then two, then four and eight, and then the crystal breaks, revealing what despair had transformed him into.

It was gaunt, near-skeletal. Sunken-in eyes not really looking at anything, the head shape off. Like that painting of the screaming man, with different sized fangs jutting around the circumference of the mouth. Both arms had chains with weights attached, forcing it to hunch over so you could see the skin on it's back stretching taut against the spine, like it'd break at any moment. It let out another growl as it saw me. No turning back now.

I reach behind me, pulling out the belt. A metal-like strap, with a circular buckle with the same circles in the center, laid over a red gem. I flip it around my waist and it attaches on it's own, like it's eager as well for this. The burning in my palm hits it's peak, becoming near-unbearable, almost forcing me to cry out before it disappears. In my palm now is a disc shaped piece of metal, the circles on it's one side. It fits in my palm like it was made for it. It's warm. The beast lets out yet another growl, hunching down more to leap at me. To rip me apart with it's despair. It won't come to that. I can do this.

Think.

Think of Frank, of Susan, of everyone else you'll help in the future by doing this now.

Focus.

Focus on what you saw in her eyes. The deep well that everyone drinks from in times of crisis.

Remember.

Remember the promise you made on that day. And transform.

Gray: Let me give you hope.

– –

He sat on the rooftop looking down at them. It was finally happening. He had to stifle a smile. Gray bends a knee, the other leg sliding behind him as he held the disc outstretched behind him. He swings his arm forward, the disc passing in front of the belt's buckle as his brings both arms up, tapping each shoulder with his hands. The circles on the belt begin to spin, each one beginning to glow blue starting at the smallest one and extending outwards. Once it hits the largest ring, the gem underneath also turns blue, and it begins to extend out. The blue washes down his legs, covering them in a blue armor, a highly-durable material colored a slightly darker blue covering what the armor doesn't, such as around his knees so he can retain motion. It extends upward, covering his arms in the armor and durable underarmor, his torso gets the same, a crest appearing on the chest of the armor, showing the circles again. The Completer in his hand slims, getting longer and longer until it's much longer than Gray is, a staff to complete the transformation.

The beast lets out a roar, something in it's mind recognizing the enemy in front of it and charging at him. Gray kicks it in the chest, stopping it's advance, and swinging the staff at it's head, managing a solid hit to it's temple. The beast swings it's arm, swinging the weight at him, Gray rolling under the swing, coming up and slamming the end of the staff into the beast's chest, forcing it to take steps back from the force. Gray digs the staff into the ground and swings himself forward on it, using it to heighten his jump, letting him kick the beast in the face, sending it flipping backwards.

The beast righted itself and slung one of it's arms out, stretching long to try to smash him. It misses by a few inches, sending dirt and gravel in all directions. It slung the other arm out, this time Gray leaping in the air as it smashes into the ground, landing on the arm and running along it, bringing the staff up to acquaint it with the beast's face. The beast, however, opens it's mouth and manages to catch the end of the staff in it's fangs, flipping it's head back and, as a consequence, sending Gray flying back.

The beast begins to stretch and swing it's arms out again, sending Gray running around it as it tries to smash him into the ground. Finally, the area he can run in dwindles, and he's left with his back to a warehouse. The beast throws it's arm, Gray ducks under it, and the arm breaks through the wall and whatever might be inside the warehouse. The beast attempts to bring it's arm back, but finds it clichely stuck in the warehouse. Gray takes a moment to realize this, and then delivers a kick to the arm. This makes the beast shrink the arm, shooting at Gray, who jumps over, grabbing his staff and landing behind the beast. He begins to turn around to continue, but the beast hits him with a weight, sending him back across the ground, while the beast focuses on getting it's arm removed from the warehouse.

Gray shakily gets to his feet, realizing that the beast is preoccupied for the moment. He holds the staff in one hand, and twirls it in his hand, passing it to the other one, as the Completer in the center slides over the belt buckle again. The Completer starts to glow bright, the glow extending to the entire staff as the beast manages to get it's arm free and face Gray. Gray charges at it, the beast swinging it's arms at him, but Gray knocks them out of the air with the staff, before ramming it into the chest of the beast, which flies back, Frank remaining where the beast was, temporarily intangible as Gray passes through him before solidifying and collapsing. The beast is forced against the warehouse wall, the staff pushing through it as it screeches in pain. Gray removes the staff from it's chest and turns around, flipping the staff behind his back as the beast explodes into a swirling cloud of yellow.


He removes the cell phone from his suit pocket, flipping it open and dialing the number with one hand, adjusting his sunglasses with the other. Three rings, as always, and the other line picks up, a woman's voice, light and sultry.

Her: Now, now. When did we agree on doing that?

Him: We didn't. But I was impatient. If we couldn't fish him out of here, of all places, then we might as well give up on it all.

Her: How boring that sounds.

Him: Indeed. But don't worry, I've drawn him out, so if any complain of my act, they can become the next prototype.

Her: So forceful. I must ask though.

Him: I believe I know the question.

Her: How is it?

A smile came to his face.

Him: Oh, you should have seen it.

A pause, dramatic effect for the benefit of both him and her.

Him: It's a beautiful nightmare that's been born.

- -

I turn away from the thing as it explodes, the armor dissipating from around me in time for the swirling yellow cloud to enter into me through my back.

An explosion in my head. Waves of self-pity rushing through me, self-hatred. Despair overtakes me.

WorthlessuselessflakefailureallyourfaultALLYOURFAULTITSALLYOURFAULT

My fist connects with my face. It's painful, and blood is running down from my nose now, but it broke me out of the aftereffect. I have to put it out of my mind, Frank is coming to. I walk over to him and kneel down to look at him. He looks confused and tired. I can relate.

Frank: What...what happened? Where am I?

Gray: You...just had a bad few days. Don't worry.

Realization hit his face and he tries to stand, wobbling. He starts to fall over, but I stand up, hooking one of his arms behind my neck, and supporting him up.

Frank: My...my wife's going to hate me...

Gray: Nah. I'm sure she'll be happy you're alright.

Frank: Y'don't understand...I lost it...all...everything.

I pat him on the shoulder with my free hand, and smile.

Gray: Don't worry. I think it'll be easy to...persuade the guy to return your money.

He starts to protest, but I interrupt him by starting to move us forward.

Gray: Come on...there's someone who's been hoping to see you again.

Frank looks at me for a moment, then finally he smiles. Despair broken.

Frank: Thank you...who are you?

I look up at the sky, at the sun shining down on us with all it's blasted heat and bright light. I feel good. I feel...happy.

Gray: Oh...just a guy keeping his promise.

Cactus Sam vs. The Celt

TV Championship Match
DGS © vs. Ashburn

Nick Bryson vs. Butters

Triple Threat Electric Chair Match
Matt P. Dunn vs. Damien Inferno vs. Jack Eastwood
I liked his last promo, he's my teammate, and he didn't make that thread.

Drew Michaels vs. Skyler Striker

Contract on the Line Series, Match 3
Leon Caprice & Apostasy vs. Mark Johannson & Seth Omega
I absolutely loved Mark's, shame Seth's wasn't as much.

Main Event
C-4 Championship Match
Chris Austin © vs. Christian G. Smitten

Jack pushes the sobbing Irena out of his arms, not ungently, and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, the sledgehammer hanging slack in his other hand. With a shake of the head, he looks out of the room and down the corridor. He turns back to the Pack, sighing.

Jack: I don’t think that there’s any more-

His words are cut short as another wolf leaps out of the darkness and strikes Jack’s throat, savaging the jugular vein as he drops to the ground, blood spilling from his lips onto the cold concrete. Jack collapses, the light fading in his eyes as he slowly loses the will to live.



Jack: My neck... Jesus Christ...

??: Not quite.

Jack sits up, rubbing the raw wounds on the side of his neck. He looks up into the visage of Simon Cestas, otherwise known as Saint Peter. Spluttering suddenly, he coughs up phlegm-congealed blood onto the tiled floor.

Jack: ...sorry.

Simon: That’s quite alright, you just got your throat ripped out by a wolf. Though I’m glad you’re up here, I needed to have a word with you.

Jack: And what might that be?

Simon: You’re aware that you were brought back to life in order to gather the Seven Sins of Man, right?

Jack: Yeah, well... I have one...

Simon: Yours doesn’t count. You already have that.

Jack: Damn it.

Simon: Michael...

Jack: Sorry.

Simon: Right. Anyway, first you need to acquire Pandora’s Box.

Jack: Could you at least give me some help with finding it?

Simon: I can’t do everything Jack.

Jack: Look, I’m sure all this nonsense seems insignificant to you, because I’m sure at a click of his fingers your God could sort this out, remove the Seven Sins the way I drain a bottle of whisky at night to try and blitz my mind so spectacularly that I can forget everything that I did as Envy. So I have to ask you, why do you feel the need to have me explore the entire planet to find a box that could be as miniscule as an ant, to trap six, that’s right, just six people in it! In the entire world! Do the people of my planet – your so-called Fourth World – mean nothing to you?

Simon: You should know that I do. And if that were the case, then we’d be not so different, you and I. You felt nothing when Aleksandra died.

Jack: I had my reasons. Irena and Aleksandra had nothing when I found them. No stability, no future... no life.

Simon: And since they met you they know death.

Jack: I did my best.

Simon: Your best wasn’t good enough.

Jack: You don’t think I don’t know that?

They linger in silence for a few seconds.

Jack: ...is that everything?

Simon: ...an old friend has Pandora’s Box. Go and see the Sons.

Jack: ...Hannibal...



Jack’s eyes snap open, blearily. He rises onto his shoulders from his mattress, realising he is in his Tower. Startled, he scrabbles out of bed, grabbing a t-shirt and jeans to throw over his fresh underwear.

Jack: Who changed me?

The blood from his mouth has been scrubbed away. Pondering, he reaches a hand up to his neck, where the bite marks lie. Curiously, although the skin is scarred and his neck is woefully stiff, there are no actual wounds. He frowns, wondering how long he has been out. With a pause he snatches up his phone from his bedside table, flicking through to see if he has any text messages. Nothing.

A swift change later and he runs downstairs, expecting to find his Pack in the Church. It is relatively clean, and the air lingers with cleaning products. There are a few members lurking around and he approaches one, asking who exactly put him upstairs. He is directed to the kitchen, where 56 and 148 are, consuming something out of bowls. Jack rubs his head, insomnia pounding a warbeat in his head. She spots him and runs over, gripping him.

Jack: Woah. Hey,

148: I’m glad you’re alright.

Jack: I can feel that. Can you let go? I’m not exactly feeling fantastic.

She backs up, abashed.

148: Sorry, Sir.

Jack: ...don’t call me that, for Cestas’ sake. How long have I been out?

56: About a day and a half. When that wolf dropped you, I swear, your girlfriend wrestled-

Jack: -she’s not my girlfriend-

148 blushes and turns away, making a hasty attempt to wash some pots.

56: -she wrestled the wolf to the ground and snapped its neck. The girl’s a wildcat.

Jack: She has a name, you know.

148 turns her head around, black hair cascading across her shoulder.

148: No I don’t.

Jack: Yes you do. It’s Panther.

Panther: ...Panther? ...nice.

56: Ooh ooh ooh, what about me?

Jack: You? Well you’re just a cheeky bloody snake aren’t you?

Snake: A-thank you. Sweet.

Jack: So... Panther... Snake... who put me to bed?

Panther: ...I did-

Jack: You should know not to go into my Tower.

Panther: Well I wasn’t leaving you on the floor in a pool of your own blood, Sir!

Jack: You changed my clothes.

Panther: ...you have a lot of battle scars.

Snake: And apparently, a massive-

Panther growls at him, eyes flashing.

Snake: ...spine.

Jack grumbles, shaking his dreadlocks out.

Jack: Where’s the rest of the FMW Pack?

Snake: Seth got a call from his agent last evening, Blake had to take care of something this morning and Daniel’s still here.

Jack: Cool, I’ll go fetch him. I take it you explained the whole revival thing?

Snake: We tried, he wasn’t buying it.

Jack: Guess he needs me to be his personal Jesus then.

Snake: ...

Panther: ...

Jack: ...too much?

Snake: ...yeah...

Jack: ...fair enough. Right, come on. We’ve got a lot to do.

He walks out of the kitchen and up to the second floor, kicking on Prideman’s door.

Jack: Oi, prick!

Daniel flings the door open wide.

Daniel: You crazy son of a bitch.

Jack: You know it. Right, road trip.

Daniel: Got beers?

Jack: Always.



Jack leads his Pack across the silent wasteland of Nashville to the Sons of Attritions’ Clubhouse. All four of the team are wearing black, complete with balaclavas and gloves. With a slipping movement Jack rolls across the grass, coming to rest next to a window, poking his head up to observe inside. He snarls, bringing his Pack over with a wave of his hand.

Jack: Alright, here’s the plan. We surround the building on the four sides, each take an entrance, burst in, grab the Box and leg it.

Daniel: Simple but effective.

Snake: So what does the Box look like?

Jack: Well it’ll be a big scroll-type object with the words Trinis Oculus on it.

Panther: They’re the same?

Jack: Apparently.

Panther: Then let’s go get it.

The four split up and silently break into the Clubhouse. As the other three search, Jack hunts through the living room, filled with empty beer cans and packets of Fruit Loops. Eastwood glances around, ears straining to hear any movement. Satisfied that he cannot, he moves through to Hannibal’s room, glancing around. He notices it in the corner and grins, trying to step over a young, topless woman on the floor.

Unfortunately, in stepping over the first one he steps on the second one, waking her up with a loud yelp. Hannibal jumps up with a cry, slamming on the light switch to see his former HavOc partner in his room, dressed in blackout gear. Eastwood rips off the balaclava, sporting a shit-eating grin.

Jack: ...sup?

Hannibal: Get out.

Jack: Frost, I-

Hannibal: I said get out.

Jack: I need the Oculus. Please.

Hannibal: Will you get out?

Jack: Yeah.

Hannibal: ...just take it and go.

Jack: Kay. Night.

And this thing is locked. Good luck to all the participants.