Ultimatum III Voting and Promo Thread

Good Morning, Class.

That loss was… unexpected. Truth is that I’m not that sore of a loser. There are times where even one of the best, is bested.

But I tapped out. I submitted. I gave up. Why would I give up the championship that the world needs to see in my possession in order to be convinced of what I already know? This is not the most embarrassing defeat I have suffered but it is quite the eye opener.

I have always said, ALWAYS said, that I never needed a title to define what I am. For months I tried to distance myself from it. Honestly for such behavior I deserved to lose.

Therefore, I did.

Now I must move on to something more alluring. I may go down as the most fitting C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Champion, but I do not expect nor deserve to be seen as one of the best in its lineage. It was not the title I actually needed.

Despite having been C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Champion, let me reiterate that I never needed that title to be the best pure wrestler in FMW. It’s one thing to be the best technical wrestler, the best pure wrestler. It’s a completely different stratosphere to be seen as the best, period.

For example, regardless of who wins out of Hannibal Frost and Nick Bryson, all of my pure ability aside, whoever leaves Ultimatum as FMW Champion will be seen as the best in this federation; better than me, regardless if I may be quicker, more athletic, more technically sound… because they have that championship, they will be the undisputed best.

That is the title I need. She is the one I must win. A lot of people say that, though so what makes it different for me? Answer this question, class…

Outside of being a professional wrestler, what else do I do?

Am I an actor in box office smash hits? Am I “saving the world” as God’s chief mercenary? Do I run one of the most successful watering holes this side of Canada? Am I a college professor in the disciplines of History and Religion? Am I moonlighting in FMW’s major competition?

Do I bounce from federation to federation looking for someone that might actually make me try for a change? Do I publicize a failing federation on company dime? No.

I begin and end with FMW. Therefore, I need the FMW Championship. Everything I do leads to me, the student, becoming the master of FMW. I must strike now as thanks to Christian G. Smitten I realize what can happen when you take things for granted.

Now, I will merely get up, dust myself off, look at the tapes, see my mistakes and be better.

But one championship makes me the best, period. I now begin laying the groundwork so I will be ready to viciously capitalize when the chance comes.

Ultimatum 3 is step one. I would feel sorry for my opponent but every war needs casualties. Just look at it as giving your life for the cause.

The broken martyrs that I step on and over, their shattered bones, split flesh and snapped tendons from every strike, grapple or hold I employ will be vindicated because I will have done things the right way, which is annihilating whoever they put in my vicinity.

Class, let’s begin. Today’s lesson is reinforcing good behavior.




Well hey, what’s up? I’m sure you all didn’t really expect to see me again.

In case you don’t know, I’m Chris Austin. Don’t worry; I’m not that idiot that returned at 11.3 to haunt myself. At that time I had a fuckin’ tampon up my ass and was bitter and pissed about some shit that now, I barely remember so I guess it was rather petty.

OHHHHH… Yeah, the me of that time had just gotten raped by a nympho nut. In retrospect, I totally overreacted about that. My bad.

All sarcasm aside, I’m not “pre-heel turn” or “Innovative Initiative” or even “Radical”. I’m the guy that’s left over after I left the ring from Underground 5.4, until, I believe it was Supremacy 2008.

Elimination Chamber man, good times, good times… but I digress.

Sure, I may have talked tough or allowed my ego to get the best of me here or there, but it was really mostly to, you know, “build my character and following” or whatever. I was still a fresh faced overwhelmed rookie that may not have been confrontational but was a lot more mentally stronger than what I apparently am now. Anyway, I wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing and check on these rumors.

How’s Anxiety by the way? Is it still going strong? I hope so; the green brand is home for me and as far as I’m concerned it was the A-show, well it was about to be last I remember.

Now on to important matters. I’ve heard that I am now some kind of robotic, emotionless douchebag teacher or student that has somehow become one of the top competitors in FMW while burning all of my bridges and destroying any and all relationships along the way.

Also, I hear that due to high standards that were allegedly imposed upon me by others, the current me has abnormally high expectations of myself, opponents and associates despite the fact that to this day I still can’t decide on what I want the FMW website to post for my official roster info.

Well if this is true then… that’s a real punch to the ‘nads. It’s also something that raises a red flag with me.

Let me fill you in on how this current Chris Austin works. I would ask you guys to keep this to yourself but FMW has never struck me as the keeping secret types, especially when it damages someone’s reputation, career or whatever.

Besides, if you bring it up, the current me will deny it to my death, which from what I hear, PAGE would like to cause for some reason. Anyway, what this mostly boils down to is that an earlier version of the current me really put myself out there and I got burned something fierce in front of a lot of people. I’m sure some of you remember the whole “brother son” incident, right? Death Row 3, anyone?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Yeah , so my old man’s still got it. Gives me hope for when I hit middle age.

Back to the topic. Now, instead of rising up from the ashes as some may have hoped, I treated this as the final nail in the coffin and I gradually shut down emotionally, closing myself off. Was that a good reaction? Probably not but it’s become well-established that I tend to mentally lock up in similar pressure and stress-filled situations.

What? You expect something different from a die-hard San Jose Sharks fan?

But shit man, this current Chris Austin hasn’t been to a hockey game with the guys in seemingly forever and when you’re drowning your sorrows by yourself, just hoping someone would come in and say “Yeah bro, I know it sucks but it was a hell of a year, we’ll get ‘em next season”, you’d realize how sad things really are if you could register emotions.

Pathetic, right?

The people I once looked to for guidance were people like Alex O, Drew, Jose and Dante. I used to hang onto their every word to survive. Yeah, I was really strong for my size and had a little bit of training in MMA, really some basic grappling techniques but I was green as baby food, so I figured they’d show me the way.

Their ideas of helping me for the most part were to try and get me to be the real me or whatever, just be yourself and try to do right. My first response was to become the American version of Hostyle. Big mistake.

Speaking of which, Jose… if I had any sort of control over myself I would not have done what I ended up doing to you. You were my first real friend and I wasn’t too sure how FMW would go for me, without you to go to for moves, ideas or just shit in general. I mean 80 percent of the shit I invented, I couldn’t even pull off but thanks to you, I was able to at least become somewhat competent in the ring.

I love you, bro and I thank you for everything you tried to do for me, even if I ended up being a really ungrateful cunt about it.

So while this Chris Austin you see now may look like he doesn’t need to be humanized, let me tell you since I’m the guy with all of the emotions… deep down it leaves a gnawing feeling.

Yeah it’s getting a bit mushy but what are you gonna do? Current me is a cold, machine-esque teacher wannabe that doesn’t understand that without emotion, there truly is no knowledge.

I hear teachers tend to emphasize or highlight important parts of their lesson. Just trying to fit in is all.

Still it bothers me that I ended up having to give up so much in order to obtain what I have. Yes, I appreciate that I’ve supposedly become one of the top technical guys in FMW, won some titles here or there and been in some of the most acclaimed matches in FMW’s history, well according to the current me.

But if you visit my home and look at the accolades on the wall above my mantle, and see that underneath that I don’t have pictures of dad, friends or my co-workers, it just all seems so hollow, man.

This brings me to my next opponent David GS. Now this isn’t a guy I really know but from what I understand he’s an eight-year vet that has run roughshod over almost every fed he’s ever been in. Lucky him, I guess. Some people are just naturally born to do this.

I’ve also heard that a reason for his success is that he’s able to consistently find joy and happiness in what he does, hence he’s always loose and calm. I admire that, current me, not so much. Still, David has a gift that I once did, despite my lack of wrestling ability and storytelling at the time I had it.

Now? The current me has supposedly cracked under the pressure of being a hero, and has blamed the old guard for it. I can’t remember being asked outright, or forced into heroism. Heroes aren’t made, they’re born and something has to trigger the inner hero.

As it were, this will either end up really good or really bad for David GS. But there’s only one way it’ll end up for me. Terrible. Here’s hoping I change that one day, much to your chagrin, probably.

That’s all I got for now. Catch you guys later.

Oh, that detective lady that’s supposedly my future wife? I’m sure she isn’t an uggo so if anyone cares enough… make sure I go through with it, K?

It’s been a while since I’ve in general gotten a quality lay by choice and if I’m marrying her clearly she must be good so yeah, make sure that happens.

I promise I won’t tell you about the consummation part, if that helps matters.




Ah yes, b’yes and girls, it’s me, good ol’ Alex O’Rion and at any moment I’m expecting two of Halifax’s finest to walk through my door and subsequently grill me about the same exact things that they hounded my ex about. Can’t say I’m too thrilled with that but word on the street is that I’m a “person of interest”.

Would be a shocker if they find out that I know the guy that they’re looking for but I guess I’ll keep quiet.

Besides, it’s more fun if I watch Austin, as paranoid and as much of a control freak as he is, eventually screw over his own self. If he allows his demons to best him that is.

I wonder if I’m going to tell them the truth or likely risk my own ass in order to keep Austin out of prison.

A crime is a crime yes, but considering the motives surrounding the incident I feel like I owe him for that and the fact that despite his constant nagging, bitching, complaining and controlling I was still able to mostly be my own man and be a part of what should have been the greatest tag team to step foot in FMW.

Our failure wasn’t really on Austin’s behalf; he gave me every chance in the book, and given his newfound “mean streak” or whatever the hell he calls it, I’m surprised he did. As it were, one day the Wayward Sons will do justice to the tag team division.

And I will kick his teeth down his throat and best him for once. That’ll have to wait because a quick rapping at my door leads to me letting in two detectives. The lass is rather fetching, I’ll say that.

“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Rion. I’m Detective Couture and this is my partner Detective Hunter.”

“Please, Alex works fine. What can I do for you two?” Here the lady of the team takes charge. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her once or twice in the pub, not too sure.

“As you know, we spoke to Jessica earlier about the recent Black Mambas case, given her past with them. We were informed that you’ve had a couple of run-ins with them and were hoping you’d have some info that could lead us to find out who is responsible for the death of two of their members.”

“Detective, if I may… I know that murder is a very serious thing, but don’t you think in this case that it was a bit justified?”

“A crime is a crime, Mr. O’Rion and I’m not surprised you’d feel that way.”

Lady, I was acquitted on a technicality. Let it go.

“Suit yourself. As it were, ask away, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Nothing like the rush you get lying to someone’s face. Haven’t felt that excited since I was a young bye trying to get out of trouble with Dad. Detective Hunter wastes no time getting to the crux of the matter.

She’s a lot like Austin. But way hotter and you know… a woman and whatnot.

“It was my understanding that you are romantically involved with Jessica, correct?”

“Were. We decided to break things off, different points of our lives, we wanted different things. You know how that goes…”

“Yeah. My condolences.”

“Eh, I’m alright. So as far as the run-in… ”

All of a sudden, another knock at the door. It’s clearly not Karma, she’s out with some friends for the day. Austin and I aren’t really speaking so I’m not sure who it is. I go to the door and it’s the mailman. He has mail for Chris. I guess he hasn’t forwarded his mail yet.

I sign for it and notice that it’s from California, from that Kylie lass that…well, you know what happened. Not sure how she got this address but whatever… oh yeah, I brought her down here once.

Smooth move, Alex.

Screw it, let’s see what the nutter butter sent to him… holy shit.

Paternity test results and everything…according to what the bunny boiler sent me, thanks to their little “rendezvous” Austin’s got a baby girl out there.

Can’t wait to see his face when I break it to him, heh-heh. Kids, don’t be a fool, wrap your tool.




Down time is a considerable reward for taking care of what you need to take care of. I’ve got my daily workouts, in-ring sessions and opponent scouting done… now I’m going to do something that I don’t normally get to do.

I’m going to get a cup of joe. Granted I try to shy away from caffeinated drinks but today I feel like bucking the trend if you will. After all, I do get a little bored and I can’t just surround myself with wrestling all the time. Well I could but honestly, most of you people aren’t worth that sort of attention from me yet.

I round the corner to the bookstore... Yes, a bookstore. I figure I’ll get some reading done and nab some coffee from the in-house coffee shop, possibly a scone as well.

Ugh, I sound like you people that cheat on your diets because you feel like you’ve earned it, when in actuality you don’t have the willpower to stay away from things that are bad for you. David GS has this issue as well but I digress.

Right before I can walk in, I see a familiar face.

“Hello, Detective Hunter. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Likewise, but it’s a good thing we ran into one another.”

“How so?”

“Well I spoke with Alex O’Rion and…”

She stops to compose her thoughts. I bet that lazy drunkard threw me under the bus. If he did, I’ll kill him. He’s already broken up with Jessica, who I thought he’d end up settling down with… this is why I don’t like doing nice things. It always seems to bite me in the ass.

“O’Rion said that you would be another person to talk to so that I may confirm his statements, alibi, and so forth.”

“Fine. Well I was just on my way to get a cup of coffee, maybe buy a book or two. Care to join me?”

“Not sure if that would be a good idea.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You seem a little ticked about our racquetball games the other day.”

She then smiles at me all mischievous and whatnot. Yes, she bested me, so what? If we were to play again I’d dominate her. We all have our off days and lately I’ve learned that after one go-around, I can usually figure out someone’s tendencies to the point where I increase my chances to best them. Ask David GS about the Hayabusa Cup if you doubt me.

“Might as well talk now. You’re here, I’m here, you’re in work mode and I’m not so it’s probably your best time.”

“Touche, Chris. But let’s try to get this done quickly. After all I have more work to do.”

“This is work, Detective.”

“However, this isn’t my only case.”

“How about I get you a cup of coffee for your troubles then, sound fair?”

“Cop’s best friend, they tell me.”

There’s a short, barely noticeable silence. I choose to break it.

“So, how about those Canucks, hmm?”

“Funny. Yeah, they kind of blew it but they always have much like your San Jose Sharks.”

Oh, she’s a quick-witted one. That deserves a B-plus.

“Besides, I’m more of a Calgary Flames fan anyway.”

“I see… so the coffee won’t get itself. Along the way I’ll tell you whatever I can to assist your investigation.”

“Good. Lead the way. Also, maybe you should invest in a Kindle, since you seem to be quite the reader.”

“Not a bad idea.”

Some people should just leave well enough alone, no point of trying to start up a conversation. Let’s just get this over with, Detective. Clearly I have somewhere else to be.

But me opening the door for her was not a decision I regretted. Think about it.




Good Morning, Class.

As Ultimatum 3 nears, I have been hit with a grim realization. It seems like my lessons over the past year and a half have not stuck.

When I decided to quit pleasing everyone, find my purpose and let go of meaningless distractions such as false love and finally got my head out of the clouds, it was a marked change that I swore people would recognize and respect.

I grew more confident in this theory as I began to win matches, garner championships and overall reinforce my status as the heart and soul of Ammunition as well as become the lethally bruising, extraordinarily precise technician you see now. But now that I’ve lost the C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Championship it seems as if none of that matters, as evidenced by my placing on the Ultimatum 3 card.

I loathe when people don’t take me seriously. However, I will not resort to such childish behavior such as whining or bitching, as more commonly stated. Instead, I will merely show you all why I should be taken as a legitimate threat. Again.

I will begin by reminding you people that the last time people didn’t take me seriously I left Drew Michaels a beaten, unconscious former C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Champion. From this I move on to my next obstacle.

This brings me to David GS. A man I’ve crossed paths with before. As talented as he is, for some reason he has never been able to truly best me in competition. I decisively defeated him to win my second Hayabusa Cup and I embarrassed him in Mount Vesuvius.

I clearly see that he does not deal well with patient competitors. I do admire his ability to press the action, as I once preferred to do. I enjoy how his high-impact, energetic style, given his size has proven to be effective. However, I know that I am in his head.

I know that it eats at David that I’m able to take his own style and use it to best him. It was no accident that I baited him into attempting the Lightning Spiral that I countered and ultimately began his downfall with in the Hayabusa Cup.

Since this time, he’s become smarter but so have I. He’s become more technically sound, and so have I. He’s learned to at least strike competently… I’ve already known how and continue to grow proficient in it. He’s likely become more patient. So have I.

And patience is not a game that anyone will ever best me in.

For FMW to have placed me in this match, given my mood, it’s as if they want me to extinguish their star before he’s able to truly shine. And who am I not to oblige? I have a point to prove, class. I have believers to remake out of each and every one of you.

I feel sorry for you David. This may be your moment to compete on FMW’s grandest stage, this may be your moment to finally let people know that you’ve arrived, this may be your moment to exact revenge, but you are wrong.

Ultimatum 3 will be the moment that FMW once again understands that I am not to be fucked with and I am most certainly not someone you should ever, ever underestimate. Rest assured, I am no victim, I merely haven’t done a masterful job of maintaining the fear and respect you all should hold for someone as dangerous and as primed as I am, as I once thought.

Even if I must start from the bottom, I will reaffirm that in truth, this is the world, the classroom of Chris Austin. You all are just living in it. I must reinforce the behavior I desire.

That behavior is your respect, your fear of me.

To do this, I will cripple David GS. I will cripple you for the incompetence FMW has shown. I will cripple you to show that no one, from the most nameless rookie, to the most established star, to the anointed future of FMW… no one is exempt from bowing down to the king.

Don’t be late, DGS. Punctuality is a prerequisite for my classroom and honestly, being late is almost as disrespectful as not taking a future FMW Champion as seriously as he takes every single one of you.

You will now learn just how serious that is, at the expense of David’s personal health and soon to be shattered ego.

Class Dismissed.

It’s human nature.

No matter how you try to stay away something always brings you back. That every two steps forward you make, you take a giant leap backwards. You endanger all those around you in some desperate and misguided attempt to protect them.

The man’s eyes glanced up, peering at himself in the mirror. Beads of sweat dotted his face, his lower lip cracked and bloody, the skin around his right eye bruised and cut.

That no matter how hard you struggle you end up back where you were. You end up in the one place you fought to escape from. Doing the one thing you hated yourself for.

The gelatinous medication spread from his fingertips across the wounds on his lips and eyes eliciting a wince of pain at the sting.

But isn’t that how it always go? We run and run from our destiny only to pivot on a dime and embrace it with open arms. We fight, yell and claw trying to deny it, but then in a simple moment of glory it all comes rushing back.

The man’s lips began to curl, spreading across his face in a way that only trained muscles could do. His white teeth gleamed in the mirror’s reflection, malice and cold blooded hatred replacing the peace in his smiling eyes.

It’s time to decide whether you’re truly in for the fight or just skirting around the edges of what you could truly be. It’s time to decide because...

Two fingers dragged across the man’s face leaving a smearing of white paint blotting his cheeks, the menacing smile never leaving his face.

...Madness is on the wind.


Tick

Rain splashed itself gently against the windows in a continued suicidal effort. Each drop a constant reminder of the outside world, each passing second a reminder of the cacophony of disjointed thoughts relentlessly dogging the twisted mind within.

Tick

Simply vanishing often affords significant luxuries when one wishes to remain hidden. The visions had assailed his mind for time to great to count. A nightly reminder of the pain, hatred and disease he had spread. A nightly reminder that the women beside him was beyond the safe hands of security. That the child asleep mere feet away could at any second be deprived of the life all those around him so greatly cherished.

Katherine...

Two fingers blanketed in black leather stroked against the picture unfolded in the hand opposite. A tear streaked down from the man’s left eye, marring the paint dashed across the contours of his face. The crease in the picture has turned white with repeated use, scarring the face of the man beside the picturesque Katherine Hookton.

I’m...

The voice weakly trailed off chased by a rush of exhaled air.

I’m sorry. I couldn’t be who you needed me to be. I couldn’t keep you safe, safe from me.

The methodical hands folded the picture as they had done numerous times before, placing it back safely into the breast pocket of jacket adorning the man’s huddled frame. The cold concrete of the floor below numbed the back of the man’s legs. Storm’s raged in and outside the building bringing the delicate balance of the natural world into perfect harmony.

From across the abandoned room a set of keys rattled against the deadbolt of the locked door. Voices chattered to themselves from outside the wall as the bolt turned. The door creaked open filling the room with the crashing of rain against the boisterous city streets, a single sliver of light entered the building, cast out from the street light opposite, uncovering portions of the faces of those that entered.

The door creaked shut, the deadbolt locking with a thunderous crash. From the shadows across the room a smile crept across the face of Evil Itself.

“I’m telling you, Franco said we had noth—“


I’m telling you Massy-Pants I’ve found the perfect place.

“And I keep telling you, don’t call me Massy-Pants. You can address me as Ceasar.”

What if I don’t want to? I’m quite comfortable calling you what I please.

“Well we’ll hardly be a cohesive cohort if we can’t even decide upon the standard which we shall address each other.”

Harlequin tapped his chin, while staring at the phone set to speaker on the table in front of him. He was slightly amazed Caesar had managed to make the phone work without breaking it, let alone maiming someone.

Let’s make a compromise: How about I say MASS under my breath and then say Caesar at an audible volume?

“Acceptable. Now you were mentioning, you’ve found a place to conduct your gruesome business?”

Ohhhh I have, and it’s going to be glorious. The floors however are a little too...clean...for my liking, I’ll have to muss em up a little bit.

“So when can I expect you to be moving your bags and devices from my complex?” Not that I haven’t enjoyed your company, however living in close quarters may harm the cohesiveness of the Together Demons.”

Agreed upon! Verily! Thusly! And various other Olde English terms! You’ll find young Chuckles on his way over to collect my belongings. Try not to murder the sodomite, I’d like that pleasure.

For now, Ta-Ta Caesar. I’ve got some hunting to do. Glorious, glorious hunting!

“Ah yes, the most dangerous game a foot. I remember this one time I was approaching the Rhine when...Mercury, what is this damnable tone beeping at me?”

“It would about Quint hung up on you sir.”

“Hung up?! I appear to be right side up Mercury, more ignorance from you, and you’ll be the one hung up!”


The smell of dusk filled the Cities air. The rush of late husbands pushing their cars faster than necessary, the hydraulic hiss of City Transit making their rounds and the pungent taste of cold blooded murder. The symphony of city life assaulted the senses of its inhabitants as the man not spoken of in polite company strategically loosened his stained and gore matted tie, his eyes never leaving the group of four men huddled around a lamp post below. The smoke from their cigarettes rose and twirled in the light spring wind, it’s fragrance touching the nose of the man watching from above.

Annnnyyyytime now.

The man muttered under his breath, his impatience showing to none but himself. His impetuosness had brought him close to a bullet for dinner on more than one occasion, a practice he had tried to ease himself away from. Lavish, unstructured chaos was one thing, meticulous planning to create the illusion of lavish unstructured chaos was another entirely.

Tick
Two gloves fingers pulled back the sleeve covering the man’s left arm revealing an old cracked watch. As though operating on an entirely different structure of time the second hand ticked in offbeat patterns.

Tick

Getting late boys. Let’s start getting a move on shall we?

The butt of the last cigarette dashed against the ground followed swiftly by the phlegm filled cough of a man too stupid to give up a habit that would inevitably kill him, one way or another.

Four men walked into a bar—

The man’s snapping strides carried him across the rooftop, his gloved hands wrapping themselves quickly around the rusted metal of the fire escape. A quick pivot of his hips brought him coursing down the ladder in a rapid descent. What felt like mere seconds after beginning his charge his feet touched the cracked concrete below.

One too righteous for his own good, another too arrogant. One too prideful and another going through the motions until his soul changes colours.

Stalking prey is a far different task than one would imagine it to be. The timing of your stride has to be precise, especially when more than one victim is your prey. A single step out of line can reverberate in the ears of even the most unsuspecting. Timing is everything.

His feet feel in unison with the heaviest of the four, easier to block the sounds of his movement by making them simultaneous to the thundering hooves in front of him.

Today was the culmination of a carefully laid out plan. A forced meeting of the four largest proponents of peace and justice within the City, the man’s new home. Each a man with a chequered past using his connections and organization for their own good. Supporting peace and justice only when it benefitted them to do as such and acting as nothing more than a mob filled with righteous fury at all other times.

Organizing their meeting had been simple enough. Find men that worked for them, in the darker side of their business and eviscerate them in remarkably similar way. Ways that only a man such as himself could.

Tick

The image flashed through his mind, four bodies, their faces forever stayed in a state in horror, their left eye sockets torn asunder from their faces. A bullet cased placed in the palm of their hands. Their bodies carefully placed in strategic positions.

Like fish in a barrel.

The man muttered to himself, too smart to speak any louder, too aware to raise suspicion of his presence, not just yet.

“I’ll make some calls around to my guys. I’ll keep you in the loop with what I find out. You’ve got my number right?”

The heaviest of the four spoke as the predator slowed his pace to a creep, making sure to keep his distance and not spoil the fruits of his endeavour.

“Yeah Franco, we got your number. We’ll be waiting for your call.”

“We better hear from you tonight Franco, this ain’t a shitting around situation. Something big is going on.”

The three remaining men broke off, leaving the one identified as Franco to enter the building before him alone.

I love it when a plan comes together.

The predator chuckled to himself, always pleased by his own humour.

The door swung silently shut, closing without notice to much of the outside world, save for the keen eyes and ears of a stalking maniac. No twitch of a deabolt.

Ohhh we got a trusting one on our hands tonight. Oh joy, oh bliss.

The man’s gloved hands tapped together mimicking a silent clap of joy.

The door popped open without noise or hesitation, as though welcoming the man into the home. Hunting once inside the home would need to be quick and precise. Earlier observations flooded his mind, expensive shoes, tailored clothes, too much time in a tanning bed, disproportionally sized upper body.

The man’s shoe slid soundlessly across the laminate flooring, his gloved fingers wrapping around the end of the banister as he began to climb the stairs toward the Master bedroom.

Piece of information you may find interesting.

“Who the fuck is there?”

Did you know the human body voids itself of waste when it ceases to live?

“Listen buddy, you better the hell outta here before I crush your asshole.”

Maybe I’ve been gone too long, but when did threatening to rape intruders become common practice?

The first swing blustered through the air toward the intruder who with a swift duck lowered his head underneath the leg of ham Franco called a fist. Instinctively the man jutted the side of his outstretched palm forward, connecting with Franco’s throat, dropping him to the ground.

I asked you a question. One simply fucking question and you take a swing at me? You threaten to do something terrifying to my asshole and try to physically harm me? That’s just a giant no-no sir. I do not approve.

The man’s fist swept across Franco’s face cracking the cartilage in his nose instantly, a move clearly done with much practice and precision. The tears falling from his eyes mixed with the blood pooling across his upper lip, bringing a glint of joy to his attacker’s face.

Also a bit of advice, when you hit the gym try to even things out a little bit. You look ridiculous with your giant biceps and teeny-tiny legs. It also means you throw your punches slow. The more you know.

The kick caught Franco between his first and second floating ribs sending the air rushing out his lungs. Amidst the tears, blood and gasps for air his attack simply smiles. Malice dripping from the edges of his curled lips.

“I know—“

Hot phlegm mixed with blood rushed from Franco’s mouth spattering across the hardwood below.

“I know who you are. What you are.”

And it only took you this long to figure it out too, I’m impressed. I did figure you were the smart one of the group.

“Fu—Fuck you Ha—“

Now you’re catching up Franco.

I’m The Fucking Harlequin!

Which can only mean one thing don’t you think?

It was a scene that had played before his eyes too many times to count. Without thought his muscles reacted, his joints ached for what would come next. His left wrist snapped back hitting the hidden trigger strapped above the back of his hand. In harmonious motion the concealed Colt 0.357 Magnum known as Dirty Harry push forward into the clasping hands of The Harlequin.

My my, look who came to play with us today. Y’know my friend here and I have been pretty busy lately.

Harlequin’s hand reeled back before arcing forward across the face of the downed Franco. Lip, skin and teeth cracked in a massacre of gore against the steel of Dirty Harry’s barrel.

“Pleesh...Pleesh doan do visss.”

Don’t beg Franco, it sullies the service that I provide when you whimper and weep like a child. I’m assuming the testicles you have still function despite being shrunken from the steroid use, so try to at least act like a man.

The free leather clad hand of Harlequin wrapped itself around the gelled back hair of his victim, dragging him slowly and painfully across the floor and into the bathroom. The trail of blood pooling and smearing across the hardwood flooring while his victim kicked and twisted for his life.

They say the human body voids itself of waste when it ceases to live. So I thought this would at least be fitting for you.

Harlequin’s gloved hand shoved Franco’s face forward bringing bone to a sudden halt as it forced itself upon the porcelain frame of the bidet. Blood dripped against the gleaming white as Harlequin pulled back the ruined remains of his victim allowing his eyes to drink in the carnage created at his hands.

I missed this. That rush of dopamine as I feel the life start to fade from your body. The sheer ecstasy I feel when your bones crack at my hand. But what I love most?

Harlequin grasped his victim’s greasy hair between his fingers before slamming his face into the cracking porcelain below. Again and again the face cracked against the bidet below. Slowly the now indistinguishable face broke apart the seals around the bidet filling what remained of the bowl with a mixture of blood and water.

But tonight. Tonight will be different. Tonight I’ll let you decide whether you can fight for that last breath of life, or let complacency rule you. The choice is yours.

The gloved hands of Harlequin slammed his victim’s head once again into the mixture of blood and water. Satisfied with the carnage he had wrought a familiar smile flashed across his lips before he fished the man’s phone from his pocket, leaving his lungs to slowly fill with water, flooding his body and suffocating the remainder of his existence.


“I’m telling you, Franco said we had nothing to worry about. He checked the place and –“

Without provocation or warning the knife shot through his larynx, instantly flushing the life form his eyes. The man filled to the brim with righteousness collapsed with a thud in the darkness, staining the concrete floor with blood, just how Harlequin liked his floors.

“Who’s there?”

“Franco that you? It’s us, this ain’t the fucking psychopath.”

Wrong.

The voice echoed through the empty warehouse, drowning out the pounding of the rain droplets against the glass windows above.

“Show yourself, this isn’t funny.”

Wrong again.


This, this is hilarious. Guess you have to see it how I do eh?

The muzzle fire illuminated the cackling face of The Harlequin as he watched the sheer stopping power of his bullet carry the sociopath backward into the closed door. The subtle glean of the moon’s light highlighting the crimson streak of blood, brain matter and bone fragment, spilling the inner workings of the man’s mind for all the world to see.

Guess you won’t be seeing much of anything hey?

The gaps closed between Harlequin and his final victim, the one too prideful for his own good, in almost an instant. From the shadows he moved towards the two messes that were once contributing members of society. In a mere matter of seconds the very image of pain, death and Evil emerged from the shadows as if it had never disappeared.

“But you’re dead.”

Wrongo Boyo.

“We saw your body you freak. The Order of Assisi showed us.”

Bingo, that’s all the information I needed. Six simple words, wasn’t even too difficult was it?

The Harlequin’s right eye twitched bringing the right side of his face curling into a sadistic smile. His fist slammed into the stomach of the remaining victim. The man doubled over before catching his teeth around Harlequin’s rising knee, his two front teeth cracking, drawing blood from the flesh of his attacker.

You see I never died, I simply played you.

The steel toe of Harlequin’s boot caught Pride in the neck, while never being able to feel it he mind sent the feeling of bruising flesh coursing through his body.

It’s far easier to draw out your victim’s, to be a predator, if no one knows you’re around. So I disappear and you feel safe, you congregate, you band together. The four of you, all join together for the greater good, all under the guise of something far more devious than you can imagine.

The hammer of Dirty Harry clicked back, a senseless rotation of the remaining bullets but The Harlequin had a flair for the dramatic.

There was one thing that had never quite added up. Perhaps I had been over thinking it. Perhaps I was missing the bigger picture, but then I saw it and all I needed was a simple validation.

Grabbing the man by the hair Harlequin forced eye contact. Slowly he lifted the barrel of the familiar 0.357 Magnum and placed it against the Pride’s left eye. Seconds passed as the pressure continued to increase, the aim at the end of the barrel drawing a trickle of blood from the man’s closed eyelid.

I couldn’t figure out why the Order chased me with such tenacious zeal. Why they needed me, why Quint was so important. But then...well then they didn’t need Quint at all did they? DID THEY?!

The barrel pressed deeper into the man’s eye. Deeper and harder.

They needed a Devil. Something more evil than themselves. Something to justify their existence to the public. After I left things got too quiet, there was nothing left to oppose, no one to fight against. Infighting was impossible; the structures already existed for cooperation so you stayed banded together. But power corrupts and soon all of you were making tiny little slip ups. Each of your faltering in your heroism either as individuals or as a group. So you raised Evil from its grave. A death here, a murder there, all disguised as something this poor City had grown to fear for years. The only problem is, you didn’t expect the real Evil to return.

Well Boyo, there’s no substitute for the original.


The bullet tore through the man’s skull leaving nothing but a gaping hole where the left eye should have been. A soupy mess of blood and eye remnants mixed on the floor and speckled the face of the smiling Harlequin. His gleaning white teeth dotted with spots of brain and death.

Now the problem is that they have a Devil.

One that doesn’t like being goaded. One that loathes being poked and prodded, one will stop at nothing to take back what is his.

And this City...

This. City. Is. Mine.

So what is there left to say about or to Leon Caprice? Perhaps I should recap what has been said before. I won this title from him at Catalyst. Leon was understandably upset, feeling that he hadn’t put forth his best effort. I wanted to prove that my victory was legitimate, so I offered a rematch. After some bullshit involving Jaro, I helped Leon secure that rematch for Leon at No Holds Barred. In the meantime, I had one successful defense against Pack member Seth Rotunda and managed to gain a measure of revenge over my long-time nemesis Seth Omega.

In the meantime, I might have become something of a controversial character. I… GASP!... struck Seth Omega below the waist. I’ve publicly trashed my own title for being worthless. I suppose that makes me the bad guy heading into this match, since Leon is such a goody-fucking-two-shoes. Yet… I know that I have done no wrong. I fear no reprimand from above, nor do I fear the wrath of karma. I only fight dirty those who would drag the fight in the mud. I also refuse to lie about the worth of the title currently around my waist.

I refuse to stupidly let evil men such as Seth Omega have an upper hand. I refuse to lie about something so small as the worth as my title, which by some world views is amongst the worst things you can do to people. There are some that have criticized who I am and what I do. However, I am more or less the same man that I was last month, the month before that and so on. I have never wavered, I have never denied anything about who I am. Ultimately I know who I am and what I stand for. While me and Leon might both be arbitrarily referred to as “good guys”… let me make something clear.

He is not like me.

In some superficial ways, Leon and I bear some similarities. We both endured some hardship growing up. Leon and I have both been Abandoned Champion. We have both been part of a stable. We both can be said to be technical wrestlers. But the thing that annoys me about Leon is simply what he pretends to know. He pretends to be intimate with god. He pretends to act in a way that god would approve of. He even pretends to do god’s will. Let me list to you some of his moves.

God’s Judgement
Faithfully Delivered
Forced Forgiveness
And his finisher… God’s Wrath

Now, those of you who aren’t Christians, who at least aren’t ”good” Christians might recognize this type of talk. You might have conjured up an image of someone you’ve met before. The kind of pushy, all-too-self-assured person that just irritates you. It’s funny, because in all of my two interactions with this man, I felt like I had known him all of my life. Walking through his large, darkly lit mansion. The kind of lavish building that is all too typical of so many so-called devout Christians. The kind of house that Christ himself would despise. As I walked through that mansion, talked to Leon about our match, and promised him that I wouldn’t betray him… it hit me just as I think it might hit you.

Leon Caprice is a douchebag, and the worst kind. He’s so sure about something that, rightly, nobody should be sure about. He expresses his faith at every turn, offering no evidence as to why anyone else should be faithful save for his unfailing resolve. He’s the kind of person that would credit god for all of his successes and explain away all of his failings as them being part of some grander plan. He shows the type of belief that to some, could be considered arrogance. But I know that he truly believes it. I know that he truly does not consider himself great, but somehow thinks that his faith is what allows him great things.

I have been around men like Leon Caprice all my life. I know they cannot be reasoned with. However, I am tolerant now. Perhaps because those people no longer rule my life, as was the case when I was a child with a pastor as an adoptive father. I no longer am forced to interact with people like Leon everyday for hours. These days, I can simply wrestle a match and go home to my sanity.

And, at the end of that match, I get to watch the bitter disappointment on Leon’s face. Perhaps that’s not particularly nice of me. I don’t claim it is. You’ll understand that I might enjoy that just a tiny bit after years of living with Pastor Rick Yates.

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

We join two men sitting across from each other at a desk. The room is large and well-lit, with ornate stained glass windows and a gigantic golden cross. The man behind the desk is dressed in black with a white collar, the other man sits cross-legged in jeans and a brown leather jacket.

Pastor Rick: What can I do for you, Thomas Young?

Tom: Rick, we’ve been friends for 20 years… do you really need to call me by my full name?

Pastor Rick: It just sounds so formal. And when I’m in these clothes, I feel it’s right to be formal.

Tom: Yeah.

Pastor Rick: So, Tom, what do you want to talk about today?

Tom shakes his head and puts his feet on the desk, visibly annoying Pastor Rick.

Tom: Well, I have some time to kill while Janet is at the hospital. So I figured I would ask you some questions.

Pastor Rick: Ask away.

Tom: Could God microwave a burrito so hot that he himself could not eat it?

The pastor buries his face in his hands, as Tom chuckles.

Pastor Rick: Isn’t that question usually asked with a stone?

Tom: I like this one better.

Pastor Rick: Well… God obviously cannot do what is logically impossible.

Tom: Really? Because he’s supposed to be all-powerful, or so I thought.

Pastor Rick: He is.

Tom: So does he not dictate the rules of logic?

Pastor Rick: Yes, and he could change them if he desired.

Tom: So… if he changed them…

Pastor Rick: He could do that, then.

Tom: And you don’t think that’s silly?

Pastor Rick: We’ve had this discussion. You brought this up with the Epicurus argument. I said then that being all-powerful and all-loving is not impossible..

Tom: And I told you that was crazy then.

Pastor Rick: It’s not. God made the world as it is. Given the parameters that he’s chosen, for whatever reason, this is the best possible world.

Tom: Rick… you know that’s not going to work with me.

Pastor Rick: I do, and I know that we won’t change each other’s mind today. Yet, here we are. And there you are every Sunday, listening to my sermons.

Tom: Only because Janet makes me.

Pastor Rick: And because you believe.

Tom: Not like you.

Pastor Rick: True. But I don’t mind. You do so much of God’s work, and that’s what makes you a good soul.

Tom: Just because it’s God’s work? Not because I take actions which, presumably, make people happier?

Pastor Rick: There is only one good my friend. Only God can say what is good and what is not.

Tom: Not this again…

Pastor Rick: It’s true.

Tom: So, God could decide that me punching you in the face right now is the right thing to do?

Pastor Rick: He wouldn’t

Tom: But he could… that’s in his power, right? Or is he bound by…

Pastor Rick: He could.

Tom: So, isn’t morality kind of arbitrary then?

Pastor Rick: No. That means that morality is perfect.

Tom: Here’s the thing I don’t get about that… how could you know?

Pastor Rick: Well, God is perfect, so…

Tom: No. How could you know what god deems right and wrong?

Pastor Rick: God speaks to us all, in his subtle ways.

Tom: If that was true, then why do the vast majority of people on this Earth not believe in God…

Pastor Rick: They do

Tom: … I mean the same God that you claim exists. If he speaks to everyone, then why do people differ so greatly on what is right and wrong?

Pastor Rick: Some people interpret it differently, some people confuse the word of God for other things.

Tom: Rick… you make my head numb.

Pastor Rick: You started down this road.

Tom: True. What time is it?

Pastor Rick: 5 until 6.

Tom: Oh… I’ve got to pick up Janet from work. And pick up Heath from the babysitter’s after that.

Pastor Rick: Do you mind if I tag along? There’s an old man in failing health at the hospital, and I want to read him his last rites.

Tom: No problem, Rick. Just to the hospital then?

Pastor Rick: Yes, I shall see young Heath on Sunday. Thank you, friend.

Tom: Don’t mention it
-----------------------------


I remember church quite well. I remember that there were those who truly loved it. One of those types was my mother. She, along with many of the more involved members of the church, planned everything with the pastor. They were the Sunday School teachers, the ones who organized pledge drives and the ones who put in all sorts of work towards the holiday programs. I remember helping my mother decorate the pipe organ with tinsel in the early morning of Christmas Eve.
Then, there are people like my father. They came to church… most of the time. The time they spent was time spent thinking about how close kickoff was. They occupied their minds with thoughts of going home, trading their Sunday formalwear for their Cleveland Browns sweatshirts and drinking to their home team’s failures and triumphs. I don’t know that my father got particularly much out of church, but he continued to go. Perhaps out of some promise he had made to himself long ago. Perhaps because my mother would have been upset otherwise. Perhaps it was because it would disappoint his best friend, Pastor Rick.

I knew at a young age that I was more like my father. I also knew that there were plenty of other kids like me at school. In school, I had friends who were just as bored by being told to shut up and listen to sermons. I didn’t know anyone who really looked forward to church. Some of them didn’t even go, and I envied them. Later, I would realize why this was so.

For people like my mother, church was their way of socializing. My mother had friends there and almost nowhere else. In church, she found a group of like-minded people that she could hang out with. My dad had his football buddies and Rick. I had my schoolmates. It occurred to me that the reason that I don’t “feel it” at church the way other people do might have something to do with the fact that Church was not a reward for me. It was a tedious task that had to be completed every week. Only after this task was completed would I get to return to playing ball out in the yard, watching TV or playing video games. For my mother, and the rest of her clan, the opposite was true. Church was a release from a confusing and tedious world. This was the story of her life.

If there is one thing that the human mind is good at, it is creating stories. In fact, it’s possibly the only thing the mind does. We intake data from the outside world, and we build stories to explain that data. Some of these stories are things like scientific theories, which are testable and produce tangible results. Some of them are closed loops, stories that really can’t be shown true or false. These stories stay with us, occasionally being adjusted over time and growing more complex.

My mother’s mind told her a few things that my mind simply does not tell me. It told her that being in a specific building was more spiritual compared to other buildings without huge ornamental crosses and stained glass windows. It told her that all of life’s strange occurrences need not be explained by science, but could simply be chalked up to God’s plan without a second thought. It told her that a child could be forever changed or “saved” by dousing it in water.

She was happy.

Her and my father were two completely different people it seemed to me. Yet, they made each other happy. For them, that was enough. To her, that happiness was some sort of positive reinforcement from God himself. For him, that happiness was all he ever wanted, all by itself. I once asked my father if it bothered him that some people had never heard of God as he knew it. He told me that it didn’t matter what they believed in, or if they believed in nothing. As long as they were happy, it didn’t matter to him.

I’m more like my father in that respect. I really don’t begrudge anyone for their beliefs. I don’t care if you’re a Christian, atheist, Pagan, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, Taoist or anything else. Just as I don’t care what your sexual preferences are. How people choose to affect the world is the only important thing to me, and I really could not care less about how they arrive to those actions. If a person saves a child from drowning in a pond, I don’t care if they do it for fame, if they do it out of obligation or even in they do it by accident.

The only thing that matters in life, long after we are all dead, is that we have made the world a better place to live in. It does not matter how this has been accomplished, unless those methods will carry down throughout history and ruin the progress of the future. While I will die and decay and cease to be remembered by history, the stories that I share may live on and affect other minds, creating and influencing stories in the minds of others. And their stories will similarly infect a new generation of minds.

The stories I hope live on are the ones that give comfort and happiness to people.

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

A young Heath Yates sits in a 1950s-style diner with Edible Matthewson, who wears a tee-shirt showing the iconic logo for The Misfits. Yates is dressed in a white tee, which is soaked in his own sweat. The two sit drinking milkshakes while perusing their menus.

Edible: The thing I don’t get about you and that pastor is how he kept you in church so long. You’re far too bright, and every story you’ve ever told me about you as a youth suggest you never thought much of the whole god business.

Heath: He was a very skilled debater. I think you have to be if you’re a pastor that long.

Edible: I suppose he would have fielded quite a few of the standard “How can God Exist?” questions…

Heath: And he had some ready-made answers for them.

Edible: Sure. But I’m guessing they never really felt… right… to you.

Heath: Yeah, but I couldn’t really articulate an intelligent response to them. His responses were always so confident and well-thought-out. When you’re still trying to figure things out… it’s easy to just gravitate towards that.

Edible: And yet, here you are.

A blond waitress in a white jumpsuit and red rollerskates rolls to Edible and Heath’s table.

Waitress: Welcome to Johnny Rockets. My name is Sheila and I’ll be your waitress this evening. What will you two be having today?

Heath: Just a double cheeseburger platter… plain.

Waitress: Alright… and you?

Edible: Route 66 Burger platter.

The waitress collects their menus

Waitress: Alright then. Sugar, might I ask… what is with the sweat? Did you just run a marathon?

Heath: No. I’ve just been doing some conditioning drills with my trainer here. I’m training to be a pro wrestler.

Waitress: That’s nice. My fiancée is a big wrestling fan. His favorite is some guy named Drew Micholls or…

Edible: Michaels

Waitress: That’s the one!

Heath chuckles as Edible clenches his fist.

Heath: You know, my trainer here is actually one of Drew’s partners in The Misfits. I’m sure your fiancée would love a signed shirt from him.

Waitress: That would be lovely! You don’t mind, do you?

Edible glares at Heath, who flashes a devilish grin.

Edible: Of course not. He can actually have this shirt if you’ll find me a marker.

Edible peels off his tee, stripping down to a white wife-beater.

Waitress: That’s so nice of you.

She hands Edible a sharpie. Edible signs his name to the red “M” in the logo.

Waitress: Thank you so much. I’ll have your food out in a little bit.

Edible: Anything for a fan.

The waitress rolls off. Heath starts laughing in his seat, as Edible glares at him.

Heath: Anything, huh?

Edible: I have half a mind to smack you.

Heath: Jealous much?

Edible: No. It’s just that I really hate the South sometimes?

Heath: So it’s her accent that caused you to grimace when she butchered Drew’s name?

Edible: Not that. It’s just that… everyone here is a damn Jesus freak it seems. And they fucking love Drew because they see him as some sort of crusader… for them.

Heath: So?

Edible: So… they don’t like people like you and me as much just because we’re not Christian. I do the exact same thing that Drew does. I fight for the exact same causes. Yet, whose merchandise sells more?

Heath: Again… so?

Edible: So… my protégé… make no mistake. You and I are second-class citizens to these people. We can never be their heroes… not the way Drew can.

Heath: You can.

Edible: Not like him.

Heath: If you really deliver on the Real American Dream thing…

Edible: Even if I do…

Heath: …you will have spoken to something that even these people believe in.

Edible: …

Heath: Listen, if it’s marketing you’re worried about, then there’s no fear. You’re a member of The Misfits. People root for you to achieve that dream. People root for moments in our business. They see a hard worker getting what’s coming to him, they’re happy.

Edible: You know… I sometimes wish I could.

Heath: Could what?

Edible: Believe

Heath: …

Edible: Part of it’s the whole Pascal’s Wager thing.

Heath: The “you should believe because hell is really bad and heaven is really awesome” argument?

Edible: Yeah… that and because it would be easier. It would be easier to simply be able to chalk up bad things to being part of some grander plan that gives everyone more happiness in the end. It would be nice to think that this life wasn’t it for me. But… I can’t will myself to believe in something. Nobody can. Still, it would be nice.

Heath: Well… yeah. I mean, that’s pretty much why religion exists, right? It’s no coincidence that as soon as brains became bigger in our ancient ancestors developed bigger brains, they started burying their dead with flowers and such. With more advanced brains come increased awareness of the future, of the fact that everything dies.

Edible: Wasn’t Freud really into the idea that man invented God as a way to cope with death?

Heath: Yup.

Edible: It makes sense.

Heath: Also answers one of those questions that the pastor would always ask me. If god doesn’t exist, then how could the church?

Edible: Yeah…

Heath: It’s just a matter of looking at what church does for people. They like the comfort it brings them, they like feeling like they know what they’re doing is right. Without religion, the world is mucky and scary. It’s hard to know what’s right and wrong when nobody tells you. It’s easy to fear death.

Edible: That’s for damn sure

Heath: But we don’t need it

Edible: But here’s the thing. That’s all true, but then why can I not believe even on my worst day? Religion does all of these nice things if you believe, but I could never force myself to believe. So how did it start? How did that first person come to believe?

Heath ponders this for a minute

Heath: Maybe he was a schizophrenic who really thought that an invisible person was talking to him.

Both Edible and Heath chuckle at this. Within a few moments, their food arrives…

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

At the time, I didn’t have a better response to that question. I do now that I better understand the mind. The mind takes in information and develops stories to explain it. An ancient man might see mist swirling over a pond and think that it is spirits of the dead. I would see that evaporated water from the pond was being blown in the wind. Both are stories spun by our minds, stories we have developed using data we’ve collected over the years from our ancestors.

I would be tempted to say that my story is real, and the ancient man’s story is an illusion. I know that I could not say this without bias and therefore with any certainty. This is what gets me about people like Leon Caprice and Pastor Yates. Those who have seriously looked at the mind, people like philosophers and psychologists, realize that almost nothing is certain. They realize that our mind is capable of lying to us, just as the minds of our ancestors were. Knowing that, we know that nothing is certain.

Yet someone like Leon can have that confidence that I can never have. I could ask Leon how he could be sure of his own God when so many versions of divine power exist in the world. I could ask him how he could possibly convince others that his version is the right one when there is essentially no evidence for one book over another. And I know he wouldn’t blink. If he didn’t have an answer for that question, he would consider it a test of his faith, and use it as an excuse to BELIEVE HARDER!

I could pose to him the Euthyphro dilemma, the Stone Paradox, or the Epicurus Argument. I could make all of these arguments, and I guarantee you that Leon would not concede that his beliefs are built on anything but fundamental truths about the world. Leon will go to his church and believe that he is experiencing God’s presence. He will witness the same events in the world that I will, and he will attribute them to divine intervention. He will do this even if his prayers aren’t answered. He will do this even if God never directly talks to him. He will do this even if God makes his life miserable. I know, because Leon has been through a lot in life and still clings to his notion of god ever so tightly.

His certainty is something that I am no doubt jealous of. But this is a passing jealousy that I can quickly soothe over with other things. My mother found her social life in church, but people like me find it elsewhere. Leon finds comfort and pleasure in devotion, but people like me find it elsewhere. Leon believes that he does the good lord’s work, and that he will deliver God’s Wrath upon my unbelieving and unrepentant soul. Whereas I am 99% certain that God does not exist, and therefore…

I have no need to fear God’s Wrath

"Airport please" Anwyl requests as he climbs into the cab,

It had been a few months since Anwyl had ventured to his adoptive home of Chicago. A home crowd would be there to cheer him on in his dark match against Craig Ryans. Now only was Anwyl going to be competing, the filming for the documentary was finally finished and they had announced that the premiere was due the night before Ultimatum III. Anwyl was "stoked as mate" as he explained in his own words. The world was finally turning around for him.
The airport was bustling, as people were coming and going. Family and friends were waving goodbye to each other, many people were in tears, others had a mobile phone glued to their ear. Anwyl reached for his wallet as the cab rolls up outside the large automatic doors reading, DEPARTURES.

"That'll be thirty-two dollars and forty-five cents, pal" the cab driver drones as he holds out his hand.

Anwyl hands him the money and grabs his suitcase, leaving the cab quickly and hurrying along to one of the departure desks. Anwyl continues to look at the monitors above his head as he watches the time slowly tick over making standing in line seem like forever.

"Hurry" Anwyl says in urgency.

"Come on, eh" a man yells out behind Anwyl "Some of has to get out of here quickly"

The desk begins to work quickly letting more and more people through. Anwyl reaches the front of the line and quickly rushes through all the ticketing procedures and questions. Anwyl's bag is placed on the conveyor belt and Anwyl rushes towards the gate, hurrying through all the security check points. A siren rings out piercing the ears of everyone in the vicinity of the security check point.

"Please, can you come here sir" the burly security guard announces as he points to Anwyl.

"FUCK" Anwyl yells as the metal detector is used to search.

The detector goes crazy when the security guard waves it past Anwyl's pocket.

"Sir, may you turn your pockets out" The security guard says to Anwyl.

Anwyl turns out his pockets, pulling out a pair of nail scissors. The security guards dives on Anwyl, pinning him to the cold, hard, tiled floor.

"SECURITY THREAT DETECTED!" the security guard screams out, a small security guard pulls a tazer, humorously electrocuting the larger security who has Anwyl locked down and unable to move.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Screams Anwyl, the larger security guard flails as the electricity passes through his body and transfers to the core of Anwyl.

Anwyl passes out, leaving his body sprawled out on the hard, cold tiles.



Anwyl awakes in the first aid area of the airport, slowly opening his eyes. The light stings the eyes of Anwyl causing him to flinch.

"Sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Anwar" explains a gruff voice "We take our terrorist threats seriously here in Canada. We have to protect our brothers in the United States, eh. We understand the situation that happened and what was mean to be protocol turned out to be a vicious attack of some sorts"

Anwyl sits up, looking over at the head security guard who continues talking "So, we have you booked on the next flight to Chicago. The next flight is in ten minutes, we'll drive you around to the plane right now."

Anwyl gets off the bed he was laying on and follows the head security guard to the security cart as they head towards the appropriate gate.

"Anwyl, may I get a signature? I saw you at the Mount V earlier this year and boy I was impressed. You took on Chris Austin at the start, and boy was that a good showing." The security guards asks as he pulls up to Gate 5.

Anwyl pulls out a pen and quickly scribbles the security guards paper and hands it back to him with a smile and a handshake. Anwyl walks to the gate and boards the plane.

Anwyl makes it to the Chicago International Airport in one piece moving quickly through the security checkpoints. Anwyl checks his watch 6:43 pm

"FUCKING LATE" Anwyl chants to himself

The movie premiere airs in half an hour and Anwyl needs to take his bags to the FMW supplied hotel. Anwyl walks out of the arrival doors in the bustling airport and walks straight over to one of the cabs and jumps in. Anwyl hands the driver a piece of paper, the driver nods and begins to take off. Meanwhile, Anwyl begins to change into a tuxedo poorly in the backseat of the cab. It is quite hard and Anwyl's bow tie looks shocking along with the poorly tucked shirt.

The cab reaches the movie theatre instead and Anwyl jumps out, the red carpet is empty and all the paparazzi are packing up their equipment. A few fans are waiting for anyone that decides to leave early or who comes late in hopes of an autograph, Anwyl sprints past them all running through the golden glass doors of the first class cinema.

"I'm. Jacob. Anwar or Anwyl. Anwyl is my stage name" Anwyl pauses, taking a deep breath "I am starring in this movie, I should be on the list my friend" The security guard runs his finger down the clip board and nods, the usher walks over and begins to direct Anwyl to his seat.

"Right here Mr. Anwyl" the usher says to Anwyl pointing into the darkness.

"Thank you, mate" Anwyl says sidestepping everyone into the cinema.

"...At about fifteen years old Anwyl was wrestling in a small promotion in Melbourne, Australia. He had little to no success, put showed promise. Earl Adams, a trainer and road agent in various U.S promotions believed Anwyl displayed the basic skills to make it big one day" The narrator explains, his voice exploding throughout the cinema

The movie continues, displaying the life of Anwyl. So far the movie was looking good, various people looked restless. But all and all people were interested. Anwyl smiles, thinking to himself "success"

"...drugs consumed the life of Anwyl causing him to go crazy..." The narrator booms through the building. Anwyl's heart sinks as the clip shows backstage of recent event as Anwyl is walking around talking to himself.

"That never happened' Anwyl says to the person next to him, the bald man and his wife climb out of their seat and leave.

"Fuck" Anwyl says under his breath

More and more of the film displays the flaws and embarrassments of Anwyl, various FMW stars views on Anwyl are taken out of context. But Anwyl begins to see them as straight up insults to himself.

WRITERS NOTE: THESE EVENTS TAKE PLACE JUST AFTER THE ANWYL V.S RYANS MATCH

After the match against Ryans, Anwyl is sitting backstage taking to some of the ring crew, Anywl is a little drawn from the conversion but still has an input here and there.

Anwyl climbs out of his seat and runs up the stairs to the exit doors, running away from his problems. Ladies see Anwyl and look disgusted as he runs by, Anwyl continues to run climbing up the fire escape of a building trying to escape from his problems.

"FUCK MY LIFE" Anwyl screams as he reaches the top of the building.

He pulls out his phone and presses buttons, the first person called is Wesley Hollywood.
"I'm on top of a building, mate. I am going to jump catch ya's" Anwyl hangs up the phone and calls more people and says the exact same thing.

A few bystanders see Anwyl ranting on top of the building and promptly call 911, Anwyl begins to hurl his phone at them. Nailing a man in the ribs, dropping him quickly. Anwyl pulls out a clear pouch with white powder in it and sniffs some, slipping into an erratic state. Firefighters, Paramedics and Police turn up at the scene, and begins to coax Anwyl down.

"Please, Mr. Anwar. You do not want to do this" The police negotiator yells "Think of your family and friends"

Anwyl is sent into a fit of rage and begins to yell incoherently "I JUST WANT TO GO, IT'S LIKE I'M TAPPED IN MY MIND AND I'M NOT LETTING GO. THEY TRY TO HELP ME BUT I WON'T LET THEM TOUCH ME... UNTIL YOU HAVE BEEN IN MY SHOES DON'T EVER JUDGE ME"

Anwyl pauses for a second, letting his word ring out "FUCK IT, MY LIFE'S DELT WITH ANGER. SEE I JUST WANT TO GET A SHOTTY AND GO AND END IT PROPERLY, DOING EVERYBODY AND MYSELF A FAVOR"

Anwyl begins to slow down, and starts to pronounce his words a little between "People say 'your life’s what you make it' but I didn't ask for my own life... but I can take it"

Anwyl steps out of the sight of the people on the ground. A few seconds later a large figure falls from the building smashing through the roof of a small car.

"WE NEED PARAMEDICS OVER HERE QUICKLY..." Someone yells out, everyone runs over to the mess dumbfounded over what has happened.

People are screaming and crying. What a horrible thing....

Matt P. Dunn; the British Lion, the Master of the Long Game, the Mass Manipulator, Mortus, the Golden Savior and as of No Holds Barred, Gold Standard Wrestlings very own Martyr.

Only two days after his shocking defeat at No Holds Barred, we at www.britishlions.co.uk, the internets only and best fansite dedicated to all things Matt Dunn (and Nick Rijkaard) had the opportunity to sit down with the man, who promised to answer all questions from a perspective that we have never seen before; his own.

Here is a transcript of the conversation.

SM: So Matt, so pleased to finally get chance to talk to you. I'm a huge fan.

MPD: Always happy to get the chance to talk to you people, Mark. Sh*t, haven't had chance since you registered to FMW.com to flame the Black Pharoahs.

SM: You knew that was me?

MPD: Not many people lack the creativity to just whack 'Smark' infront of their name.

SM: Isn't that rich coming from someone who wrestles under his own name.

MPD: I don't though, and I'm sure you know that, Mark.

SM: Indeed I do. But for the benefit of the readers, Matt, what is your actual name?

MPD: I was born Matthew Philip Dunnaker. Given the similarity of my surname to Ryan Dunn's, who I used to watch all the time, god rest, I dropped the last couple of letters and have used the moniker for almost everything I do.

SM: Such as?

MPD: Various things. My musical projects, for example.

SM: Of course, you're in a band at the moment, correct?

MPD: I am. I play guitar and sing, erm, scream, backing vocals in a 'alternative metal band' called In Denial. We play when we get chance, but seeing as they're all back in England and I live most of the time out of Orlando, it's difficult.

SM: I can imagine. So, now we've got to know the real you a little, let's get to some wrestling questions.

MPD: Sure thing.

SM: So. The threefold man. We've heard that moniker thrown about a lot, and there's some fan theories as to what it means that update over time. Care to shed some light?

MPD: Fan theories?

SM: Yeah, the most current one is that there's you, representing your current savior gimmick, then there's your past, represented by the Mortus gimmick, and who you would like to be, the better person you've spoke about.

MPD: Yeah, that's wrong. Well, I guess it's not, because I guess it can mean anything to anyone, but as far as I'm concerned, 'the Threefold Man' is simply Me playing heel roles, like my Mortus gimmick and the savior gimmick, Me playing face roles, like my debut, and Me, Matthew Philip Dunnaker. Whatever postition I am in, it'll fall into one of those categories.

SM: So, would you say this is the first time we wrestling fans are seeing the real you?

MPD: In a sense. I mean, it's all me. All part of me, anyway. Like this savior stuff at the moment, I do have some issues with some of the management. I just expand on them, blow them up, so to say.

SM: And is AIRgate one of those issues?

MPD: Ha. No. I thought AIRgate was stupid, and that both fronts were being stupid. But I didn't have an issue with AIRgate, apart from the name AIR. But; to the Savior Matt Dunn, that is ammo. 'Oh hey, FMW, the management of precious company was about to jump ship. See how they treat you.'

SM: So, can you explain some of those issues?

MD: In part. I don't want to get into too much detail. I'll get in trouble. But part of it is I believe certain members of the booking staff to have horrible people skills. Yeah, ok, perhaps he was stressed, under pressure, but I don't give a f*ck if I were the FM Champion or the twelve year old girl with the rich daddy who has a crush on the Celt 'cause of his 'sexy accent.' You just don't talk to people like that.

SM: Names?

MD: He knows who he is. That's good enough. On top of that there's been a lot of flak being kicked up backstage between certain people and the booking staff that I won't go into, because I've found if you argue things here, it tends to hurt your career more than anything.

SM: So, Dante Jones?

MD: Ha, so you've heard. Yeah, my old buddy N*gger Charlie.

SM: Say, slightly off topic here, but will we ever see the team of Blackeh and Matteh?

MD: I'm not going to say no. Maybe a face turn is in my future, I mean, sh*t, I'm already due to stab GSW in the back any minute now based on my past. Or, hell, a RAMPAGE! heel turn might be coming.

[fragment missing]

...

...

...

SM: So, you've got this gauntlet match at Ultimatum against Ashburn, with your GSW brothers competing too. How do you think that'll turn out?

MD: Well, it's going to happen one of two ways. Ashburn defeats the odds and retains, which would just demonstrate why he's being head hunted for GSW anyway, or GSW puts the number game to the advantage and MPD walks with the television title...

SM: You're saying Whitt and Osiris aren't going to win?

MD: That's exactly what I'm saying.

SM: Even if it comes down to you and Whitt, for example, right at the end?

MD: No exceptions. I mean, these guys know me. They train with me. Alot of them have trained UNDER me for their tag team matches.

SM: You are the best. And if Sam hadn't had a change of heart at No Holds Barred, you'd be a three time tag champion now...

MD: Exactly. As I was saying. They know me. They know I'm not going to lay down so Jeff Whitt, the 'leader' of GSW can walk with a championship. Sh*t, I haven't held a singles title since the Sanguine Title back in VCW.

SM: A fair few years ago then?

MD: Yeah. And I think it's time I get something out of this GSW arrangement after giving so much.

SM: Oh?

MD: Yeah, they take my music, my METALtron video footage, in some parts my gimmick, f*ck me, you know why Storm left? He took one of my cans of Rockstar out the fridge and I bitched him out about it and he got butthurt.

SM: Really?

MD: No. But seriously. I don't mind giving to the industry. But one can only give so much...

[fragment missing]

...

...

...

I have the feeling that my GSW brothers are not too happy. And what gave that away? Perhaps it was Whitt and Crusoe screaming at me, quoting things I'd said in my interview with Smark Mark.

Yeah. That's probably a fairly good indication that they weren't happy with me.

I had Osiris talking some nonsense about crazy Egyptian death curses or something. Does the man not know that I invented the super natural gimmick?

Ok, maybe invented is a little bit of a stretch, but popularized the style? Became the most recognised for doing it in FMW history? Shit, I mean, how far did cYnical and Bloodrose get?

Their claims to fame here in FMW are being involved in a staged backstage feud which ended up with me becoming the GM of Anxiety, and it being a terrible night for the salmon. Respectively.

Leviticus, trying to be the voice of reason, says that we need to unite, to acheive the Gold Standard Agenda, that we shouldn't be fighting amongst each other.

I ask him to clarify what that agenda is; last I heard he was looking to kill FMW? He's going to do that via taking FMW gold?

That was never my agenda. They knew that since day one. I was signed to GSW under the basis that I was doing so to stage a protest to the management of FMW, and that in doing so I would shine a positive light on GSW. And that was enough.

But now I talk about doing something for me? For Matthew Philip Dunnaker, I've got our 'leader' in my grill all 'shit what the fuck are you saying' when I'm just giving my fans, MY fans what they want. And what they wanted what was on my mind.

Because, here's the thing. I used to think, when I challenged DGS way back when, ok, if I can get that TV title, I can instantly generate monster heat. I can say 'lookie here, this belt means Gold Standard Wrestling is the best thing on television right now.'

If I'm honest, I've grown a little disillusioned. At NHB, I was called the 'leader' of GSW. I'm by no means the leader. But I am perceived as such. Which makes me believe I'm putting in too much work, time, sweat, tears into this. So, maybe it should be 'Lookie here, this belt means Matt P. Dunn is the best thing on television right now.'

So, GSW. I'll be watching. Because I'm getting tired of carrying the weight. I'm sure Leviticus is getting tired of carrying the weight, and I'm sure he'd say if his values didn't get in the way.

Whitt, Osiris. Pull your fingers out. Because MPD is walking with the title. That is the goal. You can motivate yourself to thank me for everything I have done for you, or you motivate yourselves to defend yourself against me.

Because sometimes it feels like I'm dragging dead weight. And I'm very almost at the point where I just stop dragging.

OOC: I fully intend to add to this. But you would place Ultimatum smack bang inbetween my PC exploding and the release date of patch 4.2, so...

We'll see. Check back yo. <3

…all right, here goes.

Hey. My name’s David. I’m twenty-five years old, and live in downtown Omaha, Nebraska with my wife of two years, Rachel.

By trade, I’m a professional wrestler – it’s been where I’ve had my career centered since I was about six. There’s never been anything else I wanted to do, never been anything else I’ve even thought about doing. I guess all that worked out for the best, because it turns out that I have a certain knack for the sport. I wrestle for FMW, y’know – best of the best of the best and all that.

I’ve only been in the company for about a year-and-a-half, but I’d like to think I’ve already done a pretty good job making a name for myself. Former TV Champion, former Light Heavyweight Champion, nine-and-one singles…

…fuck it, I can’t do this.

This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. It just isn’t. I wasn’t supposed to lose the belt yet, I was supposed to be the longest-reigning Television Champion in the history of this fucking company. And after that? Longest reigning C-4 Champion.

And after that? Longest-reigning Full Metal Champion in FMW History. Yeah, you’d better fucking believe it.

I could’ve done it, y’know. C-4, FMC, Hall of Fame, maybe a few more title reigns thrown in for seasoning…all of that. But not now.

Now I’m fucked.

I’m fucked, and it’s all Ashburn’s fault. Stupid fucking cokehead, how the hell are you able to wrestle when you’re on that shit?! Bastard took the title and The Streak (capital T, capital S) away from me, and he probably doesn’t even remember doing it! Now he’s probably off snorting a line somewhere, cloudy thoughts of how he’ll get three lucky kicks in on those GSW guys and leave Ultimatum still holding the championship.

And that leaves me…where, exactly?

Oh, that’s right – fucking NOWHERE.

You know what people said about me when I got here? That’d I’d amount to nothing, that I’d be nothing. The phrase ‘flash in the pan’ was thrown around quite a bit, if I recall correctly. So were ‘faggot’ and ‘retard’.

I arrived, won some matches, and they said those things.

I stayed, won a few more matches, and they still said those things.

Television Championship, unified with the Light Heavyweight Championship for good measure. Second place in the Gold Card Gauntlet. Second place in the Hayabusa Cup. Standout performance in the Mount Vesuvius Match. 2010 Rookie of the Year Award. And still they said those things. Still they doubted me, doubted my ability, my resolve.

I was never able to prove myself to any of them, and now?

Now I’ve proven them right. All of them. I had two claims to fame here in Full Metal Wrestling, two claims to being something other than a rookie on a hot streak with more than handful of talent sitting in his back pocket, and I just lost the pair of them on an international television broadcast. And now, to make matters worse (read: a LOT worse), I’ve been set up on FMW’s biggest stage, Ultimatum, against the man who almost broke my neck in the Hayabusa Cup, the man who threw me into a thirty-some-foot fall at Mount Vesuvius.

There’s an old saying in the wrestling business that no matter who you are, there’s always one guy that has your number, one guy that you could wrestle a thousand-and-one times and never be able to beat, one guy that you’re genetically coded to be inferior to.

I’m pretty sure my guy’s Chris Austin.

And now that I’ve hopped the one-way train back to genericism, to mediocrity, the powers that be have ordained him to run it off the tracks.

Bastards.





"...vid? Hey, come on. Get up."

Rachel's voice was muted and had a faraway sound to it, but that was probably because David's head was jammed underneath his pillow. He rolled over in bed, releasing a loud groan that turned into an agonized yell when the pillow was suddenly torn away and sunlight flooded his senses.

"Jesus, Rayche!" he protested groggily, jamming his eyes shut and clapping his hands over top of them. "...the hell are you doing?!"

Although his world was still dark and peppered with spots from the glare of the sun, his wife's voice now came loud and clear: "It's almost eleven-thirty, David - you need to get up. Like, now."

David groaned again. "But it's Saturday!" He cringed as the sheets were ripped from his body and deposited in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. Rolling over onto his back, he lowered his hands and opened his eyes to see Rachel standing over him, dressed and ready for work with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"I don't care," she said. "I have to get to work, and you have to get up. Weren't you planning on hitting the gym today?"

The gym. Yeah, he'd told her the day before that he'd be spending all day today at the gym. Fuck, why the HELL had he gone and done that? It's not like there was any point in him going; no amount of cardio, no amount of weight training would prepare him for a straight one-on-one match with Austin. He'd just get dropped on his head again, and the only thing extra muscle mass would do would be to make him land harder.

David blinked; Rachel was still looking at him, her eyes now a bit narrower.

"Well?" she asked impatiently.

"...yeah," he answered finally, defeat evident in his voice. Rachel took a step back from the side of the bed as he sat up and swung his legs out over the edge, planting his feet on the floor. David got to his feet and stretched, grimacing as a series of loud pops emanated from his upper back. "So...I guess I'll go shower," he said, letting his arms fall limply to his sides and looking at Rachel.

She smiled, any shortness with him she may have had melting away as if by magic. "All right. I'll be at the school until around six." She approached him and rose up on the tips of her toes, planting a quick kiss on his lips before turning and heading for the bedroom door. "I'll see you tonight; have a good day!"

"You too," David replied, lifting his hand in a gentle wave as she disappeared out into the main living area of their apartment.

He stretched again and held it, staring at the slightly-ajar bedroom door and listening to his wife as she moved about the living room, gathering up various things and getting ready to leave. Eventually the sound of the main door opening and closing reached his ears, and he released the stretch with a small sigh of discontent.

David started for the bathroom, but something made him stop short. He turned and instead went over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, picking his phone up off it and quickly checking through his calls and text messages.

His brow furrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned downwards. Nothing from Anna.

Another sigh escaped his lips, and he turned for the bathroom.

It was gonna be a bad day.



David pressed the 'Call' button, placed the phone to his ear, and listened as it rang.


"Hey," he said sharply into the receiver. "Pick up the damn phone, Anna. This cold shoulder thing ain't gonna fly with me." He then paused; truth be told, he hadn't really thought of what he was going to say beyond the message's curt, reprimanding introduction. This was the ninth or tenth message he'd left Anna since their awkward, eye-opening encounter at the Penthouse Strip Club a few weeks prior, and she'd essentially cut off all contact with him since.

"...listen," he resumed, his voice softening a great deal. "I...I knew you'd been out of work for a while, but I had no idea you were that bad off. If you needed money, you should've said something. Rachel and I, we would've..." He paused again.

Rachel and I. Husband and wife, putting Anna on the outside. That was good.

"...we would've helped you. Anna, you can't just keep ignoring me like this; we have to talk sometime. Call me back, seriously. Bye."

David hit the ‘End’ button on his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of the gym, duffel bag over his shoulder, leaning against the building’s front wall as other patrons came and went. It was really starting to irritate and worry him that Anna wasn’t responding to his attempts to get a hold of her.

It had been nearly a month since he and his friends had seen her at the Penthouse, and David had begun to wonder if that encounter had somehow done serious damage to his friendship with her. Granted, the whole purpose of him going there had been to get over the romantic feelings he’d begun to develop for her, but still…

David spied a pebble at his feet and kicked it, watching with mild interest as it went skipping across the parking lot and into somebody’s wheel well.

He didn’t want to lose Anna as a friend. He wanted to help her, wanted for her to be happy, and allowing her to continue stripping didn’t mesh with either of those wants.

Finally, David sighed, turned, and went through the front doors of the gym. No use dwelling on Anna now, he supposed; he had iron to pump and (hopefully) a strong sense of fear-borne apathy to overcome.

Quickly crossing the somewhat-largish entryway, he entered the lobby of the gym proper. A wood-and-marble front desk, emblazoned with the gym’s logo – LIFETIME FITNESS – on the front, greeted him. David reached into his wallet as he approached the front desk and pulled out his gold membership card, handing it to the blonde, smiling teenage receptionist.

“Hello, Mister Smith,” she happily chirped as she swiped his card through a scanner. “Have a nice workout.”

David thanked her and returned the card to its place in his wallet. Walking past the front desk, he was about to start for the men’s locker room when the sounds from a large, wall-mounted flatscreen TV in the back of the lobby caught his attention. He turned towards it just in time to see ESPN SportsCenter come back for commercial, cutting to anchors John Anderson and Chris Berman.

Anderson: Welcome back to EPSN SportsCenter. I’m John Anderson, here with Chris Berman, and this is our special coverage of one of professional wrestling’s biggest events, Full Metal Wrestling’s Ultimatum pay-per-view.

David blinked as the Ultimatum logo flashed across the screen.

Berman: If you missed our special preview of the Ultimatum Pre-Show, you can find it online at ESPN.go.com/wrestle. But now, John, is where we get into the real meat of this broadcast, and that's the main pay-per-view card.

Anderson: You're right about that, Chris; Ultimatum is the biggest live event in Full Metal Wrestling's arsenal, and some of these matches we're about to outline prove it. First on the card is what's called a Ladder Match, and it's going to see two of the sharpest, brightest, and most athletic young men FMW has to offer go at it for the fourth time. Ladies and gentlemen, next up on our special Ultimatum Analysis is Chris Austin versus David GS.

Letting the black duffel bag fall from his shoulder to the floor, David shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall right outside the men's locker room. Working out could wait; he'd heard everyone in the locker room and their grandmother condemn him in his effort to make it 2-2 with Austin, himself included, and he wanted to see what sort of chance the rest of the world thought he had.

He watched as a match preview animation, similar to the one that had aired for the match during the No Holds Barred broadcast, played over the screen. The feed then cut to side-by-side reels of Austin and himself in action, narrated by Anderson and Berman.

Berman: I see this one stealing the show, John - ya got DGS and RCA, two of the most physically gifted guys in the sport, going at it in one of the most dangerous, high-octane wrestling matches ever devised.

David nodded, approving of Berman's take on the match. ESPN didn't cover wrestling very often - Ultimatum was one of maybe five regular events that was covered - so he supposed that a fair amount of research went into these specials to ensure that the anchors knew just what the hell they were talking about.

The footage of Austin in action then filled the whole of the screen; some of the hits that were showcased made David cringe.

Anderson: On the one hand, you have Chris Austin: former C-4 Heavyweight Champion, former Tag Team Champion, and a two-time Hayabusa Cup Winner. He calls himself the "Student of the Game", but to see him wrestle, one would assume there's not a whole lot more that he can be taught.

Berman: He's got things that you can't teach, John - he's aggressive, he's merciless, and he's got an athletic ability that 99% of guys who become wrestlers will never, EVER be able to match.

David frowned. So far, they were making a pretty good case for him getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter.

Anderson: Though, if anyone WERE capable of matching it, it would be this man.

David beamed in spite of himself as the on-screen showcase of Austin's in-ring abilities transitioned into one of his own. He gave a quick look around and saw that a few of the gym's other patrons had stopped and were now watching in interest, and his smile grew just a bit wider.

Anderson: David GS: former Television Champion, the last Light Heavyweight Champion on record, and a year-and-a-half undefeated streak in singles competition that was JUST NOW broken. He's literally made a career out of making the other rookies look bad, and now, on the heels of losing both the Television Championship and his first singles match, he's no doubt looking to break into the next level of FMW competition.

Berman: I really like this kid, John - he's got a bright future ahead of him, no matter WHO you ask.

Anderson: That may be so, Chris, but what about this match he's got at Ultimatum?

As he watched Chris shrug his shoulders and pause, trying to find the right words, the smile slowly faded from David's face.

Berman: Well...honestly, John, my pick's Austin for this one.

Yep - the smile was gone, and it wasn't coming back. Not for a while.

Anderson: Care to elaborate a little, Chris?

Berman: I'm calling it now - it's going to come down to a mental battle between these two. Physically, it's too close a contest to call. In my opinion, DGS has all of the physical tools required to not only compete with Austin but BEAT him, and I don't think you'll find many people who will disagree with me on that particular point. It's the intangibles - experience, awareness, aggression - that will win this one for Chris Austin. The guy's just coming off a loss in a title defense, so he'll be in a bad mood and looking to get back on the horse; DGS is in the same boat, but he's never HAD to bounce back like this before. He won't be in the right mindset to win the match, and Austin will - really, it's that simple.

Anderson: That, and I'm sure Austin's prior successes over DGS will have a major psychological part to play.

Berman: See? It all adds up.

Anderson: But I wouldn't count David GS out just yet - year-and-a-half long winning streak or not, he's still a rookie, and they have a way of surprising people. Ladies and gentlemen, we now go to the next match on the Ultimatum card, which will see the Abandoned Championship on the line between...

David didn't hear the rest; truly, there was nothing else for him to hear.

They didn't think he could do it - no one did, save Rachel and his fellow Sons of Attrition, and David couldn't help but wonder how sincere their votes of confidence in his ability to beat Chris Austin really were.

He stared at the floor; the fingers of his right hand slowly curled into a fist, tightening so much so that they began to shake, and he felt his teeth begin grinding together of their own accord.

He was angry. It made him angry that everyone had dismissed him so easily and so casually, as if Chris Austin defeating him in singles competition weren't just a likely occurrence but an inevitable one. It made him angry that HE had dismissed himSELF so easily and so casually, all because the bastard had gotten one over on him a couple of times before.

It made him mad.

It INFURIATED him.

How could he have been such a pussy? And on the heels of his loss to Ashburn...Jesus Christ, no wonder everyone in the locker room had been giving him shit. David couldn't believe he hadn't realized it sooner; over the past few weeks his image, his reputation, his credit as a legitimate competitor in Full Metal Wrestling had been all but destroyed, and it'd had nothing to do with him losing the TV Title and the Streak to Matt Ashburn at No Holds Barred. Rather, it had been his own attitude in the wake of that loss, his own attitude in the shadow of his looming confrontation with Austin that had done the deed.

David felt disgusted with himself. He felt disgusted...but in a way, he also felt liberated.

Renewed.

He glanced down at his watch. It was only about ten 'til two; that left him with more than enough time to do what he now wanted to do.

Kneeling down, David picked up his duffel bag. Turning from the TV and the program upon it that had opened his eyes and so cleared his vision, he headed straight for the men's locker room at a quick, brisk clip.

He could beat Chris Austin. Damned if he couldn't.



It wasn't until ten-thirty that night that the apartment door opened and the sound of Nike basketball shoes on the laminate wood floorboards made itself known. Rachel was at the refrigerator, fishing around for a late-night snack when David entered the apartment, and continued to do so for a few seconds before withdrawing a bottle of Lipton Green Tea.

"It's about time you got home," she said distractedly, twisting the cap off and turning towards her husband. "I said I'd be home at six - that meant that I expected you to be here when I got..."

She stopped cold when she saw him, and the bottle of tea almost slipped from her fingers.

David stood tall in the entryway, still breathing hard from a workout that had lasted nearly eight uninterrupted hours. His normally-golden hair was dark with sweat and matted to his skull, with a few stray strands falling down to veil his eyes, which were burning a bright, intense blue from the adrenaline still coursing through his system. Every visible inch of his body - and in a light-gray cutoff and black basketball shorts, there was quite a bit visible - was coated in a shimmering sheen of sweat, and his already-considerable muscles bulged post-workout.

"David," Rachel stammered, "you..."

She couldn't finish. It was almost too much for her to take in right away.

Over the past few weeks, David had fallen into a bit of a slump. He hadn't approached working out with the same drive, determination, and enjoyment that Rachel had always seen him display before, he'd become increasingly distant towards her and others close to him, and he'd begun to spend a lot more time lazing around the house, either slouched in front of the TV or just plain sleeping.

She'd attributed it to a lot of things - his first loss in singles competition, finding out that he was set to face Chris Austin, a man who'd beaten him several times in the past, some situation with his friend Anna - but regardless of the cause, it had begun to worry her.

But not anymore.

This wasn't the lackadaisical, unsure-of-himself man she'd left to take a shower this morning. Something had happened to David during the day. He looked taller, his shoulders looked broader, and there was something different in the way he was looking at her...

"H-how...how was your workout?" Rachel asked slowly.

David didn't answer right away; instead, he relaxed his right arm and shoulder, letting the strap of his duffel bag slide down it until it eventually fell to the floor.

"Fine," he answered, stepping past it. The strength in his voice surprised Rachel, and not at all in a bad way. "Truth be told, I haven't felt this good after a workout in a long, long time."

"Well, that's...that's good," she replied, taking a quick drink from her tea and then setting it down on the counter. She couldn't quite get past the look in his eyes; she'd seen it before, and she knew full-well what it meant. "But you look tired - exhausted, in fact. Don't you think it might be time for bed?"

She smiled, and David returned it almost instantly.

"Why, yes - I do believe you're right."

By the time Rachel blinked, David had already crossed the kitchen to her. She let out a shrill laugh of excitement as he scooped her up in both arms and kissed her passionately, more passionately than he had in weeks. Rachel's entire body tensed in his powerful grip; she found herself moaning submissively into his mouth, and was left gasping for breath when he finally broke the kiss.

"Wha..." she panted, "what...wow..."

"C'mon," David said slyly. "My workout's not done yet."

Rachel let out another excited giggle as he swept her away, moving swiftly towards their slightly-ajar bedroom door. She didn't know how or why, but her husband was back - her real husband, the one with the ego.



'Sup, everyone.

I'm pretty sure you already know me, but for those who don't, allow me to introduce myself. My name's David. I'm twenty-five years old, and live in downtown Omaha, Nebraska with my wife of two years, Rachel.

By trade, I'm a professional wrestler. Not just any old professional wrestler, though - I'm the hottest shit to hit the fan since the last hottest shit. I've been a contracted member of the Full Metal Wrestling roster since early 2010, and since then I've ripped through the undercard (and some parts of the midcard) like a hot knife through butter. Former TV Champion, former Light Heavyweight Champion, 2010 Rookie of the Year, and the proud owner of what used to be a nine-match undefeated streak in singles competition.

They called it The Streak - capital T, capital S.

Now here's the thing - I'm not undefeated anymore. I lost my first match, along with the TV Title, to Matt Ashburn a couple weeks ago at No Holds Barred. And now, at Ultimatum, the biggest event on FMW's calendar, I'm scheduled to face Chris Austin - yes, that's right, the Chris Austin - in a ladder match.

Word on the street is that he's pissed, but ya know what? So am I.

There are quite a few reasons as to why I'm pissed - mostly at Austin, RAMPAGE!, Marky Mark, and the rest of the cunt-nuggets who've been badmouthing me these past few weeks, but also at David GS.

...no no no, not me, the other David GS - the mopey one, with the slightly smaller muscles. That fucker's been plodding around here with a black cloud over his head, giving me a bad name, and I'm fucking sick of it.

So I'm back. I'm here to set the record straight.

That loss to Ashburn? Big fucking deal. I was on a hot streak that was bound to end eventually, and if it wasn't him it would've ended up being somebody else. To those of you who think that this is the end, that there's nowhere else for me to go and nothing else for me to do...fuck you. This is just the beginning, and at Ultimatum, I'm going to prove it.

Because I can beat Chris Austin.

I will beat Chris Austin.

I will.

.

You Have to Break a Few Eggs.

The sun beamed in through a smeared window, bouncing off the cutlery left on the sink from last nights dinner. It reflected up into the eyes of the man standing behind the kitchen bench, dressing gown untied and revealing nothing but chiselled skin below to hide his modesty

You sure I can’t fix you one of these?

For the most part this day had started out like any other day. Abel went through his normal morning routine chopping eggs, tomato, ham, cheese and fresh chilli with all the skill of a fully trained chef. Sure his repertoire may be somewhat limited but he would have been willing to bet his remaining friends on his omelette being as good as anybody’s.

No thanks, I already told you I’m a vegan.

I don’t have to put ham in yours….

I don’t eat any animal products, that mean eggs too.

Abel shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, hiding a cheeky grin.

Oh well, it’s your loss. I think there might be some cereal in the cupboard.

The girl frowned at Abel like they had been over this a dozen times already this morning.

Right…. No milk either. Ahhh how about toast?? I think there is some bread in the freezer.

The girl on the opposite side of the bench was dressed in nothing but a dressing gown of her own; or rather one of Abel’s that she had borrowed. It was tied a little more carefully at the waist but Abel suspected that there was nothing but bare flesh beneath her robe as well.

Yes for the most part today had started out like any other, with some girl Abel had picked up at a bar the night before wandering out into his kitchen early in the morning.

I think there is some butter in the fridge too.

Abel smiled to himself as the young lady shot him a look of feigned disgust. He found himself watching her as she walked away to the freezer looking for bread. There was something about her that had captivated his full attention and Abel found himself wanting to get to know her better.

Which was definitely not a normal start to the day for Abel Steele. By this point of the morning Abel had normally kicked whichever girl had found her way to his bed out the door, if she was lucky with her clothes on.

Abel watched entranced as she threw two pieces of frozen bread into his toaster and then reached into his pantry.

You know that’s Vegemite right?

Of course.

Abel continued chopping tomatoes as he watched as the girl spread a thick layer of the dark contents of the jar all over her toast, waiting, watching for the inevitable look that everyone he had met since he came to America pulled when they tried his beloved Vegemite.

Funny way to make an omelette!

Abel looked down to find that he had finished the tomatoes and grabbed up one of his eggs neatly slicing through it and leaving a dripping trail of gooey egg all over his gown and puddling on the floor.

Shit!

Toast?

Abel forced a smile at the quip and then rushed to wipe up the mess from the floor. His gown would not be so easily recovered however.

I think I need a shower now.

Abel shot a “come hither” look across the room but it was lost on the girl as she plonked herself down in Abel’s favourite chair looking out through his floor to ceiling window and admiring the city skyline.

Care to… join… me?

The smile and wink Abel shot her way never failed on any of the girls he brought home.

No shanksh

She muttered through a mouthful of toast, not even so much as glancing in his direction

I should kick this bitch out the door right now!

Tossing his gown into the laundry hamper on his way to the bathroom Abel strutted his way past her toward the bedroom ensuite. As he strode past her eyes flicked from his naked form to meet with his.

Actually, while you’re in there I might…

Yeessss?

Duck out to the shops, I can’t start my day without the morning paper.

Abel slumped in place as she got up out the chair and moved toward the door, carefully avoiding coming any closer to him than necessary. Despite all of his tried and true tactics she had resisted every one of his overtures since coming home last night and yet he still could not bring himself to throw her out the door this morning.

Won’t be long.

She said with a quick pat for him on the cheek, dancing out the door before he could react. Instantly Abel found himself wandering over to the door behind her, watching through the peephole as she moved down the hall and disappeared into the elevator.

Right now Abel, while she’s gone flick the lock and that’s the last you’ll see of her.

Abel reached out his hand but could not bring himself to flick the brass latch over. Sighing deeply he shuffled into the bathroom and jumped in the shower.





The click of the door handle told Abel that the young lass had returned from the store. He thought about leaping out of the shower and trying his luck again, but after some consideration he decided it was probably best just to resign himself to the fact that she would not be wooed today.

As he let the water trickle over his face he found himself wondering who this strange girl was. She appeared younger than he was, but only by a few years at the most. She was cute, without being stunningly beautiful and there was something about her that just made Abel feel like he had known…..

I don’t even know her name?

For that matter she had never even asked his name either. That wasn’t uncommon; most of the girls he brought home definitely knew his name already. He was under no illusions that being “Abel Steele” was a large part of why most of them came home with him at all. This felt different though, her continual rejection of his advances was proof enough of that.

His ponderings were interrupted by the sound of feet shuffling across the tiles and then the ‘chink’ of porcelain on porcelain as the young lady sat down on the toilet right beside the shower.

Well this is a little bit too familiar.

Abel poked his head out from behind the shower curtain and to his relief found that, while the young lass was sitting on the toilet, both lids were down and she had a takeaway coffee cup in one hand and a copy of the Daily Mail in the other.

I got you one too

One what?

Coffee. I just got you the same as mine… double espresso.

Are you sure we haven’t met before?

What?

Never mind, I’ll grab the coffee when I’m done in here.

Abel pulled his head back in behind the curtain and shook it in bewilderment. Either he had managed to bring home every girl in the city and was starting on round two, or this girl just had some uncanny knack for piquing his interest.

Well hello, MR STEELE

Ahh hah!! So she does know who I am. Maybe she’s just a stalker then?

Feeling somewhat less uncomfortable with the prospect of having an obsessed fan in his bathroom than, whatever else it was that had been going on here this morning, he poked his head back out through the curtain.

You never told me you were a celebrity

She managed to put such a twist on the word celebrity that Abel felt dirty, despite having been in the shower for the best part of a half an hour. As he looked down to where she was pointing Abel’s expression swapped from confused bewilderment to anger.

What the fuck is that?

It’s you, and er…

She looked down and the newspaper page to read from the full page colour advertisement

Christian G Smitten.

Abel snatched the paper out of her hands, pulling it away to read the advertisement for himself. The ink on the page began to run as Abel’s eyes grew wider and wider. He scrunched the paper up in his fists, causing the ink to run more freely, until it looked like someone had murdered a clown and tried to wash him down the drain.

I know who it is!

Flinging the curtain back and spraying psychedelic water across the room as he stepped out of the shower, Abel grabbed up a towel from the rail and began drying himself hurriedly.

What’s the matter Abel?

Abel paused momentarily from his rabid efforts to dry himself. He turned to the girl and found her looking at him, the concern on her face comical against the rainbow of colour spattered across her face.

I’m sorry… , look you know my name now, how about you tell me yours?

Eve.

Interesting.

The name was almost too coincidental. It certainly only enhanced Abel’s feeling that there was something more about this girl than he was able to see right now.

Eve… I just need to have a word with a man about that picture.

So you’re kicking me out then, just like that?

Not so much “kicking you out”, more asking for a rain check.

Abel continued to dry himself and then threw the towel in a heap on the floor, as he rushed into the bedroom to gather up some jeans and a t-shirt.

Unless you fancy a ride down town?

Actually, I was headed that way later today anyway…

Abel threw his keys across the room to her and she snatched them deftly out of the air.

It’s the silver Mustang in the basement car park then. I’ll meet you outside the front door in five minutes.

Eve looked down at her dressing gown pointedly.

It occurred to Abel that she hadn’t been bothered about heading down to the seven-eleven in nothing but a robe.

Sunjay must have had a heart attack!!

Abel snatched the keys back out of her hands as he imagined the poor old man at the seven-eleven as Eve turned up to buy her paper. He doubted very much if Sunjay would have seen that much flesh in the last twenty years.


All right then. How about I meet you at the front door in ten minutes instead?

Make it fifteen.

Grabbing up his boots, but not pausing to put them on as he practically fell out of the door Abel shook his head wryly.

Now that is more like a typical woman.

Fifteen minutes…

OK

And not a second more!

With that Abel shut the door behind him, raced down the hall in bare feet and pressed the button to call the elevator.






Eve, decidedly more distraught than she was letting on, watched Abel through the peephole. Only once the elevator doors had closed safely behind him did she allow herself to heave a massive sigh of relief.

He’s not what I was expecting at all

Eve dropped her robe by the front door, wasting no time as she gathered up her clothes from last night. She didn’t have a lot of time to get down to the front door and she really needed to make a phone call before she jumped into that car with Abel.

Last night had been a very difficult experience for Eve, trying her best to captivate Abel without letting him get close enough for her to have to shoot him down too hard. It wasn’t that Abel was hideous or anything like that, she just couldn’t do it.

Listen, everything is on track so far…

She practically started that sentence before the person on the other end of the line had even answered their phone.

He’s taking me down to FMW headquarters now. Or at least once I get my clothes back on anyway.

She deftly manoeuvred into her bra, keeping her phone to her ear the whole time, then began to slip on her dress from last night.

Don’t be disgusting! Of course I didn’t sleep with him, what sort of a sick freak do you think I am?!?!

The dress went over her head as she listened to the response from the other end.

Look, everything is working out. Better than I even expected, you were right about the coffee and you should have seen his face when I told him my name was Eve.

Eve had to hold the phone away from her ear momentarily as the shouting from the other end grew to the point where she thought her mobile might actually explode in her hand.

So I wasn’t supposed to tell him my name yet? Oops…

Eve hung up in the middle of the next tirade. She casually tossed her phone into her handbag as she grabbed it up from the hall table and closed the door behind her as she made her way downstairs. She might have made some deals and she had every intention of keeping them, but she had her own agenda as well and dropping her name was just her way of dangling a little bait on the hook for Abel.

I hope he bites…






Abel watched from the driver’s seat as Eve made her way out of the lobby and headed across the pavement toward him.

Twenty fucking two minutes!

He thought to himself. Even so he found himself forgetting his anger at being delayed as he watched her walk towards him. Only about four steps away from the car her phone began to ring. She looked a little flustered as she grabbed it out of her bag and quickly answered, turning her back from him as she did so.

Everything is going fine.

She paused to listen to the response. Whoever it was must be in quite a state because Abel could hear the muted voice from inside his car… with the motor running.!

Look I can’t talk now okay? I’ll speak with you tonight.

Something the matter?

No, no. just my room mate checking up on me to make sure I got home safe from last night.

He sounded a little upset?

He’s just a worrier is all. Treats me like a father most of the time really.

So not a boyfriend then…

Abel thought to himself as she hopped into the passenger seat. As he quickly pulled away from the kerb and headed for FMW headquarters, his stomach growled audibly.

I know this great place on the way. Does an awesome omelette…






Abel marched purposefully down the endless corridors of FMW headquarters. Eve has offered to come with him but he decided it was best he handle this alone.

As he rounded the final corner on the way to his destination Abel took the opportunity to try and compose him self. He wanted to be thinking clearly and rationally before marching into this office.

Knock, knock.

Come in.

Abel turned the handle on the office door and entered. He had been in this office many times before. The name on the door may have changed and it no longer read “Commissioner” but it was the same office. He had spent nearly as much time in here arguing with it’s previous occupant as he had in the locker room downstairs.

Abel Steele. I didn’t know you had an appointment with me today?

P Thurston Deveraux stood up from his desk and extended one hand in greeting toward Abel.

Regardless it is good to meet the talent, especially one who could soon attract my attention as Chairman of the Championship Committee.

Abel ignored the outstretched hand and slammed the newspaper he was holding down on the desk in front of him.

Do you want to tell me what the fuck this is?

All attempts to remain controlled appeared to have failed and Abel found himself shouting at the man.

Must just be coming into this office, makes me want to shout.

Deveraux looked at the newspaper in front of him for a moment before responding.

Uhhhh, do you have a cat?

What?

Because I’d guess it’s the lining from its litter tray.

Abel looked at the sodden newspaper, still spreading water all over the desk in a colour that could best be summed up as “rainbow puke”.

Rounding the desk Abel advanced on the Chairman, standing over him in as intimidating a fashion as he could muster.

Don’t get smart with me Deveraux. You know what that is and you better have a dam good explanation or I’m going to make our first meeting, your last.

With a shove Abel sat Mr Deveraux back down in his chair and sent him sliding across the floor of the office, only halting when the chair slammed into the wall.

Look Steele, you’re going to have to be a little more specific here. What exactly has you so upset?

Abel grabbed the newspaper up off the desk and pointed at it, holding the ad for Ultimatum III right against the smaller man’s nose.

You want to know what’s got me so upset? It’s this bloody picture!

What about the picture?

What about it? WHAT ABOUT IT?

Abel slammed the picture down into Deveraux’s lap causing ink to seep into his suit pants.

Maybe you could explain why you used these colours?

Looking down at the swirling mess of ink that was before him, Deveraux shrugged in confusion.

Ahhhh… I’m pretty sure they aren’t all like that Abel.

Abel grabbed the man up by his collar and held him against the wall, bringing his face right in close until they were nose to nose.

I told you before sir, don’t get smart with me.

Please Abel, I want to help you, really I do, but you’re going to have to explain what the problem is… okay?

Abel turned away in frustration. Maybe the man really did not know what had Abel so upset? As he turned he noticed a selection of posters for Ultimatum III hanging on the far wall.

Abel dropped the man back into his chair, strode over and, finding the poster he was looking for, ripped it straight from the wall.

Look, this is the same picture.

OK, so what’s the problem? You and Smitten are the only two guys on it. I thought that would’ve been a good thing?

Of course that’s fine. The problem is the colour.

Right…

And the lighting! Look you’ve got Smitten bathed in white light on this side and here I am surrounded by fiery red and a black background. It’s all backwards.

Because?

Smitten looks like the god damn good guy in this picture!

Right.

I’m the good guy!

You are?

Of course I am. You may not have been here long mate, but Smitten has been screwing me over since the day I arrived in FMW.

The Chairman did his best to avert his eyes from meeting Abel’s. He looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else right now.

What are you so uptight about?

It’s just that…

What…?

Well, in the time I’ve been here, Smitten is the good guy…

WHAT?!?!?

Well I mean err… he got rid of Jaro, freed the company of his tyranny and then stood down from his position of power.

And that forgives months of disgraceful behaviour?

And at the same time you’ve attacked the previous C-4 Champion, destroyed Jeff Whitt just to prove a point and turned on your ally, who just happens to be one of the most beloved legends of this company…

What the hell are you trying to say?

Abel… you ARE the bad guy.

The words froze Abel in his tracks. Looking down at the poster Abel shook his head in disbelief. Was it possible, could he be the bad guy?

I only ever did those things because I HAD to do them. I was being screwed over by Austin, Tyrant, Smitten and everyone else in this company.

What about Doc?

Doc was holding me down, I had to dump him…

With a broken jaw?

Abel spun away from the man and walked around to the other side of the desk. Dropping the poster, with it picture mocking him, on the floor.Slowly he turned back and looked across the room, trying to reach out to the man before him.

You’re wrong about me Deveraux.

I believe you Abel.

Then you’ll change the poster?

I can’t. I’ve already given marketing the green light. Hell you saw it yourself in the paper.

So run a new ad.

I can’t Abel, it’s too late to change it now… maybe for the next show?

Abel walked backwards out of the room shaking his head in disbelief. As his back slammed into the office door behind him he reached backwards and grabbed the handle.

I’m telling you now Deveraux., change that poster or you will live to regret it…

With that Abel exited through the office door and made his way back to the parking lot. The whole time his head was a blur as the full impact of what Deveraux had told him began to hit home.

I had to do all of those things.

His steps were slow and steady as he wandered through the hall, barely noticing anyone else that he passed.

I’m a bloody hero. All the kids love me. I only ever fight for what is right. My only fault is that I don’t know how to retreat. I fight on even when it means doing things that are right instead of popular.

I am not the bad guy.






Abel arrived back at his car to find Eve still waiting for him. He dicided it would be best not to tell her anything about what happened in Deveraux’s office.

Well, that’s all sorted

Good. Do you feel like getting something to eat?

Abel remembered back to his failed omelette this morning. He never did get anything to eat.

You bet I do. There’s a café over the road from the park on the next corner I go to some times.

Eve nodded her agreement and Abel pulled his keys out of the ignition.

It’s probably quicker just to walk then.

The two of them hopped out of the car and began walking down toward the café, Abel pretending to listen intently to whatever Eve was saying while his mind kept whirling back to his meeting with Deveraux.

What was that?

Oh nothing, I was just saying how I feel like I’ve known you for years, even though we only met last night.

You know I thought much the same thing to myself more than once this morning.

Really?

Eve smiled up at him and Abel had fleeting thoughts about getting her back to his apartment this afternoon.

Forget it, she put you off all night, it’s not going to happen.

His musing were interrupted by the squeal of tyres as a black flash flew by them.

What was that?

But Abel didn’t pause to respond, he was already running as the car flew over the pavement into the park and landed head first in a pond.

Call an ambulance!

Abel shouted back to Eve as he ran towards the car. By the time he arrived a half a dozen bystanders were gaping in horror as the car had already sunk more than three quarters beneath the surface.

Without thinking Abel dived into the pond and swam out to the sinking vehicle. He could hear the muffled screams from inside.

Good, they’re still alive.

Abel reached out and tried to open the car door but found that it was locked. He could hear the person trapped inside frantically pulling on the handle and gave up hope of them unlocking it.

Reaching into his pants Abel felt for something to smash the window with. He knew his brass knuckles were in there, as always, but his wet jeans were making it incredibly difficult for him to drag them out.

The car sunk further and further until eventually only the rear bumper was showing above the surface. Fearing time was running out Abel gave one almighty tug and ripped the pocket clean out of his jeans, brass knuckles flying into the air.

With a desperate lunge he stuck out one hand and managed to catch them before they sank into the murky depths of the pond and, with a mighty blow, smashed in the rear window of the sinking vehicle.

Taking in a lung full of air, Abel ducked down and swam through the darkness to where he though the driver would be. As his hand clutched the steering wheel he felt his heart skip a beat, the driver’s seat was empty and he had no way of finding its occupant. Abel was about to give up and go back to the surface when suddenly a hand reached up, out of the darkness, grabbing a hold of his. As he was pulled further down into the murkiness of the entombed vehicle Abel felt the panic rise within him.






He just dove into a pond to try and rescue him.

Eve kept the phone pressed firmly to her ear as she watched on at the water’s edge with the gathering crowd.

They’ve been under a long time now. What do we do?

A couple of bystanders looked sideways at her and Eve moved away from the crowd and found a quiet spot to watch.

It was your idea. Look let’s just hope that he comes up again.

She paused as the response came, motioning to those nearby she was calling for an ambulance.

Yes it would be easier if he comes up on his own but at this point I’ll take anything.

With a splash Abel burst forth from the water and inhaled deeply as one or two bystander waded into the water to help him out. Before they could reach him Abel pulled up hard with his other hand and dragged a limp form behind him.

Several men took the unconscious form of P Thurston Deveraux from Abel and carried him to the shore as Abel staggered his way out of the water, chest heaving from the exertion and adrenaline.

Does anyone know CPR?

Ahh, I took a course about ten years ago….

As the crowd made way and a teenage boy pushed forward to start mouth to mouth, Abel looked over to Eve.

How far away is that ambulance?

Eve quickly snapped her mobile shut and sprinted over to help Abel to climb onto dry land.

They’ll be here in twenty minutes.

That’s too long…

Suddenly Deveraux’s chest heaved and water spewed from his mouth like a faucet. A spontaneous cheer erupted from the crowd and dozens of people were clapping Abel and the man who had resuscitated the FMW Championship Committee Chairman for their heroics.

Abel moved in to where Deveraux now sat up and turned to the crowd.

Okay people nothing to see here. How about you all clear off before I make you.

The crowd hesitated momentarily until Abel raised his eyebrows and lifted his dripping brass knuckles up so they glistened in the sunlight.

Not you.

Abel said to the boy who had performed mouth to mouth, grabbing him by the sleeve.

You go to the café and see if you can get a towel or something. Then go to reception at the FMW building down the street there and ask them to send somebody out to help Mr Deveraux until the paramedics arrive.

The boy dashed off quickly

Are you okay Mr Deveraux?

The man had not yet fully gathered himself from the ordeal but managed to look up and nod at him.

I told you I was a good guy Mr Deveraux….

Again a nod was his only response, although the poor man appeared to be collecting himself a little now.

I told you I always do what has to be done. Actually you’re lucky I was here. You could’ve been killed in that pond.

Deveraux looked up in horror, Abel’s words sinking into him like daggers. As he looked up at his rescuer Abel did not notice, instead looking around for Eve. Eventually he caught her eye and motioned her over.

Eve, I was just telling my boss here how lucky he is that I was here.

Yes…lucky…

Taking her words as confirmation of his greatest fears Deveraux looked up at Steele in abject terror.

You know er… I was thinking about those posters Abel…

That’s what you’re thinking about?

Yes. I was thinking maybe I’ll have some new ones made up, maybe put you on a green and gold background and Smitten on red, white and blue.

Really? Thank you sir, you won’t regret it. Looks like it was lucky for both of us that I was here just now.

Eve reached down between them, handing Abel his jacket which he had discarded before jumping in the water. She quickly grabbed back the keys from the pocket.

Yes, you are both very lucky…

The morning of Sunday, 19th of June, 2011

The sun is barely creeping in through the shades of the windows, as the warm spring light bathes the room in a healthy glow. The bed is covered with this early morning brightness, quite a comfortable way for any new champion to awake to, after a large number of stressful weeks. However, a certain new champion would find that after the recent “No Holds Barred” show, that life wasn’t about to provide him with any certainties, regularity, or even keep it’s promises. In fact, it was almost at this exact moment when this certain new champion learnt that it had all gone horribly wrong for him.

BRRRRRRRRRRRING!!!!!! BBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRINGGGGGGGG!!!!

Startled by the sound of his own telephone, FMW’s C-4 Champion Christian G. Smitten sat up in bed almost in a fright. It was 7 am on a Sunday Morning, and he’d only recently returned home to Salt Lake City, Utah, in order to prepare for his upcoming contest with Jack Eastwood. He no longer ran anything in FMW, so the only reason he could think that he was getting a call this early on a Sunday, was a problem with his daughter. Hurriedly, he answers the phone, thrusting it to his ear.

Smitten: HELLO! WHAT’S WRONG?!

???: Nothing’s wrong...

Smitten: Who is this?

???: Questions of identity? Please... don’t humor me with those. Smitten, I’m excited to let you know that your match with Jack Eastwood...

Smitten: Deveraux?

Deveraux: Yes... I said...

Smitten: I heard what you said you dic...

Deveraux: It’s “Sir” now, thank you.

Smitten: No it’s no. For me to call you that, you’d need to garner my respect, something which minimal people in FMW’s upper offices have. So why don’t you tell me what you’ve got to say, quick smart?

Deveraux: Abel Steele.

Smitten: What about him?

Deveraux: He’s your Ultimatum opponent. No longer Jack Eastwood. You’ll defend the C-4 Championship against him, and heaven help you should you lose.

Smitten: This makes no sense...

Deveraux: I plugged it in the No Holds Barred show. Before your match. Probably why you didn’t see it. However, the board now feels with you having no power, that you need to be stamped on the head. Re-taught your place on the FMW Roster, per-say.

Smitten: I’m the C-4 Champion, and an FMW superstar. I have no doubts about my place on the FMW roster. I can tell you, while I’m not... trilled about no longer facing Eastwood, in fact, I’m quite annoyed, I’ll take on Steele.

Deveraux: Good. And, while I have you on the phone, as part of being on the Ultimatum card, you’ll be running errands and promotions like everyone else. Because it’s time you really did learn what it means to be on the bottom rung.

Smitten laughs heartedly at P. Thurston Deveraux. Tickled pink that he thinks he can talk to him like that now that Smitten is no longer the commissioner, he over powers Deveraux voice, before pausing to let him continue.

Deveraux: Is something amusing you?

Smitten: I think you’re severely over estimating your power.

Deveraux: Really? That’s what you think?

Smitten: Actually, I’ll correct that. That’s what I know.

Deveraux: Amuse yourself then Smitten, but realise this. Your plane leaves for Washington DC in 2 hours. Miss it, and you will be stripped of the C-4 Championship, fined heavily, and taken off cards for the foreseeable future.

Smitten: Not feeling threatened, not in the slightest.

Deveraux: Just be there.

The line suddenly cuts dead. Smitten had one last responce lined up, however the moment had passed. Throwing the sheets off his bed, he decided he should play this game. While he wasn’t the commissioner any more, there are certain privileges which go with the knowledge he has. With such an intimate understanding of how FMW as a company worked, he knew exactly how he could manipulate things to keep this company strong, and more importantly, keep it safe. Stretching out the sleep from his body, Smitten lets fly with the response he would have conluded the conversation.

Smitten: Shut the fuck up, you dick head and do your job.

I look at the facts at of this match, and it’s absolutely astounding what I’ve found. In fact, having been in a position of power recently, I know more intimately the facts surrounding our clash at 10.1 more than most.

In fact, what you may not know what Christian G. Smitten being defeated by Abel Steele wasn’t even supposed to happen at Ammunition 10.1. And before you start claiming conspiracy theories, no, I’m not claiming that Abel Steele shouldn’t have defeated me because he lacks the ability. I’m saying he should not have defeated me because we shouldn’t have even been wrestling against each other that night.

That’s cold hard fact. I was supposed to be on a vacation. Ammunition, Corruption and Distortion 10.1 were all supposed to be handled and run solely off the pen, mind and management of Jason Roy. More affectionately known as Jaro. However, Jaro pulled pins, used connections on the board of directors, and, in the long and short of it, forced me to line up against Steele that night.

Famously, that was the night I first went into retirement. Could it be asked that Jaro perhaps had a feeling, or knew, that a loss against Steele after a heavy loss to Chris Austin, could put me over the edge, and cause me to hang up my boots?

Was it possible that this moment was a sign of how easily he could have manipulated me?

Is it fair to assume that coercing me, in this manner, to retire, was him testing the waters for a plan much, much more sinister?

There are a number of things which are found annoying by Christian G. Smitten. Fan festivals were one of them. While Smitten had always enjoyed seeing fans spend what little money they had on the company that was paying him big dollars, he’d always tolerated little nuisances about them. Their stupidity was one of them, and their blind fandom was another. However, while these things were frustrating, he always found a way to bear it. One thing that Smitten found more frustrating than a fan festival was when meetings turned into fan festivals.

Businessman: Tell me, what was it like winning the FMW Championship, sir?

Smitten: I would prefer to go over this... proposition that I’ve supposedly been sent to deal with...

Businessman: Right, but first, tell...

Smitten: I’d prefer not to, thank you very much. I’m hear to proof read a sponsorship deal. Not to talk about the wrestling side of our business.

Businessman: Mr. Deveraux said you’d be more than happy to talk wrestling with me though.

Smitten sighed heavily. He’d had the wool dragged over his eyes by P. Thurston Deveraux. Flown to Washington DC to proof read a contract on behalf of Full Metal Wrestling, a job which any of the junior legal members could easily handle, under the guise he’s promoting Ultimatum 3. With every moment he spent with this... people of a businessman growing more and more painful, Smitten decides to ignore his plea, and reads the contract.

Smitten: Under the terms of this contract, your company will be given named numerous times during the Ultimatum 3 broadcast. It will be mentioned no less than 3 times, and no more than 10. The broadcast also includes DVD mentions, and these mentions may appear exclusively on the DVD. For every time FMW and it’s broadcast members mention your company...

Businessman: fourty-thousand dollars each time. Yes, I understand that. We also get a logo plug during the boardcast. This is all blah blah blah.

Smitten: Yes it is...

Businessman: With the reading out of the way, we can sign this, and move on.

Smitten: I’m not done reading, and there’s nothing left to move on to.

Businessman: What do you mean “there’s nothing to move on to”?

Smitten: Exactly that. You don’t need to be a genius to work that one out.

Businessman: I just thought...

Smitten puts his hand up for a moment, a little puzzled. He lifts his head, and looks the businessman in the eyes.

Smitten: Your company will also receive one sky box to Ultimatum 3, with Christian Gregory Smitten appearing in person?

Businessman: And we also have you appearing at our dinner party this evening as our guest speaker.

Smitten: Is that so... excuse me for a moment.

Businessman: No, we need this signed.

Smitten: You need this signed by 4:30 pm, it’s merely 3:46pm. There will be plenty of time to sign things later. Right now, I will excuse myself for one moment. Is that so much to ask of your guest speaker?

Smitten, clearly annoyed, stares down the businessman from “Blanky Blank Blanks Inc.”, the company who specialise in nothing at all. Ducks perhaps, who knows, who cares. It’s not important, and this is only hear to see if people are paying attention. If you’re paying attention, write “ZOMG DUCK” in the OOC thread, and don’t tell people why. Let them figure it out. Do it. It’s a test. Add “lulz hear” if you noticed the “hear” instead of “here” the first time. But do it honestly.

Businessman: Fine, but you only have a minute. We have a full day.

Smitten: I’ll take three if I have to.

Frustrated, Smitten pulls out his mobile phone. Pushing at the screen, he brings it up to his ear as it starts dialling. He waits a minute, before hearing it being answered on the other end.

Smitten: Deveraux...

Deveraux: Smitten, you know my name. That’s a good start.

Smitten: Why I am here?

Deveraux: As I said to you this morning, you’re promoting Ultimatum 3.

Smitten: There are 2 fan festivals in this region today, one in this very city. Why am I not there? Why am I reading contracts and attending dinner parties?

Deveraux: Because... you’re a pawn in my company now. I can make you do whatever I like. In fact, I have the power to utilize any skill or asset a member of my company has, as long as it can be related to a necessary part of the running of this company. Skills such as a pilot’s license, detective experience, or legal prowess.

Smitten: I see.

Deveraux: I’d be getting confortable with this Smitten. You’ve got more of these. A number of them in fact.

Smitten: How many?

Deveraux: You’ve got 10 more to attend between now and when you’re due in Chicago for Ultimatum.

Smitten: Ten?

Deveraux: And I hope for your sake Smitten that you’ve packed more than one clean suit. I hear that you’re going to be attending a number of dinner parties.

Smitten opens his mouth to say something, instead deciding against it. He pulls the phone away from his ear, and presses the end call button, hanging up on his boss. Taking a deep breath, Smitten turns around, and faces the businessman, with a forced grin on his face.

Smitten: Yes. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I do think we’re ready for signing.




Host: I’d like to introduce our guest speaker for this evening. You may know him from the popular wrestling company, Full Metal Wrestling, whom we are now sponsoring this upcoming Pay-Per-View event, Ultimatum 3...

It is here that the host of tonight’s dinner party pauses for effect. The crowd in attendance in this lavish and extravagant ballroom applaud with excitement, although restrain themselves in a dignified manner. Adjusting his tie, Christian G. Smitten looks down at the napkin he’s got in his hand. On it, are a hurried bunch of hand written notes. It was going to be a night where he was less prepared than he would have liked. Normally, Smitten would enjoy a thorough preparation time, where he would have all the hours necessary to be able to defuse any situation which may arise during his performance, but unfortunately, this wasn’t the case. He was going to have to “wing it”.

Host: Yes, it’s very exciting, I know. And someone who is just as excited about it as we are, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Christian G. Smitten.

Smitten rose to his feet. He looked out over the crowd that came here, knowing full well he was going to be here. Every single man and woman in attendance were expecting nothing but the best from Smitten, and he knew that. There was no time to be unprofessional. While he may not enjoy, nor like the situation he’s be put in, it’s one he’s got to deal with. He’s now on the back foot, and needed to get on the offensive once more.

Moving towards the microphone on the stage, Smitten took a few deep breaths. Already in his mind, he was composing his first moves. Logical ones, in an attempt to break the ice, per say. A soft, yet pronounced entry into the performance. After all, people often make a judgement about someone from the very start.

Smitten: Thank you very much, and may I say, it’s very nice to be here on this fine summers evening in Washington DC. As your MC alluded to, yes, I am Christian Gregory Smitten, and I am here to talk to you tonight, as all good guest speakers should do.

Smitten breathed a sigh of relief. He’s in. Looking down at the napkin in his hand, he saw the words “shameless plug” right up the top. He thought this would be an easy way to segue into what he’d like to talk about.

Smitten: Not only that, but in a couple of weeks, I’ll be lucky enough to spending some time in your corporate box AT Ultimatum. So for those lucky few of you who’ve scored tickets, congratulations. You’ll get to speak to me, in person, at some stage in the evening. For my sake, I’m hoping it will be after I’ve defended my C-4 Championship. For those of you without tickets to the corporate box, never fear, the show will be able to be viewed on Pay-Per-View.

Smitten stopped himself. This wasn’t going so well. Hiding his fist from view, he clenched it a little, urging himself to concentrate, and perform better. This was not a good enough standard. HE expected more from himself. Taking a breath to try and relax, he continues.

Smitten: Those of you who follow FMW religiously would know that I’ve recently stepped down as the Commissioner of FMW, after 2 successful years filling that role. And in that short time that I’ve spent as an “underling” as I once thought of my current role, I’ve come to realise a number of things, but one has hit me hard.

Pausing for a moment, Smitten breathed again. This was better, and he knew it. Suddenly, his mind drifted to, of all topics, lightswitches. Clenching his fist again, trying to get his focus back, he continued.

Smitten: The modern employer often has a limited understanding of an employee’s work load. More often than not, I’d send my employees, or “underlings” off to do their job, but not take into consideration a number of factors. I worked myself hard, so I figured imposing a hard workload on them should be fair.

Looking down at his napkin, to try and see where he could go with it, he noticed that the ink had become smudged. The writing was no longer legible, and made no sense. He scrunched it up and put it in his pocket. He truly was flying solo now.

Smitten: Now that I’m in the position that I am. All the middle and lower management people know this position, it’s the one that puts in the hard work to keep the company running. Now that I’m here, i can actually see how poorly I treated my staff. How I ignored their wills, wishes and desires, in order to gain personal satisfaction. In short, I was a terrible boss, and I’m coming to realise that.

This actually garners a small response from the crowd, a tiny clap, at the fact that Smitten’s come to realise as appreciation. Feeling momentum shift his way, he continues.

Smitten: And I sit here, or really, stand here and talk to you all, and see my new boss, the new man running the company, making the very same mistakes. In fact, I might go to say that he’s treating me worse that I might have treated some members of my roster.

Smitten pauses once again. He’d just realised he’d seen an employee publically disparage his employer in the last few days, and didn’t want to seem like he was doing the same.

Smitten: I do not wish to come off as unprofessional here, but I will be going into Ultimatum 3 relatively unprepared. You see, while I enjoy coming here, and speaking to you all, being the center of attention... especially being the center of attention actually, I do have a wrestling job to do. It’s one which requires a high level of physical and mental preparation and fitness. But, in the lead up to Ultimatum 3, I have been tasked with a number of duties, which impact on my ability to do this.

Smitten breaks for a second. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, so he didn’t sound like he was whinging, Smitten continues.

Smitten: Not only that, but I knew of my opponent a number of weeks ago. Jack Eastwood is his name. However, recently, unbeknownst to me, this was changed, and now I am to be facing a man named Abel Steele. He will be challenging me for my C-4 Championship. A title that I am proud to wear, and refuse to give up.

Smitten: With this late changing in my opponent, I have been thrown into a bit of a loop with my preparation. Sure, I will walk into Chicago as prepared as I can possibly be, and I’ll be ready to defend my C-4 Championship as viciously as I can. However, my employer isn’t helping. Knowing my opponent for a fair time now, I have been able to prepare mentally for my battle with him. However, this preparation is no longer valid, as it pertains to Jack Eastwood. Not Abel Steele.

Smitten: In preparing for Steele, I need to be able to juggle this around a hectic work schedule, which includes a lot of travelling, and a lot of meeting and greeting. This is something I have been told to do, by MY boss. What he is doing here, is jeopardising my ability to perform at my best, and also raising the risks for me, in terms of injury to myself, and walking out of Chicago with my C-4 title.

Pausing for a moment, Smitten was still not happy with the words coming out of his mouth. This would need to be ended quickly, otherwise, the quality of his performance would start to decline rapidly.

Smitten: I am not sure if this is because my boss doesn’t understand my new role, or is doing it to spite me, but in talking with a number of your most junior employees this afternoon, it made me realise that this company, and FMW have a lot in common, and a lot they can learn from each other. For one, understanding the workload of your staff is a big factor in maintaining their performance standards. Even improving them. Honestly speaking, I can say coming from Senior Management to this grunt work has surprised me in a number of ways.

Smitten: If I ever do get the chance to be in command once again, I will do things differently. I will be more aware of my staff’s requirements and workloads. This is poignant to the successful running for a company. I’ve discovered more about my job in the past few weeks than I have in 2 years at the top. I’m issuing a public challenge to the board of directors of this company. Do the job of the bottom people. For a day, or a week. It’s up to you really. But understand where your workers are coming from. And work with them to develop their skills.

Smitten: After all, these are the people that keep your company ticking over. They’ve the heart and sole of the company and the reason why it makes money. And believe me, they want to work hard.

It’s an odd feeling sitting in the same place you have sat many times. Waiting for the exact same person. But with a completely different purpose.

I am looking for answers, that has brought me back to a city that I have promised myself that I would never return to. Although I have broken said promise on a number of occasions. I need to know why I was bailed out of jail by someone who has not spoken to me for years now.

That is why I am sitting under the same bridge, albeit in a different car, next to the Charles River waiting for the same man. The roles have been reversed, instead of me giving him information he would provide me with the information that I needed.

What’s taking him so long. I used to keep him waiting.

A true reversal.

Mark is standing outside his car leaning against his bonnet.

I used to smoke to pass the time. I feel nostalgic, almost that I wish I was back living the life I used to lead. The cooling summer nights of Boston, sitting drinking by the river talking trash to the lowlifes I used to hang out with. That realisation kills the nostalgic feel.

The sudden appearance of headlights blinds Mark as a car comes round the corner pulling up just before knocking into Mark’s knees. The engine switches off to reveal Mark’s former sergeant, Matthew Gregan in the drivers seat.

Gregan: Mark.

Gregan approaches Mark and puts his hand out which Mark reciprocates with a handshake.

Mark: Sgt. Gregan. Thanks for meeting me here.

Gregan: Please Mark, call me Matt. I’m no longer your commanding officer.

Mark: Old habits die hard.

Gregan: That they do, this place hasn’t changed. It still smells of stale and fresh urine.

Mark: Very unique palate you have.

Gregan takes his time to lean on the bonnet next to Mark and Mark finally has time to look at him properly in the dull light from the street above. He looked broken.

Mark: You look like shit.

Gregan: I’m not well…

An awkward silence happens as Mark is overcome with guilt from being completely insensitive to a man he has much respect for.

Mark: How sick?

Gregan: Terminal.

Sadness overcomes Mark, realising that the problems that he has faced in the past year cannot measure up to the one that confronts Sgt. Gregan.

Mark: How -

Gregan: Doctor has been pretty vague, could be a year, could be a month, could be tomorrow.

Gregan looks to the sky, the few stars that shine through the nightly glow of the city sparkle.

Gregan: It’s quite confronting, to learn that you are going to die. It was always a risk that I could but it was never assured.

Mark: Doing what we did was never a death sentence.

Gregan: No… just one of the many endings.

Mark joins Gregan as he stares up, contemplating what he would do if he was confronted with the same information as Gregan.

Gregan: So, I turned in my badge and now I spend every waking minutes with my wife and two girls.

Mark: I never knew you had a family.

Gregan: Well, it never came up. You and I only ever talked business.

Gregan reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, flipping it open it reveals a picture of his wife on one side and two children on the other.

Mark: Beautiful, all of them.

Gregan: The girls will be ten in a few months, my goal is to see that day.

Mark: You’re tough enough, you will make it.

Gregan: Unfortunately, toughness has nothing to do with it.

Gregan places his wallet back into his pocket and calmly looks at his watch.

Mark: It’s getting late, you need to go back to your family.

Gregan: Mark. You said you would never come back. You did for a reason. So ask.

Mark: Why?

Gregan: Did I bail you out?

Mark: Yes, you didn’t have to. You gain nothing from it.

Gregan: When you know its all about to end you have one advantage, you can right the wrongs you have done. You get a chance at redemption.

Moving off his bonnet and onto Gregan’s bonnet, Mark moves to a position to be face to face with the sergeant.

Gregan: Do you have a family Mark?

Mark: No.

Gregan: No parents, no siblings?

Mark: No.

Gregan: No wife, children?

It’s like getting shot in the heart when you realise that you have nothing.

Mark: No…

Gregan: I feel that that is my fault.

Mark: Umm… How-

Gregan: I asked you to go undercover, I saw the glint in your eye that you wanted to be an officer. Unfortunately your poor record didn’t allow you that.

Mark: I know my history.

Gregan: Well, it’s been so long people may of forgotten.

Frustrated Mark runs his hand through his hair in an effort to calm himself.

Gregan: You gave ten years of your life to be someone who would never have a future. I took ten years from Mark and handed them to Marcus. That is why when you quit wrestling you had nothing, no education no previous employment.

Mark: I choose to do that, you didn’t take those things from me, I willingly threw them away.

Gregan: You think that, but to be honest I don’t care. I believe I took it away from you and I wish to repay the debt.

Mark: By bailing me out of prison?!

Gregan: No, by giving you another chance to become someone.

Gregan gets up and walks to his car, stopping as he opens the car door.

Gregan: Goodbye Mark and good luck.

Gregan backtracks and instead of giving Mark a handshake he instead hugs him.

Gregan: Bye Matt.

We open the scene with Stormmaster standing in the middle of a dark room wearing his usual attire and Star Wars style Stormtrooper helmet over his face looking at you...yes...you, the reader. To the naked eye, it appears that Stormmaster is sleeping standing up. That's just...weird. All of the sudden, the lights are turned on and two dodgy blokes wearing suits enter the scene with clipboards in their hands studying Stormmaster very carefully, writing down anything that they notice.

Bloke: Hey Reggie...

Reggie: Yes Peyton?

Peyton: Who is this douchebag?

Peyton carefully observes Stormmaster and goes through his clipboard again, looking unimpressed with what he is reading so far.

Peyton: This is Stormmaster apparently. Steve nicked him under the former alias known to many wrestling fans as Storm. A popular luchadore with so little acclaim under his wing, he was ass raped by Chris Austin during his infamous Hayabusa Cup run back in 2010...surely we can get him to enter in that tournament again?

Reggie: If the time is right yes Peyton but not now. Apparently our client is interested in him tag teaming with someone called Son Of Shark Boy.

Peyton: Who?

Reggie: Exactly. He sounds like a right fucking odd cunt.

Peyton: I like your style Regs.

Reggie: Since when did you start fucking call me Regs?

Peyton: Since your mother decided to fuck Tom Cruise.

Looking unimpressed with Peyton's witty remark, Reggie decides to go towards the back of Stormmaster and finds a panel with buttons on his back. Reggie looks confused by this then turns to face Peyton.

Reggie: Stormmaster is a robot?

Peyton: Yes and your fucking problem is...?

Reggie: He's a fucking robot. That's not in the notes I just gave you.

Peyton looks through the notes again and smirks to himself. Meanwhile Reggie is pushing every single button imaginable on Stormmaster. Peyton notices this with a look of disgust on his face.

Peyton: What the fuck are you doing?

Reggie: I'm trying to turn this bastard on.

Peyton: I wouldn't do that if I were you.

Reggie found the on button and all of the sudden, Stormmaster woke up with a jolt so hard that one of his feet decided to kick Reggie in his special place. Peyton's face cringes with disgust while behind Stormmaster, Reggie is rolling on the floor holding his special balls and that doesn't look good. Stormmaster looks around at the carnage that he has caused then looks directly at you...or in this case Peyton who is standing right in front of him.

Stormmaster: Ultimatum, everyone has an ultimatum. What is Stormmaster's ultimatum? Power? Glory or desire?

Reggie reappears from behind Stormmaster and finishes adjusting himself accordingly. Peyton takes no notice of Stormmaster and continues to take notes.

Stormmaster: At Ultimatum III, Stormmaster is unleashed.

Peyton: He seems to know what show he is going to appear on.

Reggie: I would step away from there if I were you.

Stormmaster: At Ultimatum III, the world will feel the wrath of the Stormmaster.

Peyton: I think I like this guy already.

Reggie: Shut your cunt and step away from him.

Too little too late as Stormmaster notices Peyton and goes to grab him by the neck until...

BEEP!

...Stormmaster decides to shut himself down completely prior to grabbing Peyton by the throat. Peyton notices this and doesn't batter an eyelid.

Peyton: Note to self, prone to shutting himself down completely.

Reggie: As if no fucking twat would notice.

Peyton: Your a brit, you tend to notice this more than us.

At this point, Peyton takes no notice of Reggie and continues to write down notes. Stormmaster remains motionless with his right hand reached outwards as if it was about to grab something. His face remained viscous yet violent as if he was going to shake a pussycat. Reggie heads towards the back of Stormmaster again and notices a coin slot above the console. He shuffles his hands in his pocket to find some money but to no avail. He is actually completely out of cash. He pokes his head around the corner to find Peyton, who is still writing notes on his clipboard at this point.

Reggie: Do you have a dollar?

Peyton looks at Reggie as if he was stupid.

Peyton: What for?

Reggie: Stormmaster needs a dollar to reboot itself.

Peyton: Bullshit.

Reggie: Well have a look then.

Peyton turns briefly to look at Stormmaster's ass and notices the coin slot on his backside. Gross. Peyton then goes into his pocket to get a dollar out then all of the sudden, a phone rings in the background, probably in Reggie's office situated next to Stormmaster's . Reggie notices this then disappears.

Reggie: I'll take this.

Peyton: I'll be with you in a moment, do you want coffee?

Reggie: Nah, tea.

Peyton: Tea is gay, Have a hot chocolate instead.

Reggie: Let me get this call, it could be Steve...

Peyton: ...or Dave.

Peyton goes towards Stormmaster's ass and slots a dollar in his backside then leaves to make hot chocolate or whatever they both fancy. It only takes literally seconds for Stormmaster to boot himself back up to full power, as he does so it looks like that he is about to lunge towards something but stops. He looks around for any lifeforms walking inside this dark and gloomy room then notices the cameraman, shaking in fear. He points towards the camera as if he was pointing towards you reading or watching this promo.

Stormmaster: At Ultimatum III, Stormmaster will raise above the ashes. At Ultimatum III, Stormmaster will crush his opponent. At Ultimatum III, Stormmaster will raise above the ashes. At Ultimatum III, Stormmaster will crush his opponent...

We fade out slowly from Stormmaster who appears to be repeating the same message over and over again until suddenly...

Stormmaster: At Ultimatum III. You shall feel the wrath of the Stormmaster.

Fin.

He hit me so hard, it shook my relations in Africa

-Cassius Clay (Muhammad Ali)
After fight with Sir Henry Cooper

It was grey. It is always grey on the days of funerals, they just seemed to go hand in hand. Even when the sun would eventually peek through, however, there was still something amiss. Such is life.

Scratch that.

Such is death.

Bryson was seated, in his finest tailored suit, amongst other local celebrities and athletes. He looked around as collections from England’s young and old guard sat silent, some of them weeping, as the people continued to speak.

The congregation stood as songs were sung. It was here Bryson had the honor of walking forward with five other men as a car pulled around. A pair of boxing gloves, fashioned out of red roses, was carried into the church. The back door of the hearse was opened and the union jack pulled snug over the wooden coffin. The men in front of Bryson slid the box back and they turned, walking forward somberly into the church, a few short words separated now and Henrys final resting place.

The men set the coffin down at the front of the church. The six of them silently went back to their seats. Bryson hung his head as the priest began to speak. Respect kept Bryson there, even with the impending barrage of questions he knew was coming, with the eyes he felt on him.



For post on Yahoo! Entertainment
Actor Nick Bryson attends funeral of Sir Henry Cooper
By Edward Bailey

Earlier in May boxing legend and English hero Sir Henry Cooper passed away at age 76. The fighter is most famously remembered for his fights against Muhammad Ali among his other accolades such as a multiple time Lonsdale champion and BBC Personality of the year.

Attending and serving as a pall bearer was controversial wrestler and actor Nick Bryson, whom Cooper had himself hand-picked to portray him in a biopic about his early life and career. Bryson was a surprise selection, having only previously starred in Expendables 2: Corruption, but his wild antics and successes as a wrestler have given Bryson worldwide recognition.

Henry’s pick paid off, however, as the film has become a success both in the states and overseas and Bryson has officially been selected as a nominee for the best actor category in the upcoming Oscar ceremony.

Nick Bryson, who recently fired his entire management and creative teams, could not be reached for comment.

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Fade in from black. Nick Bryson, now donned in tuxedo, stands holding a drink at a party while checking his phone. He casually flips through it as he ignores, or is oblivious, to the well wishers and other peers who pass him by.

He stares down as he scrolls through the headlines.

Bryson a lock for Oscar performance?
Bryson making waves as legitimate actor
’Our Enry’ passes the 50 million mark in US. Highest grossing film in UK for 5th straight week.
Hannibal Frost unlikely to lose. Bryson on his way out of FMW?
Bryson forced to choose careers from FMW Front office? MORE!
ALARM:
6:55pm

Bryson turns off the alarm and closes out of the headlines. With a look of frustration he finishes his drink then stuffs away his phone in his jacket pocket. He slams his glass down as he proceeds towards the door with the other actors, actresses, directors, and other Hollywood professionals. He ignores the faces as well wishers attempt to speak to him, he wasn’t much for the pageantry of the preparty charade.

Bryson entered a black Jaguar and sat on the leather as the driver moved them forward. The crowd of fans and paparazzi grew larger as they inched towards the red carpet. Flashbulbs went off, reflecting in Bryson’s tinted window. The din of the crowd grew larger still.

As they pulled up to the red carpet the driver exited the car and walked around the back. As he opened the door, the light peeked in from outside, and Bryson stepped out. He put on his best smile and exited the vehicle to a roar of supporters. He waved and pretended to care as he walked down the red carpet, pausing only slightly for a photo, before entering the mob of attendees.

Male Voice: Mister Bryson! Mister Bryson over here!

The urge to ignore the press was great. In fact Bryson took one step forward, but stopped and turned as if he hadn’t heard the man the first time. With a sigh, he turned himself to look upon a group of reporters granted access to the screening area and approached their bright lights and microphones.

Entertainment Reporter: Mister Bryson what is it like being here tonight? Is the crowd overwhelming?

Bryson: No, not at all. I’ve performed in front of larger, more dangerous crowds than a few overzealous cameramen out there.

The group laughed.

Reporter: Mister Bryson, Andrew Garner, TMZ. How emotional is this now with you having just come back from the funeral of the man who handpicked you for your newest role?

Bryson inched back from the microphone shoved in his face

Bryson: Obviously Sir Henry knew what it was going to take to make a successful movie.

Andrew Garner: You mean because you had such a publicity rush?

Bryson: No, he had good taste.

Once more they laughed.

Bryson: Ok, I’m going to-

Reporter: Mister Bryson, Robert Gardens, FOX Entertainment, just one last quick question. What is it like to finally be validated as a legitimate actor? I mean, you’ve spent your entire career masquerading as nothing more than a dancer, how fulfilling is it to finally move up in the world?

Bryson’s nostrils flared for a second as he placed his hand on the reporters shoulder, his hand encompassing the entire left side of his neck and back. He squeezed tight and leaned in as the reporter tried not to buckle from the pain. Bryson whispered into his ear.

Bryson: Try to insult me like that one more time and I will see to it that you are unable to work or walk anywhere. Never, ever, try to vilify me again. Do I make myself clear?

The reporter nodded squirrely, as if he were begging Bryson to let go. With one last squeeze he pulled back and smiled walking down the red carpet.

He paused for a few photos with other starlets and actors before entering the building and finding his seat. He winked at a woman staring at him as the lights dimmed, silencing the crowd.

Hours passed as Bryson sat by watching unimportant people win even more unimportant awards like “best costume”, “best supporting actress”, “best sound editing”, “cutest kiss”. Im sure that last one was on there, or something else like it. The awards that nobody cares about to pay to see, just to make the cretins feel good.

Soon, however, very soon it would be time for Nicholas to shine. He delivered a stellar performance in a blockbuster movie and more importantly the man he portrayed just died. The world would applaud in unison as they announced his name. They would stand on their feet looking to the heavens, jaws dropped wide.

Bryson: Oh and I’m gonna feed you baby birds.

He thought out loud as the man next to him tried to pretend to not notice. It was only a short time later that acclaimed actress Meryl Streep came out from backstage, envelope and Oscar in her hand. She gently set the small statue on the podium and smiled as her music faded.

Streep: In a profession where we have so many memorable stars and contributions we find that we, like our world and society around us, are ever changing. We continue to adapt, excel, and outperform anything previously thought. We are always looking to achieve greatness and etch our names not only into history books, but the hearts and minds of people world wide.

The academy award for Best Lead Actor is one that has longstanding tradition as being the most prestigious award one can receive. It can validate any career or be a fitting end to one. Tonight our nominees proved that with true perseverance, dedication, and heart they can do the unthinkable and take our breath away with their emotions. Tonight the nominees are…

The camera focuses on Daniel Craig seated in the audience

Announcer: Daniel Craig, The Wicked Season.

The image cuts to Craig in a soldiers uniform. He is seated in the mud as lighting illuminates his face.

Craig: We can sit here tonight and wait out our time, boys. We can sit here and be remembered as the ones who couldn’t do when something needed to be done. We can sit here and regret our decision for the rest of our lives or we can stand up, crawl through this muck, through this mud, and do what needs to be done and in the process come out of the filth cleaner than we will ever be again.

The crowd applauds as the camera focuses now on Val Kilmer.

Announcer: Val Kilmer, Lily Black.

The image fades as Val Kilmer, donned in Victorian suit and glasses, sits across a mentally challenged girl. He gets out of his chair and reaches out, grabbing her by the shoulders.

Kilmer: Lily, dearest, I know you can do this. I know that you can be more than any of them say you will be. You will be a shining light, a beacon unto the dark world. You will show them that whatever they have said or thought was wrong. Simply wrong. You are going to be important. You are going to be special, but it starts with one simple step, Lily. One simple step.

The handicapped girl looks at him and puts a circle inside a circular hole. Kilmer hugs the girl as the image cuts back to the ceremony, now focused on Christian Bale

Announcer: Christian Bale, Roanoke.

We now see Christian Bale dressed in a pilgrim outfit. He looks up to the sky as a saucer moves in and a large blue beam shoots down from the bottom, cutting into the forest. Bale turns and runs towards the city gates.

Bale: HURRY! CLOSE THE GATE! GET TO THE WATER! GO!

Bale runs away from the village now as a few men close the wooden doors. The scene cuts with Bale looking back up at the saucer as the beam stops and it moves over the village. The image then cuts to Nick Bryson

Announcer: and Nick Bryson, Our ‘Enry.

Although the crowd was in favor of Henry, the fates were not. A right hook lands squarely over the eye of Henry Cooper. Very quickly the skin is torn on the bone, ripping open the eye, blood pouring into his eye.

With that Clay begins to grow cocky. He places his arms at his side and begins to bob in and out, taking punches as if he were superhuman.

Commentator: Look at that he’s got his arms down and he’s just using his feet to keep away from Cooper. This is complete cheapness on the part of Clay, who feels he has it in the bag because of that eye.

Again Cooper shoots in and lands a few body blows, but Clay seems unfazed as the bell rings, signaling the end of the third round.

Wicks: ‘Enry, ‘Enry, how is your eye.

Cooper: Ignore it, Wicks, just move on.

Wicks: Looking bad, kid.

Cooper: Nothing I can do and don’t you think of throwing in the towel either.

Wicks: Ok, ‘Enry, I get it…You’re making him box your game, ‘Enry. Keep it up like this.

The bell sounds as both sets of corner men exit the ring. The two fighters immediately square up again and Cooper begins an all out assault.

The image then cuts back to Bryson as the crowd applauds once more. The camera focuses on Meryl Streep as she opens the envelope.

Streep: And the winner is…

The camera focuses on all four men. Bryson stands as she opens the envelope.

Streep: Christian Bale for Roanoke!

Once again they split the screen to all four men. Bale stands and shakes his associates hands as Bryson walks into the aisle. He pulls his phone out from his jacket pocket and begins to dial. He walks directly into Christian Bale, who narrowly avoids contact as he moves to the side. Bryson puts his phone to his ear as he walks away.

Bryson: Pull my car around. This shit is done. Yeah, bullshit, just pull the damn car around.

The scene fades as some people boo Bryson as he makes his exit. Bale glares at the loser before walking up to the stage regaining his composure.



Bryson controversy coupled by British outcry
For post in BBC News Entertainment
by Alex Storme

Yesterday at the American Oscar ceremonies many deserving candidates won prestigious awards in their field of profession. Many happy words were shared, tears were shed, and the ceremony seemed to go off as usual.

Until controversial wrestler and actor Nick Bryson made his splash.

Upon the announcing that Bryson did not win the award for Best Lead Actor, losing to respected actor Christian Bale, Bryson left the awards show in a huff, almost running into Bale on his way to accept his award. Bryson was nominated for his portrayal of Sir Henry Cooper in his biopic “Our ‘Enry” after the English hero had chosen him personally to play himself before he passed away.

Whatever outrage Bryson caused in the ceremony did not come close to matching the outcry against the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences from the people of the UK. Near riot levels were in the streets this week as the detest for the predominately American based board grew.

“This is ridiculous,” said Jonah Edleman, 19, London. “This is clearly a case of them not appreciating or refusing to understand English culture, I mean, this was one of the few movies the Queen has publicly seen and loved!”

“I was shocked, absolutely shocked. The film is one of the highest grossing at the box office and highest rated critically” Said Culture minister Matthew Dunnaker. “While we are disappointed with the result we still feel strongly that the film produced is one of the best ever and take pride in its production.”

Other members of England’s elite and civilian classes expressed similar responses to the ones above. The outcry has been expressed nationwide as the emotional death of a national hero doesn’t help with the sting. Nick Bryson, who’s popularity had already been skyrocketing in the country with his wrestling, youtube presence, and now box office presence, could not be reached, though we hope to get a statement from him soon.




Fade in from black. Nick Bryson sits in the back seat of a limousine with tinted windows as they drive by. He holds his phone up to his ear, the natural beauty of the countryside reflecting in his window.

The arrival at the airport was hectic. The people showed up in droves, even though the airport and runway was supposed to be private. They reached out for him to touch the new icon trampling over one another to get a glimpse of the man. Signs, posters, and more were held up as thousands clustered together in their attempt to see Bryson.

Bryson: Yes. I understand. Of course I would don’t be an idiot but-

Bryson looks out the window.

Bryson: I’ll call you back.

Bryson hangs up the phone abruptly and sets it down next to him. He rolls his window down for a moment and looks out as if he just had an epiphany.

Bryson: Stop, turn here.

The driver slowed the vehicle to a lull and made a right hand turn down the small dirt road. As he rolled it back up, a wooden sign reflected in his window

Oddingley
Population: 197

Bryson: Driver, you ever hear of this place.

Driver: No sir.

Bryson: Good. Take me to the center of town.

The limousine’s tires made a crackling sound as it ground over the dirt and gravel. The people of the town looked out their doors and windows, some followed, as the car continued to go forward. After a short time it stopped, roughly in the center of the town.

The driver exited the vehicle and walked around the front to the back door and let Bryson out. The superstar stood and looked over the small river at a church. He pulled tight on his suit jacket and removed his sunglasses, placing them in his pocket. He walked to the trunk of his car.

Bryson: Who is the mayor or whatever here.

An older man stepped forward and smiled.

Man: Hello, Mister Bryson. What brings you to our town?

Bryson motions to the driver silently. The man pops the trunk as Bryson calls over the village representative. Three distinct clicks can be heard as the driver lifts the tops of three briefcases up. The man from the village’s eyes grow wide and he seems to be taken back.

Bryson: I’ve got a proposition for you.



England’s newest son
For post in BBC News Headlines
by Richard Evans

With all of the recent controversies going on overseas and here centered around actor and wrestler Nick Bryson, the public have been in an emotional state. However, recent developments have brought an overwhelming feeling of joy back to a people who have felt their culture scorned.

It has been announced that Nick Bryson, on a recent trip to the United Kingdom, had stopped at a small town in the west midlands. Upon arriving, Bryson reportedly was overtaken with its charm and purchased the land it was on from the population there, effectively making Bryson the owner of the town.

As such a motion was filed and now the town of Oddingley is now renamed to Cleveland, England and controversial superstar Nick Bryson has filed citizenship papers. With this motion the UK has embraced a new national icon and an outpour of support for the newest citizen has been overwhelming. Fans are arriving in droves everywhere he goes and people have been celebrating in the streets.

People have flocked to the newly renamed town of Cleveland to visit Nick Bryson as he cut his first press conference in our country.

“I’m excited to be welcomed in and accepted by a people who actually understand what I am all about” Bryson said. “People understand greatness here and looking back greatness was bred here. I’ve decided to make my home in a place where people can appreciate the obvious talents of their icons and I hope that I can be accepted by you as you all have been accepted by me.”

It seems Bryson’s hopes have already been answered as it was announced today that, in response to his Oscar loss and desire to see the peoples moral improve, Nick Bryson will officially be knighted, the honor being able to be bestowed upon him in full as he is now citizen of the United Kingdom.

Im a royalist, I believe in the royal family.

Sir Henry Cooper

Nick Bryson adjusted his tie and stood behind two large wooden doors. He took in a large breath as they inched open, exhaling as he took his first step on the red carpet.

Bryson walked forward with great confidence as he kept his eyes forward, his shiny black shoes making no sound against the carpet. He ignores the eyes on him as he passes through the brass instruments held high, heralding his arrival. He pulls gently on his cufflinks as he ensures he looks pristine as he approaches the steps.

He casually walks up the first two steps, kneeling on the third. A sword is lifted from a cushion and is tapped down on Bryson’s shoulders. He stands, smirking, and turns. He is presented with a pin and sash before he begins his walk back down the carpet and out the doors he entered among applause.

He reaches another set of large wooden doors. He pauses for a second, laughing silently to himself, before placing his hands center on them and forcing them forward.

Herald: WE NOW PRESENT TO YOU! SIR NICK BRYSON, OBE!

Bryson keeps his hands raised high. The camera pans behind him and faces out the sea of people standing before him. They scream out in joy as Bryson puts one hand down and waves, overlooking the thousands assembled to see him.

Fade to black.

It is the early 1990’s, a decade most of you were too young to really experience, a decade were some of you were not yet even a twinkle in your father’s eyes. The scene is the same as any other you’ve already been taken too, a packed crowd all screaming until their lungs are close to bursting, signs decorating the surrounding area, a lone ring in the middle of it all. Centre stage. What is different about all this you may wonder? It’s the 1990’s, the world is a little less brighter with many folks being oblivious to the troubling times ahead. In the wrestling world, the rings had rarely ever seen a stain of blood, the white surface still fresh, still pure whilst would be heroes old enough now to be your parents graced it. What is so significant about this scene? Today you get to watch a good man die... one of the first significant fatalities to the wrestling industry, one that would affect the business and wrestling as we know it for the next couple of decades, what happens today plays a major part to what occurs in the FMW today.


In truth, there really wasn’t much difference then than there in the present day. As soon as Mantis’ theme music Round and Round kicked off, the crowd leapt to their feet like they would for any hero entering the squared circle. If there is one difference I can tell you though, it is that the music a decade before this day we grace was by far greater, simply because people cared more about the music then filling their pockets, or at least that is what they would have you believe back then in an age so golden. Mantis, the man this tale follows once clung on tightly to the era when wrestling really began to take off, but events transpired some weeks before this day that made the man not care anymore.

Mantis makes his appearance on cue to his slowly aging music theme, the man of the minute, clad in black pants with his trademark dark green vest, having a green design trimming his jet black trousers with Mantis written across. Finger cut gloves, dark shoes and trademark sunglasses finish the look of this upcoming wrestler as he makes his way to the ring. He donned a look that screamed 80’s, a look no one thought would ever die at the time, but slowly Mantis was looking more dated by the shows as they passed, many thinking his dyed blonde hair was farce. Despite this, the fans still loved him as one of their own, he was talented after all, and a damn winner. Normally the tall blonde was energetic, the kind of wrestler that fed from the endless tap of energy that rushed from the cheering crowd. Today he was more sombre in his approach, his head down, as if some grim thought troubled him. He knew just as well as you do now, that a good man was about to die tonight.

Announcer: And Riptide’s opponent, standing at a towering 6’6” inches with an impressive weight of 296lbs. He is the mean green machine... he is MANTIS!


As if the whole thing had been rehearsed, the crowd jump up to their feet at the mention of the upcoming star, Round and Round seeming to increase in volume as their superstar climbed into the ring to join his opponent. Riptide wears anguish beyond the mask covering his face. The two were good friends, he shouldn’t have been so concerned, yet Mantis had not been himself over the past couple of weeks. In truth he had been someone else completely. Even now as the fans cheered on for their rising superstar, Mantis did not acknowledge them or even his friend Riptide as he usually had in the past. Instead he stood staring through sunglasses at Riptide, his hands clenched so tight the crimson clad wrestler could hear the leather gloves of Mantis creak from the pressure. The bell had not even rung yet when Mantis struck at Riptide, not knowing this would be his last ever match of a good man named Mantis.


RoadPigg’s Ferrari Testarossa was a machine of beauty as it ripped through the racing winds bashing against the Japanese motorway, Tears for Fears blasting out from the car stereo. His cassette player banged out music in stereo, drowning out most of the sound of the engine as it pumped power into the brand new car. The sun reflected from its deep red chassis, revealing not a single stain of dirt or a scratch on a freshly bought car. RoadPigg laughed out loud with enjoyment, caressing the steering wheel to keep the car in check as he raced between cars, battling against the forces of physics, pushing past the speed limit in his Italian car against the strong winds and the air resistance.

Pigg: These fuckin’ japs are as backwards as the damn Brits. They all drive on the wrong side of the road for gods sake.

Mantis: RoadPigg! Fuckin’ slow down!

Mantis yelled out, reeling back within his own seat as the car whizzed between a van and a large truck, letting out a beastly roar as the engine seemed to take a life of its own. It took some time, but RoadPigg conceded in the end, witnessing the fear in his friend’s face, seeing fear in his eyes beyond the sunglasses that concealed them. As soon as RoadPigg eased off the gas, the Italian dream car sailed with more ease, as the landscape seemed to crawl slowly beyond them with the adjusting speed.

Pigg: Finally I know what scares the shit out of you. I was beginning to think you were the fuckin’ Terminator or somethin’ the way you’ve just stared at everything else that’s got in your way.

Mantis: It’s not the speed that bothers me; it’s getting caught by the fuckin’ japs breaking the law. My father served in World War II against these bastards. You know what they do with their prisoners?

Pigg: That was a different time man, different and less smart people ran the country then. The A-Bomb sorted those bastards out, dropping a couple of them on this country was the best thing that ever happened to them. This place is cool now; they are eatin’ up the wrestling like its crack. We’ll make a name for ourselves out here; us and the rest of the boys will make ourselves famous back home by starting here. Anyway, you need to chill out... the wrestling can wait until the weekend passes. Tonight we’re here to have a good time in the town.

RoadPigg spoke, a wry smile on his lips as he navigated the road before him. RoadPigg could be summed up as the definition of the 80’s. He was oblivious to danger or consequence, a large man who did not even know the level of success that awaited him. He was ginger haired, donning a proud mullet with a green stripe dyed across the sides of his temple. Mantis had watched him fight in the ring, clad in tights and boots that some old Mongolian warrior would be better suited with. The green shade of dyed hair glowed in the darkness when he made his way to the rings along with the trim design of hits tights and boots. The man was awesome, leading a rag tag bunch of hopeful wrestlers, most of which would never make it big time. Roadpigg had them all name each other by their alias’, never by their real names. This was the 80’s after all, it was how it all went down.

Pigg: Now before you start being as bad as that racist dad of yours, I want you to know I met a couple of Asian bitches the other night, got a few numbers and everythin’. Hold on, I fuckin’ love this song, this is my new theme music to the ring I’m tellin’ ya. This cassette player rocks man, they won’t ever have a better invention then this!


Pigg: So yah, I got talking to these girls, super hot. There was one I think would be suited to your quiet ass. Her name was Asumi I think, I was tempted to go for her myself cause she’s got these damn sexy eyes. She was wearing more clothing then the rest though, and you know I love to see me skin. I got a potential girl for Riptide, Bulldozer and Steel, plenty to go around for everyone. The place we’re meeting them is in a club... an American club so we don’t have to listen to the crappy Japanese music. This guy plays nothing but the best hits! You’ll be rocking away with those girls before you know it.

Mantis: Not really interested...

Pigg: C’mon man. Your right hand can only take you so far. These Japanese girls love Americans, especially wrestlers like us trying to make our name here. If you’re worried about your small cock, I guarantee when compared to the locals, that dick will be a fucking Python to their eyes.

Mantis clenched a fist, ramming it hard into RoadPigg’s arm over the jest, though the two couldn’t help but laugh afterwards, not knowing this night would end up leading towards the beginning of the end of Mantis. With not so much as a real through, RoadPigg pressed his foot down on the pedal, letting the Testarossa roar out with all its might before it raced on to command the roads towards Tokyo.


Roadpigg wasn’t wrong, the club made Mantis feel like he’d never left home. For all the benefits Japan had, music was certainly not one of them. RoadPigg’s pack had been in Tokyo for a month, and every club they hit was just bizarre, with music that was just noise that attacked the ear drums. Their culture was just too different, but this place was exactly what they were looking for. The club was called Enterprise, and quite literally had a starship sticking out above the neon sign. Despite early fears given the look of the place, inside was a dream of the decade. The moment RoadPigg, Mantis, Riptide, Bulldozer and Steel entered, they were hit with a familiar sound that reminded them of home.


The group had already had a few drinks and sake’s before building up the courage to enter the club, so minds were already swimming when the American’s entered. The place was nothing but mullets, perms, quiffs, moustaches and full blown flocks of seagulls. The ratio of foreigners like themselves to the locals was ideal, and though the only Asian of the pack, Steel was already dancing his way towards a section of the club that had caged walls.

Pigg: Won’t see him all night now.

RoadPigg laughed out loud, motioning for the rest of the group to follow him towards the bar. With a few whiskys in his system, Mantis was already bopping along to the music, wearing dark sunglasses over his eyes that impaired his view somewhat. It didn’t matter, this was the 80’s, Mantis felt with a drunken head that he didn’t need full sight, just enough to look upon the lady in front of him. Bulldozer was already trailing off, walking to a group of European girls, with Riptide following in suit. RoadPigg swore under his breath, still glad to have Mantis with him at least.

Pigg: We’re supposed to be meeting a group of girls for fucks sake! Pack’s lettin’ me down man. I’m surprised you’ve not fucked off too. I’m beginnin’ to think you might be a queer.

Mantis: Ah’ ain’t no damn queer!

Pigg: Ha ha, nice southern accent there. There’s our bitches there! Let me do the talkin’ man. I got a gift for this!

Roadpigg spoke out, approaching a group of young Japanese women who all crowded around the bar, facing their way. Mantis felt racist for thinking three of them looked the same, all wearing tight mini dresses with haircuts that didn’t suit them. Two of them looked nice though, one with large breasts that RoadPigg had a keen eye upon, and another woman who seemed quite tall for an Asian lady, a little more dressed and out of place then the rest. That was the one Mantis set his eyes on as he smiled, before stumbling on a step up towards the bar, almost ruining any chance of success with the woman tonight as he slammed into the bar. Already, RoadPigg was working his so called magic on the large breasted girl before even mentioning his name.

Pigg: I’ll bet you ¥1600 that I can move your tits without touching them!

RoadPigg spoke over the Safety Dance, as Mantis brought himself back up to his feet besides him. The Asian big breasted woman smiled keenly, wondering what trick was at play here as RoadPigg rubbed his hands together like the artful dodger. She nodded, accepting the bet, standing with her hands on her hips to see what he could do, looking eager to win some easy money. Much to her surprise, RoadPigg simply grasped her breasts, getting a good handful and squeezing, making sure to get a good feel of the weight of her breasts before jiggling them. Inevitably he was smacked across the face, making him reel sideways as the woman began to shout out in Japanese fury. RoadPigg smiled at Mantis, promptly forking out the cash for her.

Pigg: Totally worth ¥1600!

And with those words he moved into the crowd with two different women, leaving Mantis alone at the bar. Mantis whispered a curse under his breath, damning RoadPigg’s luck before he turned to face the bar tender.

Asumi: Are you alright?

Mantis: Hmm?

Asumi: I asked if you were alright. That fall looked like it hurt.

Mantis looked to the side, noticing the young woman he set his eyes upon was still there, leaning over the bar besides him with an honest smile. Mantis felt his heart droop a little with nervousness as he tilted his head, taking off his sunglasses as smoothly as he could. It was then he noticed the emerald hues she had for eyes.

Mantis: I uhh, I’m a wrestler. I’m used to falling over.

Mantis spoke, hoping he wasn’t setting himself up for another fall. The young woman smiled, though the silence that passed made way for a sense of awkwardness. Mantis was not certain how he was suppose to proceed, but he went with what felt right.

Mantis: I’m Mantis. Can I get you a drink?...

Asumi: Sure. I’ll have what your having.

Asumi smiled, watching as Mantis got the drinks in.

Asumi: I’m Asumi. RoadPigg told me all about you. He said you have a small cock.

As icebreakers went, such a line would have demolished the iceberg that sank the titanic. Mantis spat out his drink just as he was taking his first swig, as Asumi couldn’t help but giggle. Mantis soon followed suit, managing a laugh himself as he tried to wipe away the mess he made with a beer mat.

Mantis: It is pretty small.

Mantis added, playing along as he looked to Asumi, gathering more confidence as he pulled a comical expression. He watched Asumi raise an eyebrow, the girl was suddenly intrigued, no doubt wondering if it was a jest or if there was more to Mantis. The wrestler took another swig of his drink, watching as Asumi drank her own, just as the Safety Dance came to an end. Mantis cocked his head to the side, listening as Erasure was the next to hit the PA system as a green mist was pumped out of the fog machines near one of the many dance floors that graced the place.


Mantis: Would you like to dance?

Mantis spoke with a smile, being offered a small nod by Asumi as she managed a smile. Something just seemed to click there and than, whether it was the beat of the music, the ale swirling in his system or just those eyes he couldn’t stop staring at. RoadPigg knew him too well, and he had a feeling the smug bastard had set this whole thing up. It did not matter; Mantis took Asumi’s hand with his own, and decided to ride with it for all it was worth. He was in Japan for a long time with the wrestling tour; he might as well try and enjoy it as both he and Asumi took to the dance floor.


Years came to pass, and soon Japan became like a home as the 80’s drew closer to an end. Wrestling here had been an experience Mantis would never forget, working through the ranks and making a name alongside of RoadPigg’s Pack. Asumi became more than just a one night stand, much more as Mantis began to see often. She knew him by his real name now, and not the alias RoadPigg would have him stick too. Tonight was a night away from it all though, overlooking the cityscape of Tokyo sky. Asumi had gone out of town to her parents to tell them some big news, leaving Mantis to have a one on one night of drinking with the man who carried him here.

Both sat ontop of the hotel roof, after RoadPigg picked the locks to get access, carrying a crate of some Japanese beer. It had a picture of a tiger and some Japanese writing, so RoadPigg found it fitting to call the ale “Supa’ Tyga!”. The ginger haired mullet bearing man had brought enough to last them the night, as the green stripe in his hair illuminated a little in the low light. It was only 10pm, so there was life in the city still as Mantis and RoadPigg overlooked the city, a beer in hand.

Pigg: I’ll level with you Mantis. The pack, they are all tough bastards, I’ll never take that away from the boys. Without me though, they’d fall apart. They got good talent, but not enough of it to make it on their own. You on the other hand, your’re somethin’ else. You would have made it with or without me.

Mantis: You’ve had like what? Two beers and you’re already turnin’ queer on me?

Pigg: Ha ha! I was drinking before I picked you up you son of a bitch! Seriously though, out of my gang, you’re the one I can rely on the most. You covered my ass in more than a few matches during our long tour here.

Mantis: Just doin’ what you would have done for me.

Pigg: So... anyway. What’s been going on with you lately, you’ve not been in touch with us as much these past few months save for turning up to wrestle before fucking off. I’m surprised you were willin’ to come out tonight with me. I know you’ve spent a lot of the last two years with Asumi, but before the last few months you’d at least be hangin’ out with us a lot more often. I’d be weary of Asumi you know, I know she makes you happy and sucks your cock on demand, but there’s something about her I don’t like. I’m not sure she looks at you the same way you look at her man.

Mantis: She’s pregnant.

Pigg: Aww shit man. I didn’t mean to...

Mantis: Just drop it alright.

Pigg: I feel like such a dick now. I guess congratulations are in order yeah? Damn Mantis, you’re gonna’ be a fuckin’ dad!

Mantis: I know. I’m... still coming to terms with it. I don’t think I can stay here anymore man. Asumi wants to get out of this country, says there’s nothing here for us. She wants us to bring the child up in America.

Pigg: Fuck that kind of shitty thought off. The first thing you two need to deciede is a name for the kid. Guessin’ it’s too early to know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.

Mantis managed a smile, taking a long swig of his beer before pulling a souring expression at the strength of it. He settled the bottle down on the edge of the wall as he peered out over the city.

Mantis: Earl if it’s a boy I reckon, Lucy if it’s a girl. I had a little talk with Asumi, she doesn’t mind

Pigg: I tried for a little girl after my first son... just ended up with two more sons. I always wanted a little girl... I would call her Faith if I had a baby girl. Why not call her Faith if its a girl for me?

Mantis: Ain’t your fuckin’ kid!

Pigg: You don’t know that.

RoadPigg smiled after the comment, a sinister smirk that would make you never tire of punching him. Mantis couldn’t help but lash out at the man, giving him a few stiff punches in the arm before the two began to laugh out loud. When things settled down, both returned to looking out over Tokyo, beers in hand and the world at their feet.

Pigg: Gonna’ miss this place. Maybe its time we all went back to the states, call it a day here. I think we have enough of a name for ourselves now. We’ll keep the pack together, all go back to America. We’ll make one big happy family.

Mantis: You don’t have too, I know you love it here.

Pigg: Nah, the times are changing man. 80’s are over. When I wake up tomorrow I’m shaving this mullet off, time to move with the times man.

Mantis: Bullshit.

Pigg: I’m not bullshitting you man. People are catching onto our game, it ain’t gonna’ be fun for much longer, it’s all about to get much more serious and a lot more competitive now that the sport is growing. If we wanna’ outlast the new bastards we need to keep on top of the game... we can all do that together, me, you and the pack. You raise that kid good and proper, and get married to Asumi as soon as you get to the states. When we get back, I’m going to hit the American scene, and I’m gonna be champion before you know it. I want you in my corner... and when I’m done and settled, I want you to come and take the belt off me and be the champion I know your capable of becoming... think you can do that for me?

Mantis: Sure RoadPigg... surething....

Pigg: Fuckin’ awesome.

RoadPigg spoke, downing the rest of his drink.


Six months would pass since Mantis would finally return to America with Asumi and his unborn child ...

The sound of a car pulling away was what woke Mantis up one faithful morning, but he hoped to return to slumber as soon as peace broke from the chaos of a motor engine fading away. A ray of sunlight broke through the gap in the curtains, moving along the unkempt sheets as the morning hours passed by. Eventually the sunlight found the eyes of Mantis, making the man wince in discomfort as he groaned inaudible complaints in kind. The man rolled over, in an attempt to escape nature’s wrath, looking to enjoy a sleep in rather than face the perils of today. A week had passed since his return to America with the pregnant Asumi, having experienced so much trouble getting through immigration and customs to get her and his unborn child into the country. He knew it would be hard, and Mantis’ troubles were certainly not over just yet with so many documents and meetings still in order. Still, there was great relief when the pair where finally allowed into America whilst immigration was finalized, Mantis had spent a great deal of the money he earned over in Japan to get a decent lawyer. It was looking good. This could work, Mantis was certain of it.

The biggest challenge would come from months ahead of now, naming the child after it was born. Even in such an early hour of the morning, Mantis began to wonder if the child would be a boy or a girl, if he was ready to take on a challenge bigger than any wrestling match he had taken part in. With a lazy smile he slid his hand towards Asumi, looking to feel over her stomach, knowing the unborn child of his resided within the woman he was prepared to spend the rest of his days with. His hand skimmed across the bed sheets, but his palm found no flesh, nothing but an empty bed besides him. With a lazy yawn, Mantis pushed against his arms, lifting his chest from the mattress as he looked with half glazed eyes for the woman he developed strong feelings for. There was no sign of her.

Motley Crue – Home Sweet Home

You know I’m a Dreamer, but my heart’s of gold
I had to runaway high, so I wouldn’t come home low
Just when things went right, it doesn’t mean they were always wrong.
Just take this song and you’ll never feel alone

Looking towards the clock as it sang out its alarm tune, Mantis noticed it was reasonably early, but it was possible the young woman was in the bathroom or just venturing around locally now that she was within the land of opportunity. Mantis settled his head back down against the soft pillow, slapping a hand down against the alarm to shut the damn thing up, letting out a sigh, letting his eyelids get heavy. They closed only for a moment it felt like, but hours had passed, and the ray of sunlight that crept through the crevice in the curtains had long passed the bed to move up against the wall. Mantis groaned as he pushed himself up off the bed, walking in his birthday suit as he heard no sign of Asumi. Bare feet pattered against the tiled ground as Mantis walked, itching himself in a place where hands should not venture before he pulled on a pair of old boxers from a side desk.

Mantis: ‘Sumi?

Mantis called out, his words falling upon no ears like a tree falling in the forest. He casually checked all the rooms in the apartment, venturing into the spare bedroom, the living room and the bathroom, looking for any kind of sign of his girlfriend.

Mantis: Could have left a damn note or somethin’. It’s not like you’re the most important person in the world to me.

Mantis whispered to himself with distain as he returned to the bedroom. He looked briefly upon the mirror on the bedside table, fixing the stray strands of hair to get his gelled back hair into place. He would have to dye it again soon, as a few darkened shades were beginning to show along the sides of his head where his natural dark hair was trying to reveal itself. It was only then he noticed a piece of paper on the side that he previously missed due to his grogginess. It was folded over neatly, torn from a scrap book he left in a drawer under the bed. With a curious frown, Mantis unfolded the piece of paper, finding upon it only a few words, a few simple words written in English that at first, Mantis found hard to translate.


Mantis: No... no that can’t be right.

Mantis whispered to himself, placing a hand against his temple, slowly feeling the weight of the situation dawn upon him. Like venom injected into the blood stream, it took Mantis a moment to fight through the disbelief, through the shock of what the words on a mere piece of paper indicated. If this was a jest, Mantis was not laughing. Franticly he dressed himself, climbing into a worn pair of jeans and sneakers before throwing a white T over his chest. He found his apartment keys and looked in the living room where he left his car keys. To the horror of Mantis, the keys were gone. All at once he recalled waking to the sound of a car pulling away hours earlier. All that followed was frantic despairing thoughts as Mantis felt his chest tighten.

Mantis: No!... No!

Mantis shouted out, placing his hands against his head. He rushed to the window, ripping the curtains down with a simple motion to let light burst into the room. The moment his eyes adjusted to the outside, he saw his car was gone. Asumi had taken it, she had taken his damn car.

Mantis had been used, Asumi let herself get pregnant as a means to get into the country. Carrying an American child got her through immigration, now she was running, no doubt intent on hiding and leaving her own American dream. Mantis screamed out loud, a maniac’s scream that belonged to a man that just lost everything. The table shattered when Mantis through it across the room, ornaments broke into pieces as they were shoved from the shelves, the plaster on the walls cracked and broke away as Mantis struck the wall until his hands began to bleed. It was not the fact that Asumi tore out his heart that drove him to such anger, or the fact that she had used him as a means to enter the country.

It was the mere fact that she had taken his child, his own unborn flesh and blood. Days would come to pass as Mantis tried to pursuit her, going to the authorities, tracking down his stolen car. He did not know it back then, but he would never see her again. Asumi was gone from his life, and someday soon as a result of such a betrayal, Mantis would also vanish...


Months past, but the rage did not subside within Mantis. A man doesn’t get over such a betrayal over mere time, sometimes it can really eat a man up from inside. In two months time the child would be due, and there was no sign of Asumi. By now he would have been able to tell if it was a girl or a boy. Asumi had vanished, leaving not a single message behind, leaving a broken man in despair. Other men might have been able to overcome such an event, simply put it to the back of their minds and move on with their lives, considering it nothing more than one of the many things in life one might experience. Not Mantis, he invested all that he was in a future for his own child, for the woman he once loved. Being the kind man he thought of himself as was what brought his own downfall, and what simply led to him becoming filled with anger and distain for all. It was such fury that would lead to the demise of Mantis, as it all happens on the day our tale began with.

The crowd were no longer chanting the name Mantis by the time the bell had rung to signal the end, instead they began to voice their displeasure, finally reaching the end of their patience for a wrestler they once respected and loved. Weeks had gone by since his return to the ring after a fruitless search for his unborn child, Mantis proving to brutalize his opponents in every match since his betrayal. Though all of them had been heels, the crowd had been slowly growing weary of brutal beat downs, knowing many of his opponents did not deserve such a fate. Riptide was a fan favourite, an ally of his and RoadPigg’s, an old friend he shared a career with in Japan. Now he lay on the mat, mounted by Mantis who began to strike and shout out at the top of his lungs until his face turned a shade of pink.

The referee struggled to pull Mantis away as he spat upon Riptide, a final insult to a devastating one sided match. The crowd were nearly up in arms when Mantis began to walk away, shoving the Ref aside with a mere shove as gloved hands dripped with blood, staining the once pure mat of the wrestling ring. There was no celebration, for the last few weeks, Mantis had nothing to celebrate. There was only the rage of the crowd ringing through his ears as he made his way backstage, keeping his head low as he let the shadows embrace him from the irritating shine of the spotlight and the sight of the pitiful fans who watched.

Pigg: Mantis! You fuckin’ son of a bitch! What the hell did you do to Riptide?!

Road Pigg shouted out, seizing Mantis by his vest the moment he made his way into the cold empty corridor. He no longer looked like the man he was, with short hair he looked all the more capable now, especially since he kept true to his word, having won the Championship belt this month as the gold plating item rested over his shoulder. Mantis could feel every breath of Road Pigg’s carrying anger for a man he still considered a friend, in spite of watching him fall into a downward spiral of despair, a spiral of anger that Mantis took out on everyone he faced in the ring. Riptide was the final straw, RoadPigg would not sit back anymore, and the wrestler knew he should have intervened sooner. He wanted to strike Mantis, but the sense of friendship held him back from raising a fist, that brotherhood that brought the two of them together over the years and carried them through Japan. Mantis was quick to shove the smaller man away with strong arms, spitting to the side grotesquely as his posture shifted to an aggressive one.

Mantis: The same damn thing I will do to you if you fuckin’ touch me again!

Mantis shouted, pointing an accusing finger at RoadPigg. The champion could only let his shoulders ease as he lowered his guard, a look of true concern falling upon his face as he looked upon the man before him.

Pigg: C’mon man. This can’t continue. Riptide is one of us man, one of the pack. Attacking him like that was like attacking the rest of us, like attacking me. I know your hurtin’ after Asumi up and left on you. I know how you feel man, I’ve been through it before... let us help you before this all gets out of hand.

RoadPigg spoke, trying to ease Mantis. He stepped forward, looking to place a comforting hand on a friends shoulder, but his hand was roughly brushed aside, Mantis still standing tall, his brow furrowing into a deep frown.

Mantis: Fuck you! You don’t have a fuckin’ clue what it’s like! She took my fuckin’ kid from me RoadPigg. You have no idea what that feels like, it didn’t happen to you... it happened to me! It fuckin’ happened to me! It was your damn fault it happened in the first place; you set me up with that bitch!

Pigg: Don’t pin this on me! I set you up for a one night stand! How was I to know you’d fall in love with the bitch?! It was your damn cock that started all this off, so don’t point the damn finger at me without taking responsibility... in fact... you know what? Fuck it! Blame me for it, go ahead and blame me, just don’t take it out on every other bastard you encounter because they don’t deserve it. Take your problems with me, I damn guarantee after we fight this out, you’ll be apologizing for everything when you realize just how much of a prick you’ve been! Can we not just... drop this and have a fucking drink like we used to do?

Mantis: Ah’m fuckin’ done puttin’ on a stupid charade, an’ Ah’m damn well done followin’ you in yer’ damn shadow whilst ya’ keep a damn head under the ground and ignore all the shit that goes on around ya’. Ah’m done talkin’ in some stupid accent so those shits watchin’ can understand what Ah’m sayin’. Ah’ don’t belong to them, Ah’ shouldn’t have to do what suits them best. Despite all this, Ah’ won’t fight you RoadPigg, not just yet anyways. Ah’ll work my way up to the top, Ah’ll take down all your fuckin’ friends first, one by one. Steel, Bulldozer, whatever PunK you throw mah’ way! When Ah’m done with them, Ah’ll come for you, an’ Ah’ll take your damn fuckin’ title and make a reign so fuckin’ long yours will look like a damn joke!

Pigg: I don’t know who you are anymore man; you certainly ain’t Mantis. He was a good man, he knew better then this. He would know it wasn’t his friends fault all this shit went down... he’d know it wasn’t his own fault, it was just bad shit that shouldn’t happen to anyone. That’s not you though, I don’t know who the fuck you are... You’ve become a fuckin’ TyranT.

RoadPigg spoke, shaking his head in distain as he walked away from the man that was once Mantis. That man was done playing everyone’s game, doing away with a forced accent, no longer caring about the fans nor having a care for the name they gave him. Fuck it all. TyranT... there was something about that word, the moment it rolled from the lips of RoadPigg. Billy McKenzie, the man that was once Mantis, took a deep breath, finding no ease to the anger that fuelled his system. TyranT would be an apt new name to take as he marched on into a new life, for he knew from now on he would be on his own in the federation... and he had every intention of bringing hell to anyone who stood in his way. He couldn’t make Asumi pay for what she had done... so everyone else would pay.

From the memoirs of Damien Inferno, dated June sixteenth, 2011

I don't think I can take this. Everyone around me, every friend, acquaintance, potential foe, and peer is a single touch away from being a god damn open book. I was so fucking close to being free of my insanity. I was trying to help people. Now, all I am is a damn freak who can't so much as touch anyone without finding out first-hand what their deepest, most terrible secrets are. I don't think my fragile sanity can hold much longer. . . .

I remember writing that. After No Holds Barred, I kept wondering how long it would be before my own personal demons would be held safely in their rusty cages when viewing those of others was such an easy, if agonizing, task. They were given a short vacation from their sentence for the match against Dunn and Jack, as evidenced by my cruelty in having fried Dunn for ten seconds-plus. And, while it felt damn good to just let go and allow them free reign once again, it won't be happening again. Some things are better left locked away.

- - -

Episode One: Love Is An Illusion. I could have sworn up and down that I was unnattracted to Eliza. I'd have been lying, but still. In any case, I found refusing her advances to become more and more a daunting task. My will was breaking. What was worse, I found myself to be growing closer to. . . loving her. The gods have a fucked up sense of humor.

As I lay in the bed of a new york city hotel room, resting myself after two grueling matches, a knock resounded from the door, and it slipped open. I pulled one of my ever-present blades from my pocket, ready to defend myself, as Eliza slowly strutted through the door. Her expression was one of determination. She wouldn't need it tjat day.

I dropped the blade and stood up, plagued by a momentary bout of vertigo, and stumbled to meet her. Her long, black silk bath robe swayed as she walked to me. Tied very loosely aroumd her, I was rewarded with short glances at her milky smoothe skin.

We collided in front of the television, sparking a kiss that could have set us both ablaze. She shrugged down the shoulders of the robe, allowing it to slowly fall from her form, revealing her to be completely nude. Then, she wrapped her arms and legs around me, holding herself up to my level. I carried her to the bed and collapsed on top of her.

The kiss reignited with pure unbridled passion. She pulled my shirt over my head and -

Wait. Something doesn't feel rig-

Her teeth dug gently but sensually into my neck. I could just barely keep myself under control. Her hands traced their way down to-

What the fuck? Something is wrong! But what the hel-

I couldn't help myself anymore. Without a second thought, I reached down and-

Hold the fuck up, dumbass.

Why can't you read her?

I pulled back as I realized my haste had betrayed absent-mindedness. She gasped and stared at me, wide eyed. Her eyes were missing the irises and the pupils. The pure white of her skin seemed to shine then like polished ivory.

"What the fuck," I half gasped, half yelled.

"Damien," she hissed.

"Fuck this!"

I jumped off of the bed and stumbled back. She started to crawl toward me, and I held my hand up.

"Stay away from me."

As she climbed from the bed, her eyes began to give off a white light. I couldn't help but stare.

"You are mine, Damien. I have waited so long for love. Do not deny me."

I tried to resist, but. . . I just couldn't. I walked to her and held her. She kissed my cheek, and what weak resistance I had left seemed to wane even more.

"You are mine, Damien. We will be so happy together."

She cupped my face in her hands, and I felt myself lean in to kiss her. Suddenly she was ripped from my grasp and smashed into the wall behind her.

"Away from the boy, Demon!"

The spell seemed to break and my head erupted into merciless pain. I turned to see Robert standing in the doorway, hands outstretched. I could feel his magick coursing through the room like an ocean of energy.

"Damien, get the hell out of the room."

I stared at him blankly through my migraine.

"What the-"

"NOW, DAMN IT!"

Barely able to keep my balance, I grabbed my shirt and made for the hallway. I hit the wall opposite my door hard. Robert slammed the door shut and took a deep breath.

"What. . . the fuck," I wheezed.

Ignoring me, Robert pulled a small pocket knife from his pocket and cut open his finger. Using the blood, he drew a circke in the door, then filled it with symbols. Once finished, he laid his hand upon it and whispered a few words. The blood circle let off a deep red glow, and then flashed.

"What'd you do?"

He turned to me and said, "I've trapped her in a time pocket. She won't be anyone's problem for a good twelve hours."

I grunted, rubbing my head. "Time. . . pocket?"

"I've frozen time in the room. She can't move or think until either the door is opened or the twelve hour limit I set runs out. That gives you time to make a decision."

I blinked as my confusion grew to knew record heights, but had the sense to ask, "What is she?"

He sat on the floor, back to the wall, and began.

"My first assessment of her supernatural capacity was incorrect. She is not a sensitive. She's about as close to human as a Demon can possibly get. A succubus."

Oh, fuck. That explains the fuckin' migraines.

"So, she's been feedin' off my life force whenever she's been around me?"

He nodded. "Or, trying to, I reckon. You put up a decent fight against her normal come-hithers and such. I figure she got desperate and decided pull the mind-slave play on ya."

"As if my life ain't hellish enough as it is. Last thing I need is to become a slave to an energy-suckin' sex vampire."

He nodded. "Aye, exactly. And so, here is the choice you must make in the next twelve hours. Your life. . . or hers. One of them must end tonight."

- - -

As I walked the crowded nighttime streets of The Big Apple, not noticing as I obliviously crossed from the skyscraper and business-laden metropolitan paradise into the neo-slums, my mind was set upon Eliza. Was she really the monster Robert made her out to be, or was he once again keeping something from me?

You know she is, came a voice from within. You felt her take you and turn you into a little fucking puppet. It takes dark power to pull something like that off. Demonically dark.

I know, I replied.

I was so deep in thought, I didn't notice the guy walking up to me until he was only five feet away. He stood about six inches shorter than me, sporting a bald head.

"Lookin' ta get high, bruh? I gots the shit you need right here."

I stared at him for a moment, unsure of whether he was serious or not. His serious gaze did not change.

"No thanks. Drugs ain't really my thing."

He shrugs, unperturbed. "How 'bout gettin' laid?" Before I could reply, he yelled over his shoulder, "Christine, get yo' scrawny bitch-ass out here."

From a nearby alley came a young girl, barely out of high-school. She tried to strut, her stride giving off a pitiful clumsiness. Make-up caked her face a pale white. She wore a barely passable skirt and a dangerously low cut top. It made me cringe to think what she might have looked like before.

The heel of one of her shoes snapped off as she approached, causing her to slip. Out of instinct, I dove to catch her. The drug dealer looked on in anger at us as I helped hwr to regain her balance.

"Th-th-thanks, mister," she said timidly, smiling shyly as she did so.

Suddenly, the douchebag grabbed her by her arm and dragged her away. After pushing her against a brick wall he began slapping her back and forth across the face.

"Stupid clumsy li'l bitch! Can't you do nothin' right?"

Oh, hell no, I thought, and advanced upon him.

I pulled him away from her and slammed him against the wall only a few feet away from her. I began throwing punches at him, starting with the face, then moving to anywhere else that seemed to hurt. His nose started to pour blood, his mouth trickling with it. Then, I took him up to my shoulders, twisted to my side slightly, and then tossed him down. I brought my knee up to collide with his face, successfully dislocating his jaw.

When he hit the ground, he was out cold. That didn't stop me from dropping to lay in a few more punches. I don't care who the fuck you are. You don't treat a girl that way.

I felt a weak tugging at my shirt's collar, and then a flash of a pitious amount of regret flooded my mind.

"Please," the girl pleaded to me. "Please, stop. It was my fault. I'm s-so clumsy."

I turned to question her, and caught a glimpse of her arms. They were covered in needle-marks, some scarred over, others much fresher. It made me want to gag.

I can recognize a lost cause when I see it. I stood up, wiped my bloodied knuckles off on my jeans and walked away.

This experience gave me new insight. I knew what had to be done. I was Eliza's. And in turn, so she was mine.

- - -

Robert was right where I'd left him, sitting against the wall next to,my hotel room door. Upon seeing me walking up the hallway toward him, he checked his watch.

"Five hours," he said. "Have you made your decision?"

I nodded, and he stood. He walked to me and put,his hand on my shoulder.

"Your decision is?"

I looked past him to the door and thought of Eliza; her beauty, her vitality. I couldn't stand thought of killing her.

"I am hers, Robert. And she is mine. Don't come between us. Please."

He stared at me blankly for a moment before replying. "Has your mind completely fucking shattered boy?"

I shook my head. "You don't understand, Robert. This is how it has to be."

He stepped back and started gathering his power, no doubt ready to incapacitate me so he could end this debacle his way. He wouldn't get the chance. Large I may be, but agile as well. I rushed him, planting a knee in his stomach, and then a spinning elbow to his face. His power dispersed harmlessly, and I walked to the door.

As I placed my hand on the door, thoughts raced through my mind. Was this the right choice? Was I even in the right state of mind to make this decision?

This was not the time to second guess myself. I turned the knob and pushed the door open, breaking the spell Robert had laid upon it earlier in the night. As I walked in, I found Eliza standing right before me, her exposed flesh and her eyes once again glowing white.

"My love," she said, smiling. "You came back to me."

"Yes," I said, taking her into my arms. "I am yours, and you are mine."

Shs wrapped her arms around me and exhaled in contention. Her hands ran up and down my back, sening pleasant sensations thoughout my body.

"I love you," she whispered, rubbing the side of her face against my chest.

"I love you too," I told her, and kissed her forehead.

She gasped as I plunges my dagger into her back. I covered her mouth to stifle her cry of surprised pain. I dug the blade deeper, and waited for the life to drain from her. This was different than previous murders I had commited. My demons weren't goading me into it. In fact, they were silent in their mental cages. I took no pleasure in having done it. My heart aches even now at what I did.

As she grew limp in my arms, I lowered us to the ground, letting her rest on the room's carpet. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Robert, holding his newly pained stomach. He stared, saying nothing for a few moments, and then turned and left.

He would'nt have allowed me to do it myself. That was the reason for the ruse. He was afraid that, given my previous inability to resist her, I wouldn't have been able to get the job done. I couldn't allow that.

It wouldn't have been right. I had to be the one to do it.

I loved her.

And I killed her.

I am nothing, I thought, tears freely flowing, but a monster.

To be continued. . . .

Ever since my match at Ultimatum 3 has been announced, people have been acting differently with me.

All of a sudden, I’m a good guy, someone doing what’s right. Like SPARTA with Original Sin, I’m standing up for Full Metal Wrestling against the threat of Gold Standard Wrestling and its radical “saviours”.

As I walk through corridors backstage, I’m clapped on the back by random backstage officials or other wrestlers. They flash me thumbs up and cheery smiles. They call out typical words of encouragement as I pass. They act like we’re friends, like I’m doing them a favour.

I suppose they see this as an act of heroism; one courageous young rookie putting his newly-won Television Championship on the line against THREE of GSW one after the other. Jeff Whitt and his stooges have invaded FMW and while the extent of their effectiveness is debatable, they have managed to stir up a lot of heat for themselves.

For a group that hopes to convert others to their cause, they have alienated nearly everyone by forcing their tedious message upon us. FMW doesn’t care about its wrestler’s safety? Well obviously. Everyone knows that – it’s nothing revolutionary. We are all exploited by FMW for profit, but we make enough ourselves to make it worthwhile, or else we would have left by now.

GSW have been so obnoxious, intolerant and irritating with incessant preaching of how their way is morally superior – some played out bullshit – that everyone’s dying to see them taken out. These messiah figures just piss people off because people don’t like being told what to do. Even less so by a band of no-hopers that has failed to achieve anything in the months since their formation.

Arguably, this match against me is their best chance of success yet; fought under gauntlet rules, the odds are seemingly against me – I will bear the brunt of three men’s fury. Coupled with my inexperience – this will be my third match and in theory, someone like Matt P. Dunn, who has several years under his belt, should be considered the favorite here.

But he isn’t, because GSW is made of fail. It has taken a former champion and reduced him to just another guy, a faceless stooge for Jeff Whitt and his aimless crusade against FMW’s evils. Does that make me one of these evils in need of purging? Or do they just want my Television Championship to promote their “cause”?

Either way, nobody likes them or wants to see them succeed. The hatred is to such an extent that even I, The self-proclaimed Antagonist, have become not only the lesser of two evils, but someone openly accepted and acknowledged as the defender of FMW for Ultimatum.

So my previous transgressions are simply forgotten because my opponents happen to be members of GSW. Since my on-screen debut – kicking Nick Dream into unconsciousness – I’ve set out only to antagonize as my nickname would suggest. I shot down the fan favorite David GS, taking his streak, his title and his self-belief.

I have done nothing to endear myself to FMW or its populace which quite frankly fills me with a mixture of pity and revulsion at the best of times. And yet, I am now its hope.

I have to smile and nod as grinning simpletons offer out their filthy fucking hands, all the while shamelessly kissing my ass when just last show they were saying I had no chance against DGS.

How things have changed in just a few short weeks, eh?

________________________

I check my voicemail to find another from D’Angelo’s blonde girl from downstairs. I roll my eyes while listening to her sobbing down the line again; “I’m really scared Matt, he’s so aggressive lately.”

I smile inwardly as she goes on, “he hit me in the face today, and I’ve even got a black eye!” It’s funny because she’s pouring her heart out to a guy that would do so much worse given the chance.

“I could really do with someone to talk to right now,” she says sweetly in between sniffs. Ugh. If I see this bitch not to slit her supple neck, it would only be to bust a nut – I don’t want to talk to her. I’ve had to call her back enough over this bullshit. What does she expect from a drug dealer? Stupid bitch.

She’s looking to me for a hero, someone to stand up against the “evil” in her life. No perception. All I have to do is feign sympathy for her oh so troubling life and this dope whore thinks I’m a decent human being. That’s all she thinks of me though – she doesn’t know anything else – because all she talks about is herself; her interests, he faculties, her opinions, he problems and so on. She has no idea what I’m about, she thinks I really care, and yet I can’t even recall her name.

I imagine women like this – hopelessly self-absorbed – make the perfect victim to the thoughts that play out in my twisted head every day. They just don’t see it coming. And by it, I mean a sharpened carving knife gouging through their defenceless flesh.... or maybe a butchers knife? I don’t know, I really need to try them all out soon.

I try to relax that evening with a few valium pills to ease the stress I’ve been feeling lately. It’s not about the pressure of being Television Champion or worrying about my next defence. I’m confident in my abilities; I know my sadistic methodical style will grind down the best of fighters.

No, what I find stressful is this newfound status as a good guy. Or is it the anticipation that comes with being as such? I do not care for these cheery faggots wishing me well, when I see them looking my way, spouting their usual shit, I feel an uneasiness wash over me that makes it hard to remain calm. With so much attention, I must not allow my mask of sanity to slip.

I take a long warm bath and kick back with some movies but by midnight, I feel more restless than before and swallow down a couple more valium pills. I decide to kill time by reading ‘A Clockwork Orange’ but the contents of the book only serve to rile me into frenzy and by 2 AM, I am sweating heavily and my muscles are contracting at random.

I rack my brain for some shred of peace but find only broken bits of conversation, all proclaiming me of all people – utterly insane – as their brave strapping hero. The words ring endlessly throughout my head as I stare into space, breathing in and out heavily, as I hope for an escape through sleep.

Then I decide something must be done.

With more than a glint of madness in my piercing eyes, I leave my flat, step down the creaking stairs and out into the cool night. At this hour, there aren’t many people around and just a few cars pass as I stand in the breeze.

I try to re-try my steps to an alley I passed earlier today and with a bit of luck, manage to find it – just opposite some cheap pizzeria about five or ten minutes from my place. I glance up and down the quiet street but nobody’s around so I slip into the alley and pad quietly along, careful not to wake the sleeping hobo.

It’s hard to see in the dark of the night but I can tell his clothes are scruffy and old. He’s sleeping on his side on a strip of ragged cardboard with some filthy sheets for warmth. The stench of urine is unmistakable and disgusting. As I reach closer, I consider turning back because of the smell but my bloodlust spurs me forward.

I stand over the hobo for a few seconds with my foot raised and take a deep breath... then... I stomp down forcefully, my thick boot driving right into the side of his aging face. I hear a sickening crack – probably a few teeth coming loose – and he begins wailing like a little bitch on her period.

This only angers me. Men should take their beatings with a touch of class.

So I stomp down even harder and faster as he whimpers in pain. I take a step back and he stutters, “p-p-please stop!” but I take another kick – this time like a put to his little stomach. The winded hobo cries out, “what do you want from me?!” but the answer is not something worth telling.

He splutters helplessly, blood drooling from his mouth – probably from the first stomp to the face – and attempts to protect his head with his gloved hands. Irritated by this, I stamp down on his groin and he instantly moves his hands to inspect the damaged area. Instinct, you see. With a wicked grin, I return to his face with another crushing blow.

This latest stomp is crucial, making impact on the bridge of the nose and forcing him back down. The tramp is blubbering now, tears trickling down his bloody face and he’s murmuring something incoherent, begging for mercy I expect. I have no empathy, it doesn’t help; in fact it only makes me more determined to end his pathetic existence.

I am no good man. I am no hero. I am no saviour nor defender of what society says is right.

With a flick, my switchblade gleams in the moonlight and the hobo intakes air sharply, his eyes fixed on the sharpened blade. He desperately struggles to his feet but I lunge forward with my arm pumping violently to send the blade into his torso. I predict some internal organ’s been punctured by this first incision but continue stabbing away wildly at his abdomen as he screams in agony.

I even count along each time, “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight!” and so on until he’s slumped on the ground, his top covered in crimson that seeps through the clothing with ease. He’s gargling now, eyes bulging, heart straining for life as I chuckle to myself.

Kneeling down to look him in the eye before he dies, I cough up a load of phlegm onto the poor stinking bastard’s face and then give him another kick to the bleeding gut for the hell of it.

He dies soon quickly after and still covered in his filthy blood, I light up a well-needed cigarette and ponder what to do with his broken body. Its a pitiful sight really. I sigh heavily, reflecting on whether the hassle of disposal is even worth the thrill of murder when it’s over so quickly. Too quickly.

Then I’m horrified by the sound of sirens fast approaching. I sprint back down the alley and run straight into some fat faggot that knocks me to the floor just as the pigs arrive. While everything is a blur, I can see the blaring blue and red flashing lights from their cars and their shouted commands consume my entire hearing.

It’s all over.

________________________

I awake suddenly, my throat dry and rough. I try to wet my mouth but its little use. ‘A Clockwork Orange’ is lying open on my lap. I turn to my left and check my phone: 3:04 AM. Sigh.

This time, it was “just” a dream... but how long until these fantasies become reality?

I feel my mask is slipping...

People are never as they seem.

The scene opens to the ravaged remains of Hell, the infernal planes that once housed the souls of the damned, the nonbelievers, and the vile who scarred the Earth with their existence. Normally Hell is filled with the echoes of suffering, begging and pleading from lost souls with the Almighty God who has forsaken them to completely eradicate them. They want to be entirely removed from existence, a plea that will never be granted as long as the Fourth World stands. It will not be until Christ Himself returns to Earth and brings His Kingdom with Him that they will be judged again and those still found wanting tossed into the Lake of Fire. Hell is crowded, Hell stretches on infinitely yet normally seems so full. That is not the case this time however...

For Hell is empty.

The souls of the damned are gone, their tormentors have followed. Hell was ripped open when the angels of Heaven rebelled and sided with the Spirit of Vengeance called Exodus, Gabriel's machinations have allowed for the eternal balance to finally be tipped towards the side of the battle commonly referred to as evil. The Chosen One, charged with protecting the integrity of the entirety of existence has failed and now the whole world will soon weep tears of blood unless he can do something, anything...

Things do not look good for existence.

Drew Michaels steps cautiously across the infernal plains, feeling the evil of this realm fill him as the Morningstar, in the somewhat mortal form of Jacob Mobius, steps next to him. Mobius stares at his kingdom of ash and dust, knowing nothing will ever be the same again after everything that has happened recently. He has lost the station forced upon him by the Almighty after his own rebellion and he knows it is his failure, like Drew's own, that has caused this.

Mobius: We have to keep moving.

Michaels: Yeah...Yeah I guess we do.

Drew looks around again, trying to take in the vast emptiness but his mind cannot comprehend it.

Michaels: What happened here?

Mobius: Exodus happened. With myself and the Princes of Hell removed from the field of play in Hell, it raged in war. The damned were conscripted into armies and forced to fight the wars of demons and spirits, wars that destroyed an already desolate land. When Exodus returned, he tore through here and demolished the demons who attempted to take control when we all left; I can still feel the ambient energy in the air. He then took the armies of the dead to his side to lead in the war against Heaven, the wild spirits of Hell and the remaining demons joining them. Exodus knows this will be a war of attrition and thus he has built an army unparalleled in all of time.

Michaels: Then we have to stop him before the battle begins.

Mobius: Then again I implore we must press forward. Time is of the essence.

Michaels: Agreed.

The two men do indeed press forward, moving through the destruction and anarchy in a search for something Drew did not even know existed, a circle of Hell even Dante was not brave enough to describe in his 'Inferno', a level that the Morningstar himself worked desperately to avoid during his tenure running the metaphorical bowels of reality. As they come closer, the destruction seems to level out, even the warring factions of Hell knew to avoid this place. As Drew finally steps towards towards a crater of literal Biblical proportions, he prepares for a sight that would take his breath away.

Instead, there is nothing at all.

Michaels: We might have a problem Jacob...

Mobius steps forward, being a few steps behind Drew, and looks down into the crater himself. His reaction is less shock though and more anger, knowing all too well what this means. The mythical Lake of Fire is gone and so gone with it is a chance to destroy Exodus forever.

Mobius: It is all gone...

Michaels: Did Exodus do this?

Mobius: He must have though I cannot for the life of my figure out how. The Lake of Fire was elemental, it existed before the world itself was formed. In fact, the Earth was formed around the Fire in around to contain its destructive force.

Michaels: So the Lake was sentient?

Mobius: Possibly, I mean I never went out of my way to have a conversation with it.

Michaels: And it existed before Creation?

Mobius: Indeed it did.

Michaels: Similar to Mikaboshi then, the darkness that life sprung out of? The same Mikaboshi aligned solidly with Exodus?

Mobius nods slowly, knowing where Drew is going.

Mobius: Mikaboshi and the Lake of Fire were similar forces and thus responded to one another. That means Exodus could potentially now control a flame that has the power to destroy all of existence.

Michaels: Not good.

Mobius: Not at all.

Michaels: Do we have a back-up plan?

Mobius: For that particular problem? Not yet. For problems in general? Of course.

Michaels: Which is?

Mobius: We are going up Andrew and going up quickly.

Michaels: Heaven?

Mobius: Not quite. You ever been mountain climbing?

Drew just stares at Jacob quizzically as our first scene fades into a chilling black...


Interlude

The scene opens to the home Philadelphia suburban home of Drew Michaels, his lovely wife Juliet, and his son Lee. However, this time Drew is nowhere to be found; leaving only his wife and his close friend and confidant Abraham to watch over his sleeping son.

Abraham: Do you worry about him?

Juliet: Lee? Of course. Poor kid has been through too much too soon.

Abraham: While that is true, I meant Drew.

Juliet: Same answer sadly.

Abraham: I don't like him running off with the Morningstar.

Juliet: No one does but Drew seems to trust him.

Abraham: Do any of us have a choice?

Juliet: We always have a choice Abraham.

Abraham: Sometimes I wish I could believe that. Instead, I feel like too many of us are just leading our lives being jerked around from one cosmic event to another in a vain attempt to save a world seemingly destined to die violently and spectacularly.

Juliet: You seem angry.

Abraham: More...frustrated with the recent turn of events.

Juliet: You don't like this lifestyle.

Abraham: I owe Drew everything, I just am not quite of fan of being attacked by Biblical monsters, malevolent spirits, and demons on a daily basis.

Juliet: We've all been there Abraham.

Abraham: You walked away.

Juliet: And you tried to kill him. Your point being?

Abraham laughs.

Abraham: We've both screwed up pretty hard sometimes, haven't we?

Juliet: Just had to clear my head personally, not sure what your excuse was.

Abraham: You know, the usual; being manipulated by an evil cult bent on world domination. Or, in our lives, a slow Wednesday.

The two both laugh this time, enjoying themselves for the first time in some time as the reality of the situation around them sets in.

Abraham: What if he fails?

Juliet: He can't.

Abraham: But what if he does?

Juliet: He won't.

Abraham: Humor me.

Juliet: Well, according to what Drew told me when I got hysterical about everything; reality will collapse in on itself, all our souls will either be erased or rewritten like computer data, and those who are rewritten will exist in a world of suffering controlled by Exodus or Gabriel as the supreme deity of Creation.

Abraham: You could have just said “really bad stuff”.

Juliet: Really bad stuff then.

Abraham sighs, falling back into a chair and sinking deep into it to think about what is still to come as our scene fades to black...


We return to the trek of Drew and Jacob, this time they are walking through much nicer arrangements, an elegant hall filled to the brim with gold, bronze, and copper as Drew looks around in total amazement.

Michaels: This is...

Mobius: Shocking? Amazing? Breath-taking?

Michaels: Decadent.

Mobius: That too.

Michaels: I have to say, I never thought these people existed.

Mobius: They are not people and I suggest you do not refer to them like that. They are gods as far as they are concerned.

Michaels: And as far as we are concerned?

Mobius: A last ditch hope.

Michaels: Fair enough.

As they press forward, Drew steps back again in shock as they enter an even bigger hall with thirteen chairs set up around the room. Seated in each of those chairs is a man or woman dressed in beautiful and pristine white robes with gold plastered everywhere. Seated in the largest seat is an older man with a long white beard.

Zeus: What manner of business are you on this time Morningstar?

Mobius: I seek an audience with the father of the gods, the lord of the pantheon of Greece.

Zeus: Your form has changed.

Mobius: As have we all changed with the times.

Zeus: You speak the truth Lucifer. What brings you here?

Mobius: The destroyer has returned.

A murmur breaks out in the room, loud whispers echo before Zeus stomps his foot; commanding absolute silence while he glares at the men in front of him.

Zeus: We were assured he was removed as a threat when he made claims at the newborn son of your God. It is the only reason the gods of old agreed to step aside and pull ourselves out of the affairs of man.

Mobius: Gabriel lied as he has a tendency to do.

Zeus: Then grounds for war have been reached. Your God should prepare Himself for the full wrath of the old way.

Michaels: It is not God's failure.

Zeus: Then whom allowed the destroyer to walk the Earth again mortal?

Drew takes a deep breath before answering.

Michaels: I did.

The whispering begins again before Zeus calms the crowd and stares down Drew with a wrath unseen before.

Zeus: And who would you be?

Michaels: I am the Chosen One of the LORD Almighty.

Zeus: You are a fool if you think that station holds weight here.

Michaels: My station holds weight EVERYWHERE, old god.

Mobius (Whispering): Now is not the time for a dick measuring contest Drew...

Zeus: Your associate is very prideful for someone who released our greatest enemy back into the realm of reality Lucifer. Does he dare not recognize who we are?

Mobius: He understands entirely.

Zeus: Then explain his insolence!

Michaels: Yours first.

Mobius: Not now Drew! (Turns back to Zeus) He has taken the burden of the destroyer's return on himself but it is not his fault despite his ignorant attempts to claim otherwise. He feels responsible because he has been charged with removing the beast from existence and now we come to you for help with that matter.

Zeus: Help?

Mobius: Yes, assistance only the pantheons may grant.

Zeus is silent for a minute, contemplating what has been told to him. Slowly, he looks to each of the other gods in the room who all nod slowly at him.

Zeus: I will consult the other divine leaders and sway them to your side.

Mobius: I thank you eternally.

Zeus: Just be sure there is an eternity to thank us in.

Zeus stares at Drew and never takes his eyes off of the Chosen One as Mobius turns and pulls Drew out of the room as our scene fades to black...


Interlude

The scene reopens in Bamberg. Germany. More specifically, a rundown hole in the wall bar on the side of town closest to the Warner Barracks, a United States military institution that holds a strong influence over the area. The bar attracts a number of foreign soldiers looking for a good time as well as many locals, particularly females, looking to party with the American soldiers. The place, despite it size and obvious seediness, is thus always hopping and is the location where Abraham, the best friend and aide of the Chosen One, finds himself today; sipping on a glass of water when a couple drunk soldiers wander up, ladies on their arms.

Soldier: Well lookie here Jason, we got ourselves a little sandnigger in our bar. What should we do with this raghead?

Jason laughs, high-fiving his buddy for his disgusting racism.

Jason: Well, I think we need to teach him that he ain't welcome here. How about you pack up and go back to Arabia or wherever the fuck you from boy.

Abraham ignores their obvious ignorance, attempting to focus on his water and the reason he was asked to come here by Drew after leaving Juliet and Lee to tend for themselves. They, however, are not done with him.

Jason: I think he's ignoring us Tommy.

Tommy: That he is, maybe he don't speak English.

Abraham (To himself): With grammar like that, neither do you...

Tommy: What you say raghead?

Jason: Fucker probably planning to bomb the shit out of this place. Think we should defend it it.

Jason reaches down and grabs Abraham on the shoulder, trying to pull him off of his seat and to his feet. However, another hand reaches out of the crowd and grabs the soldier's hand, pushing it off of Abraham's shoulder and back into Jason's body.

Man: I suggest you two move along.

Jason: You must be fucking crazy to fuck with us like that!

Jason bows up at the stranger who is clad in all black with a weak smile on his face. However, Tommy steps forward and puts his left hand on Jason's chest.

Tommy: Step back man, it's not worth it.

Jason: Fuck that!

Tommy: Do you know who he is?

Jason: Fuck if I care!

Tommy whispers into Jason's ear. As Tommy informs Jason, the expression on his face changes from anger to shock to a touch of fear as he backs away slowly, exiting the scene. The man smiles wider, motioning towards the seat next to Abraham asking silently if he could join him. Abraham nods as the man seats himself.

Man: Sorry about that, for the most part the soldiers are great guys but you cannot help but allow a bit of trash to slide through the filter. Every once in awhile they just need to be put in their place to make them remember that everyone deserves a fair shake in life. Oh, I am Frederick Wagner by the way, local legend and such wonderful things.

Wagner offers his hand which Abraham quickly takes.

Abraham: Wonderful to meet you, I'm Abraham Sharon. I have to ask, you have any idea what that one guy told the other to get him to clear out like that?

Frederick smiles wide, nodding slowly.

Wagner: A little I guess. You see, I fight in a gym against locals and soldiers alike. I am kind of completely undefeated and I remember beating the living hell out of the less drunk one.

Abraham: Which explains the “local legend” part.

Wagner: Pretty much, yeah.

Abraham: Well thanks so much for helping me out there.

Wagner: No problem but I have to say, you are obviously not from around here. What brings you to Bamberg?

Abraham: A mission from a friend.

Wagner: And that mission brings you to the biggest shithole of a bar in town?

Abraham: It seems so.

Wagner: This friend must be very important to you.

Abraham: Beyond important. In fact, I am pretty sure the two of you have met.

Wagner: Oh really? And he would be...?

Abraham takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, building the confidence to rip the scab off an old wound of Frederick's.

Abraham: Andrew Michaels.

Frederick is taken aback for a second but quickly recovers.

Wagner: So he is alive, huh?

Abraham: That he is.

Wagner: You know it took me months to get his brain splatter out of my favorite shirt.

Abraham: I would imagine so.

Wagner: I had heard rumors...

Abraham: People have a tendency to do that.

Frederick sighs, shaking his head.

Wagner: He died in front of my eyes man. Can you even understand how much that completely and totally fucked me up? I moved to another fucking country to get away from the demons, I took up wrestling again after giving it up for months after getting cut from Full Metal Wrestling when Drew got hurt, and I started my entire life over again all because I watched a good, wholesome man die violently with no good reason in front of my eyes as the killer wandered away with no remorse plastered on his face. I...I just cannot get that image out my head.

Abraham: We need you Frederick.

Wagner: I lost my piece of the True Cross during that whole affair last year.

Abraham: I know, we don't need it. We need YOU.

Wagner: Why?

Abraham: It...(Think for a second) It will all become clear soon.

Frederick just shakes his head as our scene fades to black...


The scene reopens outside of a large building, a single skyscraper in a seas of the same. Standing in front of that building are two now easily familiar figures, the forms of the LORD's Chosen One Drew Michaels and the exiled fallen angel given flesh Jacob Mobius. Both are bundled up tightly, obviously cold despite the fact it is the middle of a summer of record high temperatures. The cold is not natural but instead radiates off of the building in front of them.

Michaels: Hiding in plain sight, huh?

Mobius: Almost. If we did not know what we were looking for, we never would be able to find this place. Advanced magicks are in play here, we just happen to be lucky I am a bit more advanced at those same magicks.

Michaels: So what is the plan here?

Mobius: This is the former headquarters of the religious organization once known as The Grail. The Grail was taken over by Exodus during his first return to this realm last year and now he has returned to control it all over again. It is here he placed the safeguards that allowed him to slip back into this realm, using his previous connection to your DNA to bound to your son Lee and it is here where he should be strongest in this realm.

Michaels: How can we be sure he is even in this realm still though?

Mobius: Do we still exist?

Michaels: Yes...

Mobius: Then he has not crossed over to Heaven quite yet and thus there is still time to stop him.

Michaels: Good to know I guess. As long as reality does not crash into itself, we are totally all good. Yay...

Jacob motions for Drew to follow him as he steps forward, shedding the unusual heavy jacket he has adorning his body and pushing open the front door of the facility. As Drew enters the building, he lets loose an audible gasp as the scenery changes drastically from the corporate monotony of the outside world to a world of medieval torture, pain, and vileness seen only in the old Passion plays of the Middle Ages. The scene around Drew is heavy, he literally struggles to pull every breath into his lungs as he takes in the actual evil given form around him. There are no words to describe what exactly Drew sees, his mind cannot even comprehend it entirely, he just knows it is evil entirely. Even Mobius, the former lord of Hell, shivers a touch when he passes the threshold entirely.

Mobius: We must find Exodus. Fast.

Michaels (Trying not to look around): Agreed.

The two men do indeed push forward, ignoring the debauchery and suffering going on around them. The scene reminds both much of what Hell had once been as people were seemingly punished all around him though Drew imagined the souls being punished were not guilty like the sinners in the eternal flame and instead just incredibly unlucky. However, he knows that to attempt to save even one would be to sign all of their death warrants with his bravado and rashness. Jacob's magic was working well to conceal them from those around them and Drew refuses to do anything to compromise their current situation. Instead, he must push aside all his instincts to help the weak and suffering and continue to move forward for the good of all of mankind.

So push forward he does.

They walk in silence for what seems like hours to Drew, both wary of even breathing a word to the other in case they would be discovered. Every once in awhile, Mobius will stop and close his eyes, trying to get a feel for the chaos around him and focus upon Exodus and his unique aura. They press forward continually, climbing stairs and sliding through various doorways until they are finally confronted by one obstacle they cannot so easily bypass...a solid wall. Drew stares at the wall before then before weakly laughing and turning to Mobius.

Michaels: It is a dead end. A goddamn dead end.

Mobius: I see that.

Michaels: What do we do?

Mobius: Not entirely sure...

Michaels: That is comforting. I mean, we have only relied entirely on your leadership to this point based on some kind of ill-defied sixth sense that allows you to possibly/maybe trace Exodus through the building. A sense that led us to a goddamn wall...

Gabriel: Quite a problem, is it not?

Drew and Mobius spin around quickly to see the renegade angel Gabriel, former leader of Heaven's forces for millenia, floating before them in his magnificent splendor; a splendor that masks the ill intentions he himself holds towards both men before him and towards the entirety of existence as long as it is not under his control. Gabriel has one goal, to sit on the same throne that Exodus himself craves so much and will stop at nothing to gain it just as Drew will stop at nothing to prevent him from even getting close to it. This fact is not lost on Drew or Jacob as they stare down one of the greatest menaces that reality has ever faced.

Michaels: What the Hell are you doing here?

Gabriel: I have come to help of course.

Mobius: Bullshit Gabriel, you do not even know the meaning of the word “help”.

Gabriel: Silence traitor.

Mobius: Pot calling the kettle black it seems.

Gabriel: You know nothing.

Mobius: I know you're an arrogant fool and raging douchebag. That count?

Michaels: What exactly is this accomplishing?

Gabriel: You would have to ask your new associate, he is the one verbally attacking me with provocation or cause.

Mobius: Your mere existence is cause enough.

Michaels: I tend to agree actually...

Gabriel: You of all people hold a grudge against me Drew? After all I have done for you?

Michaels: You said “for”. I think you meant “to”.

Gabriel: Ungrateful.

Michaels: For the constant Hell you have put me through? For the attempts on my life by yourself and your agents? For your use of me in your constant attempts to conquer all of reality for yourself and destroy us all?

Gabriel: I have no desire to destroy, only create. And you should thank me for giving you a second chance at life after you foolishly wasted your first.

Michaels: What the Hell are you talking about?

Gabriel: It was I who returned you to the flesh Andrew. The damned Morningstar can attest to it if you do not yet believe me, my aura practically bleeds off of your form.

Mobius: I always assumed it was all due to your devious machinations.

Gabriel: You are the only one calling it “devious”. I saved his life. Actually, no I must reword that, I GAVE him life. He took a bullet to the brain and walked away from it, none have ever done that before.

Mobius: But of course you have something to gain from it all.

Gabriel: Do not we all? After all, he was the Chosen One; can we not all gain by his continued existence in this realm?

Michaels: And what exactly do you have to gain?

Gabriel: A weapon to be pointed in whatever direction I please. You are no longer simply blessed by the divine Andrew, thanks to an infusion of my power along with that of Uriel and Seir; you ARE divine. Did you not notice the huge increase in your abilities once you returned to the realm of the living after your...unfortunate accident?

Michaels: I just assumed my strengths were growing as I needed them to grow...

Gabriel: They grew as I needed them to and still have room yet to grow.

Michaels: And how powerful would I eventually become?

Gabriel: Lazarus.

As Gabriel speaks the name of the first man returned to life from the dead, Drew crashes to the ground screaming out in pain. Mobius rushes forward to check on his ally, only temporarily allowing his gaze to move from the archangel Gabriel however. Drew convulses on the ground, in obvious pain, yelling the entire time incomprehensibly.

Mobius: What did you do to him!?

Gabriel: Released him.

As Gabriel speaks these words, Drew sits up slowly and stares at first Mobius and then Gabriel. He closes his eyes for a second then opens them again, a glow weakly emitting from them, a glow that spreads from his eyes and soon consumes his entire form while picking up strength to the point he is massively glowing a bright white glow. Drew rises to his feet and stares down Gabriel, shaking his head in disgust.

Michaels: You are a fool.

Gabriel: You truly believe so?

Michaels: I know so. You thought you could control me.

Gabriel: I have no need to control you, you must do exactly what I plan for you to do because it is your mission.

Drew is silent for a minute before turning his head slightly to look back at Mobius, never letting Gabriel escape his peripheral vision.

Michaels: Would you like to handle this?

Mobius: With pleasure.

Gabriel lets loose a hearty laugh, amazed at the scene before him.

Gabriel: You truly believe the damned one can stop me? It was I who cast him out to Hell in the first place and that was when he was at his most powerful! Now? Now he is but a fleshy shell of his former self. I will be done with him in seconds.

Drew looks around on the ground for a second before shaking his head.

Michaels: I feel like I am missing something. Did you pick anything of mine up Jacob?

Mobius: Nope. What is it?

Michaels: Nothing. I know where Exodus is, I must take my leave. Handle this.

Drew steps forward and puts up his hand, motioning for Gabriel to remove himself from his path. Gabriel gladly obliges, a sick smile still plastered on his confident face.

Gabriel: See you in a few minutes Andrew!

As Drew exits the scene, Gabriel turns back to Mobius still smiling.

Gabriel: May we end this quickly or will you attempt to put up some type of pitiful fight?

Mobius: For once in your wretched existence Gabriel, please shut your damn mouth. You talk more then anyone else I have ever had the displeasure of encountering and one hundred percent of the verbal diarrhea spewing out of your mouth is rancid lies.

Gabriel: The Prince of Lies dares call me a liar. Cute.

Mobius: The Prince of Lies is Satan, not me.

Gabriel: Semantics.

Mobius: No, not “semantics”. The argument of “semantics” is the same argument that led to me being condemned to Hell for my rebellion while you get to weasel your way back into the Father's good graces time and time again! The argument of “semantics” is the argument that allows you to justify overthrowing our Creator not because of some inherent belief that you are right like I once held but instead because you are a power mad piece of shit! The argument of “semantics” is why you will never leave this room.

Gabriel: Are you done yet?

Mobius: Quite.

Gabriel: Then let us end this.

Gabriel reaches to his side and unsheathes a blade, the legendary Excalibur is now on the field of play. He raises the weapon in the air, causing the room itself to shake with the pure power that ripples off of the mythical blade. As he lowers it to point in the direction of Mobius, he sees his opponent still stands tall, only a small sack in his left hand.

Gabriel: Do you have no weapon Lucifer?

Mobius: I have all I need.

Gabriel: Your foolishness is all I see and it shall be your final undoing. You wear flesh now Lucifer and you have no afterlife to go to with death. Enjoy the nothingness of the void.

Gabriel lunges forward with the divine blade but Jacob is able to narrowly dodge to the right, the air from the blade causing his shirt to rustle. As he falls to the side, Jacob opens his bag to drop six stones on the ground. Gabriel turns and watches this scene curiously, laughing once again.

Gabriel: Rocks!? You bring rocks to battle me?

Mobius: You are, as always, completely and totally dense.

Gabriel: Then use your last few seconds in existence to enlighten me Morningstar.

Mobius: You have always craved displays of power that are obvious to everyone. That is why you gravitate towards weapons; whether they be your flaming sword, your golden staff, or your current prize of Excalibur. This has caused you to ignore other means of power, means that could be much, much more powerful then your own attempts.

Gabriel: And your stones are supposed to be this incredible power?

Mobius: Perhaps. What I do know is this stones are some very old friends of your who would love to have a word.

Jacob waves his hands over the stones and they begin to glow a dark red. Suddenly, from the stones spring forth the other six Princes of Hell, standing tall in all of their wicked glory. Gabriel looks less then impressed however.

Gabriel: Your big gamble is to bring forth the same demons I used to remove you from power in Hell? How...unintelligent.

Mobius: Again, you just do not get it. When Andrew used his power to contain the Princes of Hell, he gained control over each of them. When he fell out, I felt it only right to...liberate them from his form so he no longer had to carry such a burden. I promised him once before I would only lie to him once and that was it, I took from him my old acquaintances and decided to reintroduce them to you.

Gabriel: So I get to destroy you and six other foul beasts? How wonderful.

Mobius: We'll see about that, won't we? (Turns to the demons) Do it.

A blast of furious energy pours out of the enslaved Princes of Hell which catches Gabriel off guard, causing him to drop his weapon and throw up his hands in an attempt to protect himself. Gabriel holds his own against the six demons but is unable to gain any ground as he simply stands tall, trying in vain to push forward as Mobius sneaks by him, snatching up the enchanted sword Excalibur in his hands and laughing.

Mobius: Did I forget to mention that I have spent the entire time since you arrived weaving spells to weaken you? Or pulling out a magical trump card to unhinge this entire room from existence? You see, Exodus has covered this place with enough magicks to drown any sorcerer and, being as experienced as I am, it is child's play to manipulate all that raw magical energy. After all, magic is nothing but the intersection of the divine, such as yourself or my old form, and the mundane, such as this building. So yeah, enjoy an eternity at war with the same forces you used against me. What is that old mortal saying? (Thinks for a second) Oh yeah...

Payback is a bitch.

Exodus walks through the door left open by Drew's earlier exit with Gabriel unable to even respond to him due to the pressure being applied to him by the also trapped Princes of Hell. Gabriel can only let loose an incomprehensible curse in the direction of Mobius as his old enemy slams shut the door, thus trapping Gabriel in the room forever. As he completely crosses the threshold, Excalibur in hand, Jacob can do nothing but collapse having exhausted himself entirely with his manipulation of the magicks in the air as our scene fades to black...


...And fades back in to the completely awakened and actualized Andrew Michaels, now completely in touch with his connection to the divine and searching for the vile Exodus in what would be described as some as his “evil lair”. As Drew tracks his enemy, however, he turns a corner to see perhaps the most disgusting sight he has ever encountered in his thirty years on this Earth. Turning the corner, Drew finds the Saint of Killers, the Biblical Cain of Cain and Abel infamy, stretched out in a manner impossible for anyone not blessed/cursed with an immortal nature. His arms are hung around five feet from his body, his legs the same. His neck has been stretched to the point of being completely snapped, the only thing connecting any of these pieces are chains and wires. Yet somehow he continues to breath deeply and in fact is able to look down at Drew when he steps into the room.

Cain: Michaels...

Michaels: My God...

Cain: God...God is not here.

Michaels: He is always here.

Cain does not speak, just grunts. Drew reaches up and touches his head, trying to relieve his pain any way he can.

Michaels: Why would they do this?

Cain: To test...immortality...

Michaels: Hush, you need not speak. You gave yourself up for me Cain, you have repented for your past sin. Now rest friend, your time is down.

Drew holds his hand to Cain's head and breathes in deeply. As he exhales, so does Cain for the last time as he finally obtains the sweet release of death that he has quested towards for millenia. As Drew lifts the curse, he feels an unmistakeable darkness arise in the room. He needs not even turn around to know who it is.

Michaels: Hello Exodus.

Exodus: Hello Chosen One.

A silent tension fills the air as Drew turns around slowly to stare at his masked foe. Exodus makes Drew's skin crawl as he stands before him with a twisted smile plastered on his face under the mask that Drew had once donned in an attempt to disguise his own identity years ago in Vendetta Championship Wrestling. As Drew steps towards Exodus, the foul being steps back shaking his head and wagging his finger in a sickeningly condescending manner.

Exodus: Watch yourself Andrew, you don't want to do something foolish.

Michaels: The only thing I have done that is foolish is to allow you to pull yourself back into my life time and time again. Do not expect me to make that same mistake again.

Exodus: Did I not hear this same speech when you exorcised me from Robert Smalls? Call me when you have something new to say.

Michaels: Nothing at all needs to be said anymore. Now is not the time for words but for action.

Drew goes to step forward again but instead feels a burning pain in his back as a wordsword, a blade crafted from the pages of the ancient Darkhold, crashes into him. Armed with the blade is Amatsu-Mikaboshi, the primordial darkness that existed before Creation itself given form. The magical properties of the wordsword disrupt Drew's connection to his own divinity and causes him to falter and fall to one knee as Exodus laughs maniacally.

Exodus: You forgot about my friend here, didn't you? Oh silly Andrew, no matter what you do you will fail. If you somehow defeat us, I will return. If not, I will step into Heaven and cause all of reality to come crashing down when I prove an edict of your supposed God wrong. He will fall with it and on the throne shall sit a new form, my form!

Michaels (Weakly): Bull...

Exodus: What was that Andrew?

Michaels: Bull...

Exodus: Still can't quite hear you. Can you please speak up?

Michaels: Bull-fucking-shit!

Drew raises his right hand to the air and watches in a mix of satisfaction and astonishment as the bones of the various victims of Exodus begin to rattle on the ground. Slowly, they rise up and take the shape they once knew; forming an army under Drew's command. Exodus can only back away in shock as the undead rise up against him and his allies.

Exodus: What are you doing!?

Michaels: “So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone. I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no breath in them.

Then he said to me, 'Prophesy to the breath; prophesy son of man, and say to it, 'This is what the Sovereign LORD says: Come, breath, from the four winds and breathe into these slain, that they may live.'

So I prophesied as he commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet – a vast army.”

Ezekiel 37: 1-14. The prophet Ezekiel raised an army of the the undead, of zombies, to fight for him and for the LORD. You have built this world for yourselves on the backs of these innocent people and now these same victims have risen up to drag you back to damnation where you belong.

Mikaboshi turns his wordsword against the undead attackers. Drew is able to pull himself up and turns from the two primordial forces behind him to see Exodus fighting off the slow, decomposing attackers as quick as possible. However, like with Mikaboshi's assault with the wordsword, it only serves to slow them as any enemy that is slain simply puts themselves back together again in a matter of seconds. It is a battle fought entirely in vain on both sides and one Drew plans to take full advantage of when he stands tall and reaches out to grab the wordsword out of Mikaboshi's hand while he is distracted. Drew, however, cannot control the dark magic of the wordsword and instead finds it burning up and falling to ashes on the ground as Mikaboshi struggles to fight off the attacking undead army.

Michaels: Shit that burns...

Drew jerks his hand back and punches Mikaboshi across his floating face with a right cross, causing the dread to fall backwards into the mass attempting to overwhelm him. With Mikaboshi floored and at least temporarily taken out of the equation, Drew turns his attention towards his other foe as Exodus has picked up a piece of wood and begun swinging it wildly at the approaching horde. Drew sprints over at full speed and dives over the mass, landing directly on top of Exodus and taking him to the ground. He quickly disarms his opponent, knocking the board out of his hand, before reigning down a few quick punches to his skull through the leathery mask. Drew feels his knuckles begin to bleed and the usual stinging pain that accompanies a well thrown punch but knows he must push through it. However, he is quickly subdued by a quick eye gouge from his downed foe allowing Exodus a chance to scamper out from under Drew and back to his feet.

Michaels: You son of a bitch!

Drew is able to roll back to his feet quickly and rushes forward again, spearing Exodus into a near wall. While Exodus is attempting to wiggle out of Drew's grasp, however, hands from above reach down and grab him; pulling him even further against the wall. Drew breaks contact to see the arms of Cain, the now deceased Saint of Killers, reaching down as a part of Drew's undead army to hold Exodus in place against the near wall. Drew laughs to himself at the irony of the man tortured to the point of no return by Exodus now having a hand in defeating him as he steps forward to stare down his enemy.

Michaels: I am so damn sick of you.

Drew rocks back and punches Exodus square in the stomach, forcing all the air out of his lungs. In the same general motion, he reaches up and snatches the mask, a taunt used by Exodus for over a year now, off his face and tosses it across the room revealing the true face of Exodus's mortal body; a face that is all to familiar to Drew because it is in fact his own, plus a good amount of swelling and bleeding due to the assault earlier unleashed upon it by Drew's fists, as Exodus long ago took the form of a Drew from another reality. Drew stares at the face as if looking into the mirror, examining every flaw and curvature.

Michaels: You just do not do this face justice.

Exodus: Just kill me already dammit! That way I can get on my way in the void for a little while before coming back! We all know that is how this ends, we are stuck in some eternal cycle that neither of us can or will break! Just end me!

Drew nods slowly, processing what is being said to him by Exodus.

Michaels: You are partly right. Neither of us can end this cycle. However, it can be broken and believe me, it shall.

Exodus: And how exactly do you believe you are going to do that?

Drew smiles wide and deviously.

Michaels: By calling in a little help.

As Drew utters those words, a crack of thunder is heard and through the nearest threshold steps Drew's aide Abraham Sharon and the man he was sent to retrieve, Frederick Wagner. As they step through, both are thrown aback by the scene in front of them, particularly the decomposing army still stationed firmly behind Drew, preventing Mikaboshi from rising up and becoming a factor in this encounter again. Drew just smiles at the two before turning back to Exodus.

Michaels: Zeus sends his best.

Wagner: What is going on here...?

Michaels: A battle for eternity, nothing too big.

Exodus: You are really testing my short attention span.

Michaels: I really do not care.

Exodus: And what exactly do those two mortals have to do with everything?

Michaels: Abraham? Very little this time. Frederick? He possesses a world of importance to the current situation.

Exodus: I somehow doubt that.

Michaels: Doubt all you want, that doubting has left you held to a wall in your own building by the zombified hands of your former enemy; not exactly the ideal situation to be in when you are aiming to be the future ruler of Creation.

Exodus: I will return stronger than ever, don't doubt me Chosen One. It's happened once and it shall indeed happen again.

Michaels: You are wrong so many times over Exodus from pretty much point one onward actually.

Exodus: Then I beg you to enlighten me.

Michaels: Well first off, I am not the Chosen One.

Abraham (Shocked): What?

Exodus: Bullshit. I know what you are.

Michaels: No, you know what I was. But when the Saint of Killers killed me, the distinction moved on to another. That is why when I dispelled you from Robert Smalls, it did not destroy you as I had planned since I was no longer the one charged with that station. My powers no longer descend from that status but instead from my position as a conduit of divine energy created by Gabriel for use as a weapon against you and, eventually in his own plans, God.

Exodus: If you are not the Chosen One, who is?

Michaels: He is.

Drew motions towards Frederick, who stumbles back in shock.

Wagner: Me?

Michaels: Yes, you.

Wagner: Not a chance.

Michaels: It was passed to you, nothing can be changed about it. You are charged with protecting reality from those that would harm it, including but not limited to the one you see before it.

Wagner: And how would I do that exactly?

Michaels: With Excalibur of course.

Exodus: Excalibur is not here you fool.

Michaels: It will be in a couple seconds.

As if on clockwork, the blade flies through the room from the hallway; nearly knocking over Abraham on its way to the hand of Frederick Wagner. Wagner stumbles back when the weight of the blade crashes into his right hand throwing him off balance. Once he regains his composure, he looks up to see the obvious fear in the eyes of Exodus.

Michaels: You know what this shall do.

Exodus: You...you can't do this...

Michaels: We can and we shall. You have be judged unworthy of continued existence in this realm and not shall be cast into the Lake of Fire you attempted to wrangle under your control. (Turns to Frederick) Do it.

Wagner: With pleasure.

Frederick pulls the blade back and drives it into the chest of Exodus, causing the vile spirit to scream out in pain as black energy pours out of the wound. The black energy surrounds Drew and the scene entirely as we fade to black...


Uriel: You did well.

The scene reopens to Drew Michaels in nothingness with his guardian angel Uriel standing brightly and tall next to him. Drew only nods, unable to to conjure the words in this situation.

Uriel: You saved us all.

Michaels: I try.

Uriel: You do more than try, you succeed.

Michaels: You flatter me.

Uriel: All of Creation owes you thanks, I have just been given the pleasure of expressing it.

Michaels: So this whole thing is done?

Uriel: Exodus was the last piece in the puzzle and you solved it expertly.

Drew takes that in, allowing the relief to wash over him before a question pops into his head and immediately forces its way out.

Michaels: Why did you not tell me?

Uriel: Tell you what?

Michaels: That I was no longer the Chosen One.

Uriel: It seemed easier to allow you to continue to believe in yourself than to try to explain what exactly you had become.

Michaels: And what is that?

Uriel: You were a vessel for divine energy, a shell where not only Gabriel hid a portion of his power but something else entirely.

Michaels: What was that something else?

Uriel: Seir and I hid a portion of the Presence within you in order to preserve Him even if Exodus was able to cross over into Heaven.

Michaels: That is...intense.

Uriel: Very.

Michaels: And what of that portion now?

Uriel: It is freed, moved on to rejoin the majority of His Throne.

Michaels: And Gabriel's power?

Uriel: Also gone with him into the void where the Morningstar trapped him.

Michaels: So Jacob succeeded in defeating him?

Uriel: Not only that, he trapped him and the other Princes of Hell in a pocket dimension they should never be able to escape. However, Lucifer has vanished following the events that preceded this.

Michaels: So what happens in Hell?

Uriel: Seir has taken control for now.

Michaels: Trapped again in the depths of sin.

Uriel: He volunteered in order to never force anyone else into that position.

Michaels: Sound like Seir. What of Frederick? What is his mission?

Uriel: That is for him to find out.

Michaels: And what of me?

Uriel: You are free.

Michaels: Excuse me?

Uriel: You are free Andrew. You have served valiantly for Heaven, Hell, Earth, and all of Creation and now you may rest. Go home Drew, your time is done.

Michaels: Free?

Uriel: Free.

Drew is stunned at this revelation as he stares blankly at Uriel while our scene again fades to the eternal, unforgiving black...



Freedom...

Such an odd idea to someone who has enslaved themselves to a lifestyle or worldview such as myself. Yet here I stand with that offer in my hands. Freedom means the ability to live my life as I see fit, freedom means no longer venturing off on some half thought-out quest or battle simply because it is what must be right.

Freedom means being able to be there for my family.

Freedom is something I have not known in years and know suddenly have shoved into my lap thanks to finally emerging victorious in a war that has waged for all of existence. While it is only one battle that we have won, it was MY battle and thus I have finished my service to the LORD and to my world as a whole.

I am free.

Well, almost free. While one goal has been met; one more still stands firmly in my path. Original Sin is long dead but the branches that sprung forth from it still bloom the fruit of evil and one branch in particular blooms the strongest; the branch that is the TyranT.

William was not considered an integral part of Original Sin like some; people like Eric or Ethan or Jason seemed to greatly overwhelm him in importance. In fact, many may have forgotten he was even a part of the group in the early part of his Full Metal Wrestling career but the fact remains is that he was. And unlike many of those around him then, he still remains...

He still fucking remains.

Nobody has been able to kill the TyranT just as no one at the time, or any time so far, was able to ultimately remove Drew Michaels. We have much in common William, more then perhaps you can ever imagine. In particular there is one major thing...

We are not wrestlers.

Now some may balk at this, after all we both make our living wrestling and doing it amazingly well. However, we both know that “wrestler” is too constrictive of a term to describe us. William, we are more than that.

We are fighters William. That is why I have been able to drag myself through living Hell after living Hell and it is why you were able to completely reinvent your career at a point where most would be considering their own post-wrestling options. You fought and you won time and time again when everything says you had no right to do so and honestly, I have to begrudgingly respect that because it reminds me so much of myself and, as everyone knows, I love myself.

So that leads us to Ultimatum 3. At U3, I become free. I remove the last vestige of Original Sin from this company in order to save it from itself. While many may not see this as a reasonable goal anymore, saying that Original Sin is long gone and no longer a threat, but I know that you must receive the punishment due to you. It is only right.

At Ultimatum 3, we will fight William. Like I told Skyler last week, we are not going out there planning to wrestle. I wrestle men I respect. While I respect what you have done, I will NEVER respect you. This is simple fact. Instead, I am going out there with the sole intentions of knocking you the fuck out and leaving you in a heap on the mat.

I have no intentions of a pinfall, a submission, or a disqualification.

I have EVERY intention to never see you in a FMW ring after tonight.

And after tonight, everyone will remember my damn name and know only one man in this company TRULY deserves to be the called the Greatest of All Time. Only one man can lay claim to be the most deserving number one contender this company can offer. Only one man can say he decimated the TyranT. Only man will ever be known as the face of FMW.

TyranT, prepare for the fight of your goddamn life.

Pre-Show

Tag Team Match
Christian Parkes and Artemis vs STORMMASTER and Son of Shark Boy

Hardcore Match
Seth Rotunda (w/ Daniel Prideman) vs War Machine

Singles Match
The Craig Ryans vs Anwyl

Singles Match for the Television Championship #1 Contender
"Outlaw" John Andrews vs Mark Johannson



Main Card

Ladder Match
Chris Austin vs David GS

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy(c) vs Leon Caprice

Television Title Gauntlet Match
Matt Ashburn(c) vs Kayden Osiris, Matt Dunn, Jeff Whitt

Tag Team Championship Match
Harlequin and MASS Caesar(cs) vs The Broken Saints (RAMPAGE and Seth Omega) vs The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs Gold Standard Wrestling (Leviticus and Jonathan King) vs Gray Inferno (Damien Inferno and Nicholas Gray

Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt(c) vs Eastwood

C-4 Championship Match
Christian G. Smitten(c) vs Abel Steele

Singles Match
Drew Michaels vs Tyrant (w/ Faith)

Full Metal Championship Match
Hannibal Frost(c) vs Nick Bryson
I LIKE ME FOR ME!

Pre-Show

Tag Team Match
Christian Parkes and Artemis vs STORMMASTER and Son of Shark Boy

Hardcore Match
Seth Rotunda (w/ Daniel Prideman) vs War Machine

Singles Match
The Craig Ryans vs Anwyl

Singles Match for the Television Championship #1 Contender
"Outlaw" John Andrews vs Mark Johannson



Main Card

Ladder Match
Chris Austin vs David GS

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy(c) vs Leon Caprice

Television Title Gauntlet Match
Matt Ashburn(c) vs Kayden Osiris, Matt Dunn, Jeff Whitt

Tag Team Championship Match
Harlequin and MASS Caesar(cs) vs The Broken Saints (RAMPAGE and Seth Omega) vs The Comeback Kids (Slegnadamus and Butters) vs Gold Standard Wrestling (Leviticus and Jonathan King) vs Gray Inferno (Damien Inferno and Nicholas Gray

Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt(c) vs Eastwood

C-4 Championship Match
Christian G. Smitten(c) vs Abel Steele

Singles Match
Drew Michaels vs Tyrant (w/ Faith)

Full Metal Championship Match
Hannibal Frost(c) vs Nick Bryson



ALL* votes subject to change. Will be revieiwing promos as they come, so votes are not final.




* - Except the tag match.