Ultimatum III Voting and Promo Thread

Trey is standing on the corner of the street with a dog on a leash.

Trey: I am so stoned.

Talking dog: Man, you're out of it alright. I'm not even speaking to you now you do realise that?

Trey: I realise nothing.

Talking dog: You better share that joint with me mate.

Trey: Now why the fuck would I do that? Just because you're a talking dog dosent mean you smoke as well.

Talking dog: Well I do. Come on Trey, you owe me.

Trey: I don't owe you shit. I only just got you from the pet store!

Talking Dog: But isn't it amazing I can talk?

Trey: Yeah... I guess. I've been talking to you since I bought you, so I'm bored now and need a joint.

The dog suddenly bites Trey's leg.

Talking dog: If you don't give me some smoke I'll bite you again!

Trey: Alright alright!

Trey puts the spliff in the dogs mouth.

Talking dog: Cheers.

The police roll pull up to where Trey and the dog are.

Policeman: I'm arresting this dog on accounts of smoking dope, anything you do or say will be used agasint you in court.

Trey: See you later talking dog!

Talking dog: Later Trey, bummer the police turned up.

Policeman: Talking dog, when will you learn to stop smoking so much marijuana?

Talking dog: NEVER!

Policeman: Alright, spit that joint out and get in the car.

Talking dog inhales deeply on the joint then gets in the car.

Trey: Laters!

The car drives off leaving Trey alone on the street.

Trey: Guess that ends the promo then. Or does it?

Trey walks into a store and buys a bottle of jack daniels.

Trey: Come on, speak to me!

Jack Daniels Bottle: I'm alive!

Trey: Holy shit, my jack daniels is talking to me now!

JD bottle: Want a drink? Go ahead!

Trey and the bottle of jack daniels go to Trey's hotel room after purchasing a weed plant.

Marijuana plant: Here Trey, rip off part of my arm and smoke it.

Trey: Don't mind if I do!

Suddenly Nick Bryson walks in the room.

Nick Bryson: Trey, you've been on a massive LSD trip again havent you? You're talking to your weed.

Trey: Yeah I had a few fat tabs earlier.

Nick: You've got a match. I need you to concentrate.

Trey: Don't worry I'll win. I'm prepaired this time.

Trey lights a joint as the scene fades out.

A yellow-gray haze appears on screen, consuming it all, an energetic spray of light flickering though. Focusing, the image is define as the inside of Madison Square Gardens, at No Holds Barred, the arena is singularly colored in a deep dark yellow, yet the movement in the crowd changed how the color would set. The shot tracks along the outside of the ring, eventually capturing the image of a man's face, shaven and soaked in sweat.



The man's face comes into the field of view, the enthused, drawn and enlightened face of Leon Caprice. Both eyes open, white, weary and yet still focused. His hand reaches up into the air above, lifting it high with all his might. The pain was constant, yet the adrenaline still flowing, he would pause to stay in position, to soak it in. That now he would worry no more, he had another shot to throw.



Another win, another collection of cheers from the crowd, with nothing that the likes of Skyler or Jaro could touch. The same he’d had for weeks now, surely he suspected at least someone to intervene. His own Ultimatum was what he’d now won, he had finally reached that point of success as he began to conclude his night by steadying himself up the ramp. He would take a detour to the side of the ramp, to give the fans what they dearly wished, to connect with the superstar they cheered for. To see his smile and be joyful too.



As Leon would gather to stand at the top of the ramp, eyeing off his recent partner who was standing firm in the ring, he’d notice the abandoned title held high, with sight of it he allow a slight grin to emerge from his stern expression. A sense that an opportunity had finally arrived, that the dependence for Apostasy’s attendance was no longer tied to him, Leon was now officially free to think beyond.



As the final seconds of the match broadcast would end, still with both competitors fixed in position, it would signal the beginning of something bigger. Surely with the quandary that continued through the cycle, both of them would be relieved at the final outcome. Yet there was more than relief in their expressions as both men saw the depth of the event. The table was turned, the match was over and the next one was freshly signed. The title would finally be on the line.



But days separated then and now, and though today brought success would it stay. With sweat emerging from every pore of his body, his body slowly feeling the weight of the fight, every punch and slam reapplying its pressure onto his body, it was finally time to walk behind the curtains and end his placid expression.



With one more glance to the audience, soaking up what would be one of his most memorable days, one that he would not forget for many reasons, he would twist his frame to face the curtains and slowly step towards the end of the camera’s sight. As he strode into his 2nd last step he tilted slightly to give one final glance back to the ring, seeing his opponent beginning to calm himself too, before Leon would turned back. And in his last step, he smiled.



For today he wasn’t weighed by the burden of his past, he had overcome the odds and received the rematch that was now signed and posted. A moment to smile would be his thought, a moment to cherish would be his point to remember.



Back behind the curtain, Leon Caprice would look up at Celt and David GS, and there in silence, deliberate on both accounts they would be joyful. Across town and across time, His stable would look across at their reaffirmed collage, within the lights of The Mansion, just staring at the reapplied hope across Leon’s face. Hannibal Frost would sit in the depth of the furthest armchair as the four men would ease their muscles and thoughts expecting to feel the soothing sense of relaxation. The maid would enter, coming from the kitchen beyond, holding before her four glasses of golden valor as she slowly discharged them into the hands of the weary men.



Upon the four men receiving their glasses they would look to each other before residing their gaze onto Leon, with a moment to shuffle forward in their seats they would raise the glasses together, and from the bellows of their lungs they would speak together to say.

Sons of Attrition: To Ultimatum.



Staying in the present, just after the words were spoken, and the men would collect their breath they would lift their golden glasses together and allow the liquid to roll though their mouth and flow into their body. Showing a sign of unity that would continue not only through the remainder of the night, but into the days to come. As they would rejoice in their break from work and practice and enjoy their time of freedom.


???: You wont beat me, you can’t.

The confident words can be heard through the shadows of the appearing scene, bringing the words to light as the location would be The Mansion side golf course. With the blinding light of the sun above clothing the figure of David G Smith with an immense confidence. The words were boastfully spoken by David as he comfortably admired the result of his light chip onto the green. Lowering his nine iron club to his waist he would tilt his focus to his competitor for today, non other than Leon Caprice.

Today was an unusual day as it provided a rare occasion where Leon would not be dressed in some form of formal wear, instead he would prowl through the golf course in a light weight golfers attire which only added to his calm and focused attitude. Both dressed for the part and acting it, Leon would make his way to his golf ball with a similar nine iron in hand. With a few moments to align his shot and to judge the distance he would present a moment for himself to speak as he would add to the poison of a probable great shot.

Leon: Why must everything always be a competition. Simply enjoy.

With a calming finish to his words he would deliver his shot, forcing the ball to be chipped high into the air as it slowly progressed towards the green. Diverting his attention from his swing to the direction of his shot he would locate both his diving ball and the fixed spot of David’s shot. A couple of seconds would pass as finally the ball would touch the green and continue it’s movement towards the hole, rolling slower and slower to finish within one meter from the flag, leaving David’s shot meters away.

The slight grin from Leon was accompanied by the deflated expression from David as both men traveled what little of the fairway remained to reach the green and walk towards their balls, with Leon firstly reaching the flag and lifting it from it’s original position, giving DGS a clear sight to the hole. With his putter in hand, David would squat next to his ball and give one quick glance at the minimal slope of the green before rising up and angling his body behind the ball.

DGS: Well do you have the confidence and courage to sink a putt when you need to.

And sure enough to continue the rally of poisoned words, David would putt and sink his shot from outside five meters, transferring the pressure onto Leon to keep the scores tied. But with little room for error, Leon made no mistake as he drove the ball into the center of the hole and soon after reached down to retrieve his birdie shot.

With a calm attitude Leon would join DGS in strolling to the next hole, with the flag back in place and his putter slotted back into his carry bag Leon would continue to look forward with confidence as he held David to a tie, and with all that had recently transpired at No Holds Barred that was as effective as leading.

As the two men eventually reached the tee-off of the next hole to no speed except their own, Leon would attempt to distract David from his game as he lined up for his drive.

Leon: So you finally lost a singles match, that’s got to suck.

DGS: I know what you are trying to do, it won’t work.

The focus was evident in David’s expression as he attempted to block everything out to take his vital drive. A couple of moments would pass before he finally released his swing and propelled the ball forward with a fine drive. Reaching more than two hundred meters it was a great drive to hit, and for it to land on the fairway was a grand bonus on top.

Judging his own shot, David would quickly turn to his stable member with a look of accomplishment, as if to create the scenario where nothing could be better than that. Truly everything was a competition for him. Yet for the well being of SoA it was important to have this time with David. To show him the support he has on offer to him, to give him a sense of belonging.

Leon: Well I bet you think you own this golf course now don’t you.

Roughening words were all they were as Leon would step up to the mound, with his driver in hand. Judging the distances and direction required from his forthcoming shot, Leon would eventually reach down and press his golf tee into the soft grass as to solidify his starting point. With a wise glance to locate David behind him, he would begin to line up his shot, aligning the head of the driver to a parallel stance beside the stationary ball. With one last moment to exhale and clear his mind, Leon would finally follow though and deliver the ball off the ground. Following through in his stance Leon would track the flight of his ball, seeing it sail past fifty meters, one hundred, one fifty, two hundred and rising. The shot would feel nice of the drive, but even the surprising perplexity of DGS’s expression would give notice to the fact that the shot was amazing. With a couple more seconds passing the ball would finally land onto the end of the fairway and gently roll onto the end of the green.

With the ball finally coming to a stop a mere eighty meters past David’s, it had left a sense of a mis-match between the two competitors as David’s pre-game cockiness quickly began to dilute itself with a great amount of humility and silence. Yet Leon’s following remark would only add to that.

Leon: Oh how good is God when he does something like that.

A loud ring from his mobile phone placed firmly in his pocket broke Leon from staring at the result of his shot or even the accompanying reaction from David. He quickly noticed that he received a text as the phone failed to hold its alarming noise as he hurriedly removed it from his pocket. He opened it up with a gloved hand, removing his shades with the other as he noticed it was from Leah Striker. He stared at it for a moment, knowing it had been several months since the two had really ever contacted each other. A single push of the button, and soon Leon Caprice was reading, almost trying to put a voice to the words as he read them.

Leah Striker
27/06/2011 11:23 AM
Hey Leon, it’s been awhile, I wish I could simply text you to ask how everything is going or to offer a time to catch up but alas I have something more pressing to say.
I know it isn’t my place to neither get involved in this nor be the messenger for you, but I think you should call home. Everyone is healthy if you’re worried about that, yet it’s Sarah I’m concerned about. She has been acting unusually lately. Not responding to messages, cancelling plans sporadically and what got me worried was the fact that when I call the home number it is sometimes picked up by a man called Phil.

Now I don’t want to start something between the two of you but I haven’t talked to Sarah in weeks, and if you know us then you know that is unusual in itself.

Anyway, I’m sorry for having to put this on you, but knowing you, I guess you’d rather know about it. And I wouldn’t worry you if I thought it was nothing, but I have a bad feeling about this.


Leon stared at the message for some time, forgetting all that was around him he’d continue to read the message again to comprehend what it was that he was looking at. Thinking through the scenario, Leon couldn’t think of any man he knew called Phil, which in of itself was slightly alarming but yet it drew Leon to one response. To call home.

With a quick gesture to David to be patient, Leon would gradually pull himself into a private area as he scrolled through his contact list and dialed through to the home phone.

RING
RING
RING
RIN-
???: Hello…

It was a deep male’s voice, one that Leon couldn’t instantly recognize, who was this?

Leon: Hello, who am I speaking to?

???: Phil.

Who the heck was Phil? Where was Sarah, where was Joy, why was this man picking up the phone. Leon would contain his questions and anger as he pressed further into the call.

Leon: And are you the owner of the house sir?

Finding a good cover to play over the phone, Leon would continue to ask key questions as he tried to figure out what was happening.

Phil: Ahh no, Sarah Caprice is.

At least he knew her last name.

Leon: Well may I please speak to her.

Phil: She is currently busy, may I ask who is calling and I’ll leave a message for her.

BEEP
BEEP
BEEP

That was it, he needed to say nothing more. Upon pressing into the end call button with an abundance of strength Leon would draw himself to one immediate conclusion. That right now, with what he just heard and read he needed to pack his bags and head home now.

With a moment to attempt to defuse himself Leon would eventually draw back to greet David once more, however as quick as he arrived, David knew something was up. The stern facial expression was one thing to notice, but the pumping veins in his arms and the clenched fists really gave it away.

DGS: Is everything ok?

Words weren’t what Leon wanted to express right now, with all of his body being crafted to bring pain and agony he wanted to simply release his anger and frustration in the only suitable way. Yet he would find the words to respond eventually as David eagerly awaited.

Leon: No it isn’t. I’m going to have to cut us short here. I need to leave now.

The urgency was slowly pressing through Leon’s words as his emotions began to dictate the tone of his words, offering an angered response to David’s simply question, however it was something that DGS didn’t take personal, as he quickly realised that it wasn’t something minor.

DGS: Anything I can help with?

Shifting his raging thoughts from planning the flight and transport to Perth to David’s response he could only think of one thing.

Leon: Just tell the other guys that I’m flying out and wont be back for awhile. But I’ll be sure to be back in time for Ultimatum.

No doubt Leon would be relieved at the additional few days break given before Ultimatum, which alone would give Leon the time to sort this out and yet still have time to perform at the Pay Per View.

DGS: Sure, Sure… I hope it’s alright.

With a quick exhale Leon would respond with an angered response.

Leon: Oh it will be. Just need to wait and see.

With David smartly seeing that Leon needed to be left alone, he gestured to return the golfing equipment to The Mansion and allowing Leon to race off to deal with the immediate problem he faced.

***Hope: That God will enact Peace into every situation.***

Here lies the fifth entry of Phillip Barthers Journal.

11/11/11 11:11, they continue to plague my mind, I cannot escape the clutches of my visions. I’m beginning to think that it might be best to see someone about them as they continue to get more and more disturbing.

This week I have struggled to sleep at all as the vision took on sound and what a horrific addition it was.


???: You deserve this, you truly do.

Then BANG the shot is taken while the laughter continues in the back of the room, the man who both wields the revolver and spoke would begin to grin as his words took on a physical dimension as they could now be seen through the tip of the mans head as the cavity created by the inexorable bullet spoke more that the words he attached to it.

As the blood continued to pour out of the whitening body the numbers would slowly press into my vision.

11 11 11 11 11, I hate them, and I wish I never had seen these numbers and visions. Yet whether divine or paranormal, I must be having them for a reason. And that is my only thought to continue to document this. To keep a permanent record of these developments for anyone who may believe this to be true.

But for now I can no longer do this alone, I need help.



The night was still young, the stars barely visible upon the void that slowly swallowed the open sky. Nothing more was left of the day than a dim fiery glow that remained beyond the horizon that lay past the wide ocean that could be seen. Soon even that small amount of light would diminish like a dying flame, dancing in its final moments on an exhausted candle. Leon Caprice turned slowly towards the house in which he came for, adjusting the tie at his collar to compose himself. Leon since his realization to what might be happening was amazingly composed as he looked towards the house which held the answers. However what had led Leon to now stand in front of his true home had certainly left an impact on the demeanor of the man himself. Not only was he normally a calm and collected man, but above that he was pushed by faith first. Yet looking into his eyes, judging his character it would be hard to say he was acting out in faith. Corruption was entering him.

He stood wearing an expensive full tailored suit, black with faint grayish pinstripes, whilst a crimson shirt and black tie complimented the exquisite wear with a red napkin blossoming out from his jacket pocket. He began to walk towards the front door of his house, noticing the living room light was on, and Sarah’s car still parked in the driveway, he knew that an opportunity was at hand. Looking back for a final moment Leon would see the view he had of the city as the darkness begun to take the skies with an overwhelming speed, forcing the city lights nearby to take a life of their own as they attempted to combat the darkness that almost swallowed them. It was a true penthouse view, which some would say was worth every cent of the seemingly extortionate price one would have to pay to grace such a location. Money was no longer the obstacle it had been, the luxurious household could attest to that as Leon now walked up the hillside driveway that made its way to his front door.

With his hands in his jacket pockets he would fidget with the keys as he gradually made his way to the freshly vanished jarrah door. Slowly lifting his hands from his jacket pockets he would remove the keys as well as he began to align them with the door lock.

Whether it had been deliberate or not, Leon had made minimal noise til now, choosing to park on the road instead of the driveway and reaching the door with the key in hand instead of pressing the doorbell and awaiting a response.

With little effort Leon would slide the key into the lock, giving it a firm press in before tilting it and unlatching the bolt that would have otherwise blocked his entry. With a moment to commit himself to what he was about to do, Leon would finally press against the door and push the cold night breeze through the ajar doorway as he slowly followed behind it. With a second to pass through and gently close the door behind himself Leon would swiftly turn himself to face whatever would greet him…

Nothing. Nothing but the sound of laughter further within the house, seeming to originate from the dinning area at the end of the hallway in front of Leon. With little light to guide him through the narrow hallway, Leon would begin to listen into the conversation that would soon await him.

Phil: Mummy cooked a yummy dinner didn’t she. Tasted yum yum.

The sound of Phil’s voice was enough to cause Leon’s fists to clench as he slowly drew closer, yet what drew Leon to clench his fists further was the child’s tone he was using, no doubt to signal that he was with Joy. By now it was near impossible for Leon to enter the room without a shred of anger attached to him, even if he was to come face to face with Sarah it wouldn’t be enough to dismantle it, he needed answers and he wouldn’t be calm til he received them all.

Finally Leon would enter into the dinning area and as the voices detailed to him, there at the dinning table sat baby Joy on her high chair with the man surely to be Phil sitting beside her. With the first glance at Phil, it only made Leon more anxious to know the answers as Phil had the appearance of a beach lifeguard, with the heavily tanned skin, muscular upper body and short black hair. He would seem to be in his mid 20’s too as he still had a fine layer of baby fat on his cheeks.

And much to Leon’s mixed reactions there opposite Phil with her back to the door in which Leon stood was Sarah, giggling away at Phil’s interactions with Joy as the three of them finished their evening meal together.

It almost seemed like they were the perfect family in that moment, well until Phil sprung back in a shocked expression as his gaze drew upon Leon’s presence in the room.

Phil: Leon!

A moment of distain hit Leon as the unknown man called him by his name, yet it quickly diminished as Sarah tilted herself in her chair to view her returning husband, yet with no hug or kiss to welcome him back home it only soured the mood that Leon was in.

Leon: That is the name that people I know can call me, who are you?

The conversation as fresh as it was had already taken a slight hint of awkwardness with it as Leon skipped the pleasantries of introducing himself and begun with a scathing tone.

Phil: My name is Phil.

As sudden as it was for Phil to reply in such a defensive way, Sarah would chip in and attempt to defuse the situation with a familiar undertone.

Sarah: He is our next door neighbor. He recently moved into the street.

Phil: What would it be, 2-3 months ago.

The common tone that Phil used with Sarah began to boil the anger inside of Leon, as his early assessment of Phil had him as more than just a neighbor. And with the theme of replying to each other before Leon, it truly made Leon feel out of place.

Sarah: Anyway Phil was alone tonight, so we invited him over for dinner this one time.

Phil: Well I’m sure Joy would like me back again.

His words did nothing to calm Leon as every sentence elevated the frustration within Leon. Not only was he inside Leon’s house with Sarah and Joy but he was already acting like part of the family. Yet that wasn’t just it, as Leon knew additionally to what he saw that Phil had also been in the house before, and as much as Sarah worded it to seem otherwise, he knew his thoughts to be true.

Leon: DON’T LIE TO ME! I know Phil has been here before. He answered when I called yesterday, he has answered when Leah has called and right now he is here eating a meal with you.

As much as Leon’s voice rose to begin his response, with that of his baby daughter in the room, he wouldn’t become unsocialable. Yet his words still stung both Sarah and Phil as they continued to exchange glances as to work together to answer Leon.

Phil: I’m only here to help, Sarah needed help with Joy and I-

Leon: Don’t you finish another damn word!

By now Leon’s anger ruled the conversation as he began to dictate terms of speaking. Yet as much as Phil would restrict himself not to speak, he would still glance over to Sarah to almost ask her to respond on his behalf. A footnote that Leon quickly began to loathe.

Sarah: Phil can you take Joy into the next room.

As much as Leon would wish to yell at Phil not to touch his child, it was the most suitable thing to do, allowing both Sarah and Leon to talk it through and answer the dying questions. Surely as Sarah had asked, Phil raise himself from his chair and lifted baby Joy from her high chair and gradually walked into the family room beyond the corner doorway.

With Phil clearly out of the room, Leon’s anger would become subdued as he lowered his voice to have a singular conversation with Sarah.

Leon: So what have I been missing, when did all of this start happening and why did you lie to me?

The depth of emotion would begin to spill out of Sarah as the sheer weight of Leon’s disappointment and anger mixed together was laid upon her.

Sarah: What did you expect from me!? I’m still recovering from the pregnancy, I haven’t seen you in over two months and I can’t handle Joy by myself 24/7! Phil was there and he offered to help out.

Leon: And you didn’t suspect he meant a bit more than that?

The shock of that accusation more so than the continuous barrage of questions was what took Sarah back as her eyes began to glass over and her words became more emphatical.

Sarah: And you think I’d easily just drop everything for him, Leon I MARRIED YOU and I love you, I wont just change that spontaneously.

A moment of silence fell between the two as Leon thought deeper of the entire situation and Sarah attempted to regain control of her emotions.

Leon: So why haven’t you respond to Leah’s calls and text messages then?

Sarah: I haven’t heard anything from Leah in a month.

Sarah’s comments came as a striking response to Leon, as he had already heard from Leah, and of course he would believe his wife, so where was it getting lost in transition?

Leon: Well Leah was saying that she’s been trying to get hold of you by calling and texting you. And the home phone is either disconnected or Phil answers it

Sarah: Well I know the phone line has been playing up, but fine I’ll give her a call soon.

It wasn’t hard to see that although the argument in itself was slowly dissolving, there was still a residue level of mistrust and disappointment from Sarah as she looked onto her husband with a fixed gaze. With the sudden surprise of his arrival how could she now react, what was suitable, did Leon have more questions to ask. Yet as the seconds ticked by she would eventually stand to face Leon and break the silence.

Sarah: I think you should leave. .

Leon: Wha- Why? I want to see Joy and I flew all this way.

Sarah would simply pause her response to allow any additional frustration from Leon be exhausted into the silence.

Sarah: Now isn’t a good time, I don’t want you and Phil to get even more confrontational and I don’t want Joy to get in the middle of it. So I’ll call you later and we can chat then. But you can’t be around Joy like this.

Was he really that bad? Was the anger in him that potent? That it would be risky to put Joy into her fathers hands. The run of thoughts that sprawled from Sarah’s remark clouded Leon’s mind as he eventually agreed to her wishes. Yet it wasn’t without a slight hesitation as he looked deep into his wife’s eyes and saw her inherent fixation to keep her expression still.

So with a slight bow of his head and slight defusing gestures of his hand, Leon would progressively make his way out of the house in which he use to call home. Leaving a broken Sarah behind him as he could hear the slight cracking of her breath as she loosened her determination, yet it did not stop Leon in his walk out. He had his idea of what was happening and it was about time he let it go.

That seemed to be his last remaining thought as the warmth of his palm coated the cold steel of the door handle as he tilted it downwards to unlock the latch of the wooden door, yet it wasn’t over just yet. Surely as his right foot had left the house and he would continue to press through the doorway he would usher his body to take one more look back at what he was about to walk away from. And almost as to throw God’s timing against him, Phil would come into picture at the end of the hallway as he continued to hold Joy tight to his upper chest. Giving her the padding of his non-supportive hand resting on Joy’s back, Phil would lean into his embrace and kiss Joy on the cheek, all the while noticing Leon standing in the doorway looking back at him.

To say it was enraging was surely an understatement, if Leon possessed a revolver he would have discharged it by now, if he had a knife he would have blood flowing to it’s hilt by now and if he had a moment alone with Phil, he would endlessly torture the man for what he knowingly was doing.

Needless to say, Phil was now beyond a friendly neighbor. He was officially the abhor of Leon.

Leon: That fucking Prick!

The scene would end with Leon still encapsulated in rage, grasping the frame of the door with his muscular toned arms and jarring his body to forcefully slam the wood of the door til it smashed against the doorframe, bellowing a loud boom through the house of Sarah and Joy. As Leon would determinedly exit the premises with his head lowered and the shadows around him adding to the darkness seen in the shade of his suit, he would let himself be carried into the night by the rage and anger that now soothed him.

Yet the final moment as Leon forcefully left the property would be the closed jarrah door of the house which he formerly called home, and in the distance it could clearly be heard, the cries of Joy Caprice.

There is a book of record in your mind.

A book of record, in which every act of your life is noted down. Each morning a blank page is turned, on which the day's history is written in lines that cannot be effaced. This book of record is your memory; and, according to what it bears, will your future life be happy or miserable. An act done, is done forever; for, the time in which it is done, in passing, passes to return no more. The history is written and sealed up. Nothing can ever blot it out.

You may repent of evil, and put away the purpose of evil from your heart; but you cannot, by any repentance, bring back the time that is gone, nor alter the writing on the page of memory. If I could only erase some pages in the book of my memory, that almost daily open themselves before the eyes of my mind, how thankful I would be! But this I cannot do.

There are acts of my life for which repentance only avails as a process of purification and preparation for a better state in the future; it in no way repairs wrong done to others. Keep the pages of your memory free from blots. Guard the hand writing there as you value your best and highest interests!




It’s one thing to say you messed up, but another to realize you were never in the wrong. It is one thing to test a man, but another to insult him too.
Everyday a life embodies these moments. Moments of trials, tests, challenges, failure and success. But what is your own daily outcome. What moment did you experience today?



To think that your life is made up of a million moments is almost seen as a short-sighted opinion, as why think of the millions when you truly only think of only one, the one you have today, and what does it matter. The moment will be the same as the last. Painting the picture that is your portrait.



But what if I made the wrong choice, what if I came to the wrong conclusion, could I take it back or redo it tomorrow. Was it simply that easy, was it ever possible. To think that your life can be refreshed tomorrow with today forgotten is a farce, well to most it should be.



But it ultimately depends on what the people around you think, do they think your acting to your potential, or falling off the rails. Are you taking those opportunities or failing to listen to what is around you.



So it really comes down to what you make of those moments. What effort you commit to changing your page of life. Do you live the same today as you did tomorrow or do you look for the opportunity to change and grasp it with two hands, because you know it’s for the best.



I wish I knew it all yesterday as I sit here today. Sarah, Joy…Phil it intoxicates my mind, I can’t think past it. My mind runs continuous simulations of what could be happening, what I’m letting happen, what I haven’t stopped.



With that power of hindsight so loving the day after it clears the vision ahead, that maybe I didn’t act right in those moments, that I changed my portrait in a highly charged moment. But if I can’t be Leon in ever situation, then who am I really?



I always started my page with the date and my name. To make sure that whatever was filled out in that page, it was my efforts, my opportunity that would lay there. But if for one day I gave it away, I signed and dated it and let someone else write on the page. Would that change me, would I then be different tomorrow?



But isn’t that just the endless debate of a higher being. Now I’m not in the mood to lift his name continuously nor ceremoniously give it all to him, because at the start of the day, in the middle of it and now at the end of it, he did nothing but let me swallow the poison that surrounded me, and now only now attempts to give me a prospective that could honor his morals.

But that’s just it, I’ve been down this road, I’ve walked this path. I’ve given God a shot and it slowly failed. I honored him, I worshipped him. I praised his name and never thought twice. But I’m at an Ultimatum, and the biggest I’ll ever face.

To stay the same, or to take a risk
To be with God, or to be my own
To be Leon Caprice, or to be something completely different.


Insanity is defined as “repeating the same task and expecting a different result”

If God failed me last time, then why should I expect anything different tomorrow.

It’s time to try something completely different.

And fade in….

In a fancy restaurant, sitting around a table, was I, “The Dream Killer”, Seth Rotunda, and less importantly my agent, Thomas Ap Gruff and his brother, who I many times have had the displeasure of meeting many a time, Rhys Ap Gruff.

We sit in silence, each of us turning our attention to the food in front of us, except Rhys, who was dragging his knife over his plate, giving off a screeching noise that most mice, dogs and unfortunately me, could hear. Rhys notices the discomfort I’m in and stops, I turn to Thomas, who gives a quick smile and goes back to picking at his food.

“So, Seth, “The Dream Killer”, you aren’t as good as you think you are, right?” Rhys asks.

Thomas raises his head and turns a deathly shade of grey, I see him mouth the words: “Seth, don’t kill him,” repeatedly.

I look at Thomas and give him an OK sign, he saw this and breathed a sigh of relief, and meanwhile Rhys just sits there, with a look of stupidity.

“I mean, really, you suck. Problem number one, your Eastwood’s bitch, second of all, you keep getting pummelled and third of all, you’re a boxer, stick to boxing, after all, you did suck when you boxed also,” Rhys added.

I turned to Thomas, who looked like he was about to faint, after noticing me staring, I give him an “okay, now?” look. Sadly, Thomas replies by mouthing back, “not yet”.

“Also, what is it with this ‘Son of Ali’ bullshit, you’re not really his son are you, where’s the big house then, where’s all the money, if you’re really his bastard child, he must have heard of you now?” Rhys questioned

I stood up from my chair, disgusted at Rhys’ remarks. Thomas clings to my shirt, trying to pull me back down to my seat, but to no avail, I’m going to kill his brother, but not for a while.

“Rhys, what I don’t understand is that someone related to Thomas, could be such an idiotic parasite on society. You fail to notice that I am the future of FMW, the road to being great may start slow for me, but it’s still more than you have achieved in your dull, meaningless life. But hey, I like to help those who are
retarded, so I’ll answer your questions.” I replied.

“I’m….I’m not retarded,” Rhys said meekly.

“Are you sure, because everything which spews from your mouth sounds like it? I’ve heard war veterans who have had their minds cracked to no return speak more sense than you,” I said.

“Seth, please shut up, you’re causing a scene,” Thomas said as he tried to intervene.

“So anyway, onto your questions then Rhys,” I smile back, “Number one, I am not Eastwood’s bitch; he decided to take me and three other rookies under his wing, we are the future of FMW and I for one, am out to prove that.

Question number two, I am never pummelled, I am never outclassed, I am just caught off-guard by bad refereeing, for example, I did not tap to Apotasty, I was actually striking the floor so a cloud of dust would get to Apotasty’s eyes in an effort to blind him and for him to break the hold.

Number three, I left boxing, despite my valiant record for two things, F-A-M-E and G-L-O-R-Y. These are two things which people need to be great. You seem to possess neither, so you’re not great, are you? I rest my case,” I say to Rhys.

Rhys sneers, “At least I never had a relationship with that whore, Shannon Parma.”

“You son of a bitch, I told you never to mention that,” I yelled as I reached across the table to pick Rhys up by the collar and drag him onto the table, spilling food everywhere, and by the way, I may put Shannon Parma into a story. Maybe.

“I was joking, Seth, honestly, please don’t kill me, I’m too young to die, please don’t punch the virgin, I’m pathetic enough as it is, as long as you don’t aim for the face, I’m sorry for insulting you, I just don’t want to get hurt, waaaaaaaaaaa,” Rhys said as he panickedand burst into tears.

“Thomas, can I still punch him?” I ask my agent.

“Go on then,” Thomas sighed.

“Great. Rhys, as a wrestling fan, do you remember when Stone Cold Steve Austin beat Booker T up in the supermarket and covered him with food after handing him an ass-kicking?” I said.

*Sniff* “Yeah.”

“Good, what is going to happen is going to be similar to that,” I smile at Rhys as I catch him with a right hook and then drag him off the table as we fade out.


“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’m sorry Seth.”

“Do they want me to sue?”

“No.”

“Then why am I in a hardcore match, why should I risk my career to be a warm-up for some inbred
American hicks?”

“Look, you wanted a fight, you got a fight.”

“But as my agent, Thomas, you’re better than this, ring up management and tell them Seth Rotunda is not risking his career.”

“I’m sorry Seth, but think about all the respect you will gain when you destroy War Machine in the match.”

“War Machine? I’m against War Machine? Management really do want me to get hurt.”

“Sadly, it’s what the fans want to see. Anyway, you shouldn’t be scared of him, after all, you’re the Dream Killer. War Machine’s dream and aim is to be the World Champion. You can stop it dead in its tracks.”

“Bout time I returned to killing some dreams.”

“Your name will be up in lights, Seth, up in lights.”
So, here I am, strutting up to the FMW HQ, wearing my best suit, cockiest grin, and in the mood for some ass kicking.

After going through the revolving door entrance, I meet the first ever FMW rep I came across, the receptionist. She sits behind the desk, gazing lazily at a computer screen in front of her, I can’t believe I tried to chat that up.

Her eyes come off the computer and her expression drops as she notices it’s me.

“Hey there, so, a couple of months ago, I tried to make a move on you, only to realise you were married.
So, I apologize, to your husband that is. You must have really sunk your claws in for you and him to be together. Are you dying and just happen to be rich, because that’s the only reason I can think of you being married.

Actually, it’s perfect, the fat slob….and her husband. Geez, do you have a much fitter sister, if you did, your husband would probably shoot off so quickly,” I say to the receptionist.

“You must have really put out early, must be. You knew he was desperate, so you pounced on him. He intended it to be a one night stand and you wanted it to be a relationship, so you made him feel bad so you had to stay as a couple, you whore,” I continue.

“I’m calling security,” she finally says as I explode inside with happiness because I just got what I wanted.
I turn away from the receptionist as I bump into two security gorillas and judging from the name tags, one is called Eric and the other Lucas.

“Problem m’am?” Eric asks.

“Yes,” she replies, “I would like Mister Rotunda to be escorted off the premises.”

“How would you guys like to part of my warm-up for my hardcore match?” I say to intervene.

“Sir, we’d like you to leave otherwise we’ll have to use force.”

“Go on then,” I say as I wander over to a sofa and sit down.

As I make my comfortable, Eric and Lucas grab an arm-a-piece and lift me a few inches into the air.

“It was only a laugh, lads,” I chuckle.

I wriggle free from Eric’s grip and land a head butt perfectly on his chest, then with my free hand I hit a left hand across Lucas’ face. I grab both of their heads and bounce them off each other.
I run to the receptionist’ desk and dial the number I need and pick-up the phone.

“Hey Thomas, guess where I am.”

“Wind Street, Swansea?”

“Nope, FMW Headquarters, in Canada.”

“Wait, why are you over there?”

“I am preparing for my hardcore match.”

“Why in Canada?”

“To see how much damage I can do to everyday security cards with everyday objects.”

“For fuck sake, Seth.”

“Don’t worry, I send you the CCTV footage of it, goodbye Thomas.”

After hanging up, I rip the computer from wires, while the receptionist hides in horror behind the desk. I walk over to the guards and smack Lucas square in the face with the computer screen. He falls to his knees, before hitting him again and again on the top of the skull.

I turn to kick and on coming Eric in the knee. I drag Eric by his hair over to the moving escalator. After some improvising, I bounce his head on every step that comes up through the floor. I get a little bored of beating him and throw him to one side.

I go back to Lucas and carry him to a metal bin, which I expertly use to hit him in the stomach, followed up by a roundhouse kick to the jaw.

“Well this was surprisingly easy,” I mutter as I walk off, admiring my handiwork.

Full Metal Wrestling Presents:
Ultimatum III


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

VICTORY! We have Succeeded! Muhahahahaha! We must rejoice, for I, the great Caesar...

Ahem!

What? You think this is about you?

What kind of friend claims victory all to himself?

Why do you have that hand cannon contraption pointed toward me?

Sorry...force of habit! Maybe!

Hehe...let me rephrase, shall I friend of friends?

Rephrase away MASSY-Pants!

(Grumbles under his breathe) Miserable son of a Egyptian whore, daring to call me names. If he wasn't my friend and partner I would feed him to my lion.

What was that?

What...oh, I was recalling this terrible joke Mercury said. I must punch him in the face for it. Anyway. WE...THE TOGETHER DEMONS, have become the rulers of the division of tag! Now, we must celebrate and celebrate well!

Oh, I will catch up to you, brother of brothers. I must take this phone call.

Less phone and more whores, peasant, urm, partner!

Harlequin skips away to take his phone call while Caesar runs toward the locker room, dragging poor Chuckles. Mercury and Judas look on in amazement over what has just happened.

Mercury: How the hell did these two win? They are out of there minds!

Judas: They are quite crazed Master Mercury. I don't understand how they co-exist. They have nothing in common.

Mercury: I can only think of two things, Judas. One, uncontrollable violence. Two, doing things by there own rules. When you have two homicidal maniacs that have their own code and have god like complexes or child like naivete, you would be best advised to run for the hills.

Judas: I am glad you didn't complete the rest of that.

Mercury: I didn't know Mexican's knew Iron Maiden?

Judas: Yes, we do. A number of our big Metal bands in Mexico are influenced by Maiden.

Caesar: Will you two get in here and bring on the women? I still don't know how to work this, phone is it? Yes! That contraption! And better for Judas to be here or else I might slaughter Chuckles for reciting some Greek computation in his head! Now go!

Caesar jets back into the room as Judas and Mercury shrug and start toward the door. Before they reach the door, the door flies violently open as Caesar has flung Chuckles violently out of the door. Caesar looks around quizzically around the room, having the appearance of a man who is spooked by something.

Mercury: Is there something wrong, my lord?

Caesar: Silence! I continue to hear music! Is there a band playing? Or is it one of those infernal...stick thingies?

Chuckles: I-Pod's my...

Chuckles dodges quickly as Caesar throws a melon toward him. Mercury finally hears what is spooking Caesar. He looks next to him and does a double facepalm. Caesar has been hearing his phone's ring tone go off. As “Bonfire of the Vanities” continues to blare on the PA...erm...cell phone, Caesar continues to get agitated.

Caesar: What is that sound? I must know!

Mercury: It is your phone, O grand and intelligent Caesar!

Caesar: Well answer it! I don't pay you to be lazy!

Mercury: You don't pay me at all!

Caesar: Answer!

Mercury answers and hands the phone to Caesar, as it is Together Demons partner Harlequin. Both men have the brief but cordial conversation that you saw earlier by Harlequin in his very interesting and bloody promo...(KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK)

Narrator: Yes?

Man #1: This is Agent Smash and I am Agent Ax. We are from the Fourth Wall Enforcement Agency. You WILL cease and desist in this slanderous narrative you are spinning!

Narrator: But, I am telling a story?

Agent Ax: A story? You are breaking the wall!

Agent Smash: We can weave a story too, dear sir. About a narrator, and Steven Speilberg's favorite goat!

Narrator: You wouldn't? I would be ruined in Bollywood! Hell, goat screwing is basically a rite of passage in Tinseltown, but I want Calcutta damnit!

Agent Ax: Than don't break the you know what!

Agents Ax and Smash walk away, than mysteriously enter the scene and take out Chuckles for a brief spell with a Demolition Decapitation. But none of you saw that or heard that from me! As all of this that you didn't see is happening, Caesar has started arguing with Mercury over the fact that Harlequin hung up on him to do his hunting while Caesar still thinks they are talking. As Chuckles walks around dazed after his little “fall”, he walks right into Caesar, who is still irate over 21st century ingenuity with Communications. He lifts up poor Chuckles and throws him through the particle board wall. As the wall collapses, Caesar looks through the hole and sees Harlequin, who waves at his friend and partner.

Harlequin: Hey Massively Awesome Caesar!

Caesar: Where you in that room the whole time? And why can't you call me just Caesar?

Harlequin: Because I fell like call you what I want, we have been over this. And It would appear I was in that room all along. Unless you know something about teleportation that I don't?

Caesar: So I assume this hunt is something you must do on your own?

Harlequin: Yes quite!

Caesar: Why are you talking in that funny accent?

Harlequin: I thought Romans always talked in a British Accent?

Caesar: BRITONS! WHERE! I will slaughter them like I did in my time!

Harlequin: There goes a number of Britons there! There is your hunt while I hunt for...my own purpose. Tally ho!

As Harlequin leaves for his perverse violent rampage and Caesar is chasing some poor Australian fans, Mercury gets a tap on his shoulder. Mercury turns around and steps back, as it is Seth Omega. Judas keeps his guard up, ready for things to happen.

Omega: You can relax. If I wanted to do something, you wouldn't have a chance to react.

Mercury: May I help you, sir?

Omega: Damn fine representatives as FMW Tag Team Champions we have! A damned clown that changes his temperament whenever he pleases and a raving looney that is a great man that thinks he is Roman.

Mercury: Well, you had your chance to make sure they didn't win the title, sir. You failed!

Omega: Do you really believe that they deserve to hold those belts? And why do you care? Caesar threatens to kill and maim you at every turn?

Mercury: I believe it was your Bobby Knight who said if they stop yelling at you, you should be more worried. What is the point of this? Surely you have something on your mind? You don't seem the type to make small talk with an opponent's servant?

Omega: Fine! Your “master” and that clown are a mockery to everything I stand for. And guess what your master and his clown are going to have to do at Ultimatum?

Mercury: Try to slap the ugly off your face?

Omega is not amused at the joke from the small and bold Mercury, and stands up taller, but lets out a strong chuckle.

Omega: Be lucky you got the big Mex here next to you. That mouth of yours might get you in trouble. It does explain why Caesar wants to beat the shit out...

Mercury: The POINT!

Omega: Fine! Your idiot masters are going to be defending at Ultimatum! Against 4 other teams, three of them who don't matter a damn!

Mercury: I know. The people Caesar and Harlequin are going to have to be wary of is those damned Comeback Kids, Jupiter smile upon them!

Omega: NO YOU FUCKIN' IDIOT! The BROKEN SAINTS are the team that is the only one that matters!

Mercury: Didn't you guys fail terribly tonight?

Omega: You should know better than that, Mercury. Your master has failed many a time since he has come to FMW. You just need that one match to come back.

Mercury: You're stealing the Comeback Kids gimmick now! What next, you are going to start your own group based on a fed like GSW?

Omega: Say one more fuckin' thing and the Mex will not save you from the shit kickin I will give you! You have been warned! Go to your master and tell him and the clown to enjoy there belts! The real champs will be reclaiming them at Ultimatum! And Mercury?

Mercury: Yes, you tiresome sloth?

Omega: Surprise!

Mercury turns around to see Judas taken out by RAMPAGE. Mercury stares at the crumpled body of the young man. He turns around to stand face to face with Omega, expecting the worst. Omega obliges and knocks him out cold with a violent right hand. Omega walks toward the downed and out Mercury, than walks toward RAMPAGE and walks off.




Five minutes later, Judas finally gets up, groggy from the elbow shot from RAMPAGE that knocked him cold. Judas turns and sees Mercury still down and out. As Judas checks for a pulse, Caesar walks by, in very high spirits over the beating he gave those Australians. He looks toward Judas and notices that Mercury is out cold.

Caesar: He isn't ducking out of work again, is he? The only thing he needed to do is call a hooker!

Judas: This was a message from one of your opponent's for Ultimatum, sire?

Caesar: They are making us fight to keep these damn things again? And who sent this message?

Judas: Seth Omega of the Broken Saints.

Caesar: The who? Oh, that massive fellow? Hmmm. I might have to reward for the masterful job in knocking Mercury out cold.

Judas: Sir?

Caesar: This message is nothing but the exploits of a coward, Judas! They couldn't get the job done tonight. None of the teams that fought us could get the job done tonight and win there precious little trophies. But I, the great Caesar, and the Harlequin, won! They can send there little messages! I will send a little message of my own when Ultimatum comes along. When will Ultimatum be?

Judas: No idea, sir.

Caesar: Anyway, they all will find out the cold hard truth. Who are we facing again aside from those curs who attacked you?

Judas: I believe the team representing Gold Standard Wrestling, Gray Inferno, and the Comeback Kids.

Caesar: That one named Slegnadamus looks vaguely familiar to someone I recently had the displeasure of meeting.

Judas: What is the cold hard truth?

Caesar: I...don't know. But they will meet stunning defeat I will guarantee you that. Now give Mercury to that Corpse collector over there and let us be going!

Judas: Uh, sir. That is a Ice Cream stand. And Mercury is alive.

Caesar: He is? Damn that Omega. Just like the tag team titles, he couldn't do the job he intended properly. He will learn how to close the deal at Ultimatum!

Caesar walks off to do some celebrating as Judas lifts up Mercury and takes him home.

~*~

“Sleg, just let me know if you need a break in the match. You might not be 100% yet. I'll be here for you." Butters concern is audible.

“I'm fine, Bob. Calm down. It was my leg, not a decapitation. Just chill out. We'll get back at those GSW losers.” Slegna says as he relaxes a bit, looking confident.

“Yeah, we'll be fine. We got this. Not going to let you down.” Butters shakes his head as he tries to get out of his funk.

“What's up Bob? You seem off. You've never worried about this crap. We're the Comeback Kids, and this is our time.”

“Just tired of letting people down. Not happening anymore.” Butters looks down at his phone, as the time ticks over, he just stares at the date... July 5th, 2011.

~*~

July 5th, 2003 – Boston, Massachusetts

A pale-looking teenager walks around is apartment after what was obviously a big party. He's carrying a garbage bag, tossing out cups, empty beer cans and half-eaten snacks. He grumbles to himself as he begrudgingly cleans.

“Fuckin slob. I told him I'd had it with these fuckin parties... he never cleans up after them... always me or Jeff doing the cleaning.”

At this point, he's literally throwing the trash into the bag, anger with every piece.

“Ross trash the place again? This is stupid. I tried to get him to quiet down, you know I have that big exam today. They were so damn loud. This is 50% of my grade.” Jeff just shakes his head.

“Ross, get up you lazy dump.” He kicks a passed out roommate in the side, jarring him from sleep.

“Fuck you, Rob. I'm sleeping this off.” He rolls over in place, trying to ignore the noise.

“No fuck you, Ross. At least get in your room so I can clean.” Another sharp kick finally gets Ross to stumble to his room.

“Rob, seen my books in this mess?” Jeff says as he starts pushing trash aside.

“Yeah, they were over here. Under some of Ross's drunken doodles.” Rob passes the pile to Jeff.

“Hey, Rob, got a second to talk before my test?” Jeff says as he heads towards the door.

“Not now, dude. My parents are coming, this place needs to be clean.” Rob keeps cleaning in a frenzy.

~*~
Later that evening, Rob and his parents are eating and telling stories.

“Seriously Mom, this has been a blast.” Rob laughs as he puts a glass down.

“Oh careful, honey, almost got a water ring on your notebook.” Rob's Mom pulls the notebook away, handing it to Rob.

“Oh, that's not mine, it's Ross's. He's always leaving his stuff around.” Rob takes it, glancing through the doodles.

“He makes a mess? Kick him out.” Rob's Dad, always stern gets straight to it.

“I can't, I feel bad for him. He failed out of school last month. He's been throwing parties and says he's having fun... but I know he's just covering.” Rob trails off a bit as he stares at a page in the notebook.

“Still, son, you can't let people walk over you...” His Dad gets cut off by Rob.

“I know, I know. Hey, guys, I forgot I have a lab. Can we do this later?” Rob rushes his parents out, then drops the notebook on the table as he walks toward's Ross's room. We can see the page he was transfixed on.”

To whom it may concern,
I worked my ass off, and now have nothing to show for it. My friends can barely tolerate me, and never make time for me. My education is wasted. I'm wasted. I'm sorry if this hurts anyone... Though I doubt it will.

There is no signature. Just a depressed note to nobody.

~*~

“Ross, get the fuck up.” Rob knocks loudly as he enters the room of the still napping Ross.

“Dude, I'm sleeping.” Ross pulls his blanket up.

“Dude, it's 8pm. Let's go hang out” Rob pulls the blanket away.

“Don't you have homework?” Ross starts to stagger to his feet.

“Forget it, I always have time for a friend, let's go.” Rob and Ross head out, tossing a couple hats on as thy pass.

~*~

“Dude, that movie was awesome. Glad you actually had time off school for once.”

“Well, I didn't, but you seemed a bit depressed, figured I should take time out to hang out. School will still be there.” Rob pats his friend on the shoulder.

“No homo, right? Heh, thanks dude. How'd you know I was feeling crappy? I didn't say anything.”

Rob just shakes his head. “I'll be honest... I found you note. It almost sounded like a suicide note. I got worried.”

Ross stops in place. “Dude, I didn't write a note. No idea what you mean.”

The two both look confused as they unlock the door and walk in. As they look up, they see something you can never unsee. The vision of their friend, Jeff, handing from a think length of rope. His arms imp at his side. The two freeze, in utter shock. Just looking on helplessly, at their well-adjusted friend hanging from their ceiling.

~*~

“Why... why did he do this, Ross?” Rob shakes his head, just sitting in shock as the sound of CB Radios in the background can be heard.

“Rob, there's nothing we could do.” Ross tries to reassure his now only roommate.

“You guys the roommates? Here, you may want these.” An officer leans in and passes Rob a couple sheets of paper.

“It's the grade from that exam... he failed... he never does bad on tests.” Ross says as he reads over.

“....Ross... this is the note I found... He wrote it... and he finished it...” Rob passes the note.

To whom it may concern,
I worked my ass off, and now have nothing to show for it. My friends can barely tolerate me, and never make time for me. My education is wasted. I'm wasted. I'm sorry if this hurts anyone... Though I doubt it will. I doubt you cared when you were to busy cleaning, or when you were keeping me up with your noise. I doubt I matter at all, and this has been too long coming.

Jeff

~*~

“Sleg, don't worry, I let people down a lot, I've made that known... Tonight, I'm there for the team, no matter what...”

The Comeback Kids grab their jackets, and head off.

Tonight, I end this curse you've all given me.

Tonight, I prove my worth.

Tonight, I come through for my friend.

Tonight, The Kids finish their Comeback.

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

Votes can change later, etc etc.

Slegnadamus sighed and looked down at the city below. The palace in the sky known as Mount Olympus hovered above London at the moment. He could see the clouds below crackle with electricity, a telltale sign that Zeus was growing impatient. Zeus hated stops over the English metropolis, Aphrodite always spent far too much time shopping.

But Sleg knew why the Gods were really in England. Well, more or less. He had heard about some sort of secret mission undertaken by Hermes, Apollo and Artemis. He figured it was a scouting mission, with the Hunter Twins for support. But with nothing as evidence to back that theory up, he waited. Three of the nine Muses played a concert in the courtyard behind him. The magical music could be heard any way the listener desired. In his bored state, Slegnadamus found himself listening to ambient jazz, playing softly in the background while the wheels in his head turned and turned, getting nowhere.

He turned and scanned the other waiting demigods around him. They, like Sleg, had been asked to wait on Mt. Olympus to await further orders. Most of the gathered demigods had been sired by Apollo or Ares, but he also saw a few from Hephaestus and oddly enough, he thought, a daughter of Hestia. Bored, he sat down next to her.

Slegnadamus: So, what are you here for?

The bluntness of his own question surprised even himself. She turned and smiled, and a surprising warmness engulfed him, like he was standing over a large, roaring fire.

Girl: Just following orders, you know how it is. Athena apparently drew whatever this is up herself, so it's not really my place to say anything to the contrary.

Slegnadamus: Fair point.

As Sleg breathed in to begin another sentence, a horn blew in the distance. The Muses stopped playing their concert; Sleg cracked his neck and stood up, helping up Hestia's daughter as well.

Slegnadamus: War Room, ladies and gents!

???: Who the fuck put you in charge?

Slegna turned around a raised his eyebrows, and saw a big Ares kid with a shit-eating grin on his face. Slegnadamus knew him in passing and halfheartedly returned the grin as a sign of good faith.

???: Name's Michael, in case you forgot.

A few muffled replies of "Hi Michael" filled the air. No one moved.

Michael: The fuck are we all standing around for, you heard the man, to the War Room!

The group jogged up the main street to the War Room. Michael headed up to the front with Sleg and held out his right hand, Sleg took and shook it.

Michael: Talkative bunch, eh? Sounds like we're leading whatever this is.

Slegnadamus: Appears so.

Michael: Not too talkative yourself.

Slegnadamus: Michael, you know as well as I do that this is a battle situation. We're all nervous, your method of countering that is boisterous humor and profuse swearing, mine is quiet reflection. No offense, but it's just not my style.

Michael nodded solemnly and was silent the rest of the trip. As the demigods pushed through the heavy bronze doors leading into the War Room, the smell of sweat and blood reached all of their nostrils. A half circle of steel chairs surrounded Athena, who pointed to them impatiently. The demigods filed in and sat down as Hermes, Apollo, and Artemis joined Athena, all three Gods looking slightly weary. They were, in turn, followed by two timid children, who looked to be no older than twelve or thirteen years old.

Michael: Rookies.

Slegnadamus: With more battle experience than you.

Michael: Ha.

Both children had scratches and scorch marks all over their bodies, with gauze bandages hastily slapped over the bleeding areas. One even had a large bandage wrapped around his whole torso, he winced in pain when he moved even the slightest bit.

Athena: Well, if you haven't figured it out already, they were just in a battle zone, and that's where you all be going next. What began as a small mission, Hermes escorting a few young, unrealized demigods here, turned into a battle of survival. Someone, or something, set the Hydra upon the group of children.

Athena was interrupted by moans from her audience, including a loud "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccck" from Michael.

Athena: Since most of these children didn't understand what exactly was happening, John and Abraham here were able to protect a few of the other little ones from harm.

The two children next to Athena puffed out their chests a little at the mention of their names.

Athena: I'm not going to sugarcoat it, quite a few didn't make journey home, but thanks to the quick judgment of both Apollo and Artemis, Hermes was able to extract the rest of the children. The rest are receiving further medical treatment, their bodies aren't quite ready to handle godly medical procedures. Now, under normal circumstances, I normally would not have new recruits send back into a battle, but you'll need them for survival as they know the lay of the land. Boys, can you handle this?

Both John and Abraham met Athena's cold, steel-gray eyes, but couldn't hold her gaze. The two looked away and nodded silently.

Athena: Apollo children, archers. You'll set up a perimeter around the Hydra, and hold under any circumstances. As for defeating the Hydra, many of you know the story. You must cut off one of its heads and cauterize the wound immediately, else two will grow in its place. And considering that all of the Hydra's heads can think individually, not to mention spit corrosive poison and shoot out flames, try not to make a five headed problem become a six headed problem. Hephaestus' kids will be running around with a supply of cauters, however, Mai will be tending a large fire in a cave Abraham found. Heating your swords and cutting off a head will do the trick as well.

Michael: Lightsaber style?

Athena: ...yes, lightsaber style. Now everybody get suited up, we need you back in 15 minutes. Michael and Andrew, take these two to the armory and get them suited the best you can.

Slegnadamus: Yes ma'am.

The demigods filed out and headed into the armory, grabbing their equipment. Slegna and Michael helped fit breastplates over both John and Abraham, also finding them swords. The elder two demigods then dressed themselves. Slegnadamus pulled his own armor over his shoulders, emblazoned with a bronze Vancouver Canucks logo in the center with a block letter "C" in front of his left shoulder.

Abraham: They lost.

Slegnadamus: Huh?

Michael: Bergeron on the breakaway, he scores shorthanded!

Slegna just scowled as Michael and the two kids laughed. Sleg did note that it broke a little bit of the tension in the room, however at his expense. As the rest of the team walked out, he addressed the younger two.

Slegnadamus: This is only for your protection. Your orders are to stay by the fire with Mai. Once you help us find appropriate cover, your job is done.

Abraham: Yes sir.

Slegnadamus: Sir isn't necessary. Just Andrew, or Slegnadamus, if you must.

Abraham: Like the wrestler? I thought it was-

Slegnadamus: Just a gimmick? I assure you, it's not. Let's go. Michael, grab a few extra swords, before we head back.

Slegnadamus grabbed his sun and moon bow as well as his accompanying quiver. Then, he too grabbed extra swords. The four then headed back up the street to the War Room.

Michael: So, what are the extra swords for, boss?

Michael shifted all the weight draped over his right arm, no doubt extremely heavy with his own shield and sword, plus the extras.

Slegnadamus: We can leave a few extra in the fire, and you kids can switch out swords mid-battle. That way we're not waiting for the swords to get hot enough, since they'll only stay at the proper heat for cauterization for a minute or two. John, Abraham, you two can help keep watch over the extra swords.

Abraham: Got it.

Slegnadamus: Not very talkative, are you?

John, the child with his whole chest wrapped up, shook his head silently. They soon reached the War Room, where Athena was finishing up a last minute speech to the rest of the pack.

Athena: ...be smart. Utilize the cover and try not to let the beast set the whole forest on fire. Gods-speed, heroes.


A short time later, the team was making their way through the forest, bows or swords at the ready. A nervous energy enveloped all of the demigods, they knew that this was the calm before the storm. John and Abraham walked in front with both Slegna and Michael, pointing out convenient rocks and alcoves that could be used as hiding places. It wasn't long before they saw the jet black Hydra, according to Abraham, not far from its attack against the younger demigods. Slegna signaled the rest of the archers to form a perimeter, while Mai and the Hephaestus kids built a fire in the small cave John pointed out. Slegna lectured the demigods one last time, his voice barely louder than the fire.

Slegnadamus: No more than one or two minutes with the same sword, or make sure you have a hot cauter with you. Let's go, stealthily.

The group waited for the swords to reach the proper temperature (the Godly metal could be warmed quickly, and could withstand high temperatures without breaking) and finally emerged from the cave. As Slegnadamus managed the archers, he found that a slow methodical approach was working on the monster. Michael organized a small team to creep behind it and ended up taking two heads out in one deft strike.

However, any further strategies were interrupted by red hot flames or the Hydra's corrosive poison. Slowly, more and more demigods succumbed to various wounds. Slegna watched as the skin of one demigod literally dissolve off his hand as he screamed in pain. A daughter of Ares was able to cut another Hydra head off using an impressive feat of agility, but the prognosis of the battle was grim. Sleg called out to the demigods in an attempt to spur the other demigods to victory.

Slegnadamus: Two left, heroes!

Instead, he was only met with a wall of flames; he needed to dive under the cover of a boulder to avoid being charbroiled. Michael, however, seemed to find even more adrenaline, and began stalking the monster from behind. He was able to run and smash one of the heads with his shield, knocking it silly. A quick downstrike left the Hydra with only one head left.

Michael: COLLAPSE!

The older demigods, including Slegnadamus, followed immediately. They began closing in on the now one-headed Hydra. The beast tried to defend all of its sides, but it was hopeless. The Hydra turned its long neck one way, exposing its neck to Michael, who finished it off in a shower of blood and gleaming metal.

Michael: Suck it!

The still conscious demigods cheered as Michael gloated over the fallen body of the Hydra. Then, a voice came from near the cave area.

Abraham: Watch out!

Sleg turned to see the young teenager pointing at the Hydra, and when he looked back, it had grown two new heads and was looking quite displeased. Michael turned around in time to catch a good whiff of the black demon's breath.

Michael & Slegnadamus: FUCK!

The Hydra heads shot both poison and fire straight on top of Michael, and over the roar of the Hydra, he could hear a demigod next to him puke at the gruesome sight. Slegna grimaced, and then came to his senses, realizing that they were still in danger. He dashed to the cave base, to find Mai trying to comfort both boys. He grabbed a sword and sprinted full speed up to the Hydra, baseball sliding under a column of flame before taking off both of the heads in one fell swoop.

Slegna stabbed his sword into the ground and inspected the mangled pile of burnt bones that was Michael. He bowed his head out of respect for the fallen warrior. After a few moments of silence he looked up at the carnage around him. Sleg wanted nothing more than to collapse from exhaustion, but he knew he had to complete the mission.

Slegnadamus: Children of Apollo, heal the wounded, children of Ares, help collect the dead. We need to be out of here within the hour.

Slegnadamus returned to the cave to find the fire already extinguished. Base camp was packed and ready to go, thanks to Mai and Abraham, who seemed eager to do anything to take his mind off the battle. John, however, sat in an isolated corner, still sobbing. Sleg sat down next to him, exhaling deeply.

Slegnadamus: Sobbing won't bring him back. It won't bring anybody back. I don't mean to be unsympathetic, but it's just the facts.

The boy tried to respond, however the shallow gasps for air made it difficult.

John: How... do you... deal with it?

Slegnadamus was at a loss for words for an instant.

Slegnadamus: I don't know. I just... do. Seeing metal cut through flesh, watching skin burn, it's a hell of an experience. It's hell to see firsthand, and it still is every single day. I can't imagine how a kid your age can even begin to understand or process it.

John stayed silent. Slegna sat with him for a few minutes before going back outside to help heal the wounded. He treated a few burns and was beginning to help treat a demigod whose shield had partially melted onto her skin before he heard a shriek from the cave. As Sleg looked into the cave, he saw what had happened and tears sprang to his eyes instantly. John had taken a dagger and plunged it into his chest.

Slegnadamus stood there paralyzed. John was on the floor, breathing labored, with blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. The young kid tried to speak, but words came out in the form of blood bubbling over his lips. Sleg walked over and kneeled over John, putting his head close to the child's.

John: Andrew............... thanks............... trying................

His eyes rolled back, and Sleg checked his pulse. Finding nothing, he stood up, subconsciously aware that both Mai and Abraham were at his shoulder. All three solemnly looked at the frail, broken body below. Both Abraham and Mai then looked at Slegnadamus, expecting him to say something. The silence that passed made seconds seems like minutes, minutes like hours. Then Sleg finally spoke in hushed, grave tones.

Slegnadamus: There's no pain for the dead.

Then Slegnadamus closed his eyes, and wished it all away.

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

I want to see how the storyline turns out. And by the way, kick that bastard Phil's ass.

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

Full Metal Wrestling Presents:
Ultimatum III


Pre-Show

Tag Team Match
STORMMASTER and Son of Shark Boy

Hardcore Match
Seth Rotunda (w/ Daniel Prideman)

Singles Match
Anwyl

Singles Match for the Television Championship #1 Contender
Mark Johannson



Main Card

Ladder Match
Chris Austin

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy(c)

Television Title Gauntlet Match
Matt Ashburn(c)

Tag Team Championship Match
Harlequin and MASS Caesar(c)

Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt(c)

C-4 Championship Match
Christian G. Smitten(c)

Singles Match
Drew Michaels

Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson




PROMO ONLY until June 29th, 11:59PM. VOTING and PROMO until July 1st, 11:59 PM

*Votes subject to change pending promos.

Pre-Show

Tag Team Match
Christian Parkes and Artemis vs STORMMASTER and Son of Shark Boy

I'm not going to vote for this match, because there is no way I'd ever want to see an emo & a love struck teenager take on a Shark boy and a dude with a star wars helmet on. Not while I'm sober.

Hardcore Match
Seth Rotunda (w/ Daniel Prideman) vs War Machine

I didn't vote for your partner to come with you cause I think he'll eventually backstab you and you'll look like a twat. Do it yourself man

Singles Match
The Craig Ryans vs Anwyl

I'm voting for this guy cause I want him to be given the time to tell us what nationality he is in a segment. It sounds like a drunk man trying to say And Whyyyyyy.

Singles Match for the Television Championship #1 Contender
"Outlaw" John Andrews vs Mark Johannson

So voting for this guy so he can stick around long enough for me to get a shot at whoopin him!! Deserves it I say for ditching FMW...seriously who does that!


Main Card

Ladder Match
Chris Austin vs David GS vs BOOBIES

Ok so by now your seeing that I got this off of Abel's U3 card, I think the creative team should take a look at his adjustments. Definately beneficial. Anyway, its a typical Big name vs little name vs Boobies match, yet unless boobies shows up in the next 15hrs I'm going to have to vote for DGS. Always have to feel sorry for the little people.


Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy(c) vs Leon Caprice

Have you seen how handsome he is!!! And he has a FIRE HOSE THIIISSSS LONG!! Seriously looks unstoppable right now.

Television Title Gauntlet Match
Matt Ashburn(c) vs Kayden Osiris, Matt Dunn, Jeff Whitt

I vote for him based on alphabetical order of last name.

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

Now this is simply a last resort vote, as I cannot in good faith give it to one of the other teams.
You'd think Harlequin and Caesar but how can you vote for a giggle pot and an ancient fighter. The fighter will bonk somone on the head with his shield and the other would stop laughing about it, it's madness.
The broken saints are off to a complete end. "Omega" translates to end, They are broken and Rampage sounds like he's just got to much packin.
The comeback kids sounds like a name for seedy old men, and they came up with the team name as it's their popular catchphrase "Comeback Kids, you haven't finished playing yet"
GSW is weird, I half expect them to do a promotion in gold hot pants, I just don't know what they want from me either.
And Gray Inferno is all thats left. Sure one is magical (which is kinda cool) and the other knows a dude who knows a dude who can pull strains of hair through peoples throats, which is awesome!

Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt(c) vs Eastwood

I vote for Celt as I don't want the ginger to get even more bummed out. Doesn't have a soul and if he lost his title, he'd lose the plot.

C-4 Championship Match
Christian G. Smitten(c) vs Abel Steele

Ok his name is weird, firsly why Abel, now sure its biblical, but so is Adam or Matthew or John or Paul or Timothy or Peter or Daniel or Mark or Joshua or David or even Moses! But I like the cut of his jib.

Singles Match
Drew Michaels vs Tyrant (w/ Faith)

I saw him shuffling backstage, looked cool.

Full Metal Championship Match
Hannibal Frost(c) vs Nick Bryson

Ok reaaaalllllyyyyy important vote here. I went a bit sad when I read Frost's promo and I don't want him to write like that again, so this is my vote for him to stop it...cheers.

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

The flight in was delayed by an hour and a half, I haven’t eaten anything right in two days (Airline food sure as Gods doesn’t count) and the only thing that’s on my mind is: Get to that fucking Gym.

I move through O’Hare international Airport without even switching my brain on; everything is on autopilot and driven by the mantra of “Get to that fucking Gym” being repeated over and over again in my head. My face is completely expressionless as I don’t even react to anything around me; check-in people, FMW’s ring crew, fans who recognize me...all they get is a blank from me now. I’m not trying to be rude, but underneath the currently cooled exterior is altogether different outlook: Panic.

Because as I make my way to the Congress Plaza Hotel there the knowledge that right now, someone in this city, Jack Eastwood is already in a gym, and he’s hitting it fiercer than he’s ever hit it before. Every rep he’ll be assaulting like his life depended on it, because something even more important to him is on the line now: His reputation. And it’s not just because this is his fourth time he’s facing me or that this is his second shot at the UV title (and by extension a shot at some personal redemption), no it’s because I’ve demanded nothing less of him.

I sit impatiently in the back seat of a bright yellow tax driven by a man named Ramur, glancing from window to window every few moments. It’s around 1pm and there’s a slight bump in downtown Chicago’s traffic for lunch...and I can’t stand it. I chew on my bottom lip and tap my fingers gently on the door of the taxi, all the while trying to will the traffic onwards. “Get to that fucking Gym” repeats the back of my mind, “because every second you’re late that’s a second Eastwood has won”.

I know for a fact Eastwood wants to win this match just as much as I do, and that’s not a statement I’m making lightly. He’s like an animal now, backed into a corner, ready to lash out viciously, and it’s mainly down to me. It’s not just because I’ve already beaten him three times already, it’s not just because he swore he’d couldn’t be stopped the first time around, it’s not even because his emotions are being compressed by Christian Smitten...it’s because I’ve been goading him relentlessly about this match.

At U3 this is it; no more matches after this. You either do or you fucking don’t.

How do you want to be remembered Eastwood? Because if you lose this one, you’ll be branded a loser forever

Remember when it was HavOc that had the win streak over me? Pretty embarrassing turn of events don’t you think?

I thought you swore to me you were unstoppable Eastwood? I guess your word doesn’t mean too fucking much these days

How do you keep the absolute best out of a man? Test his pride.

“Weather’s good today, yeah?” chirps Ramur the taxi driver, and I grunt in the affirmative. Egging my opponents on isn’t something I normally do, but in this case I’ve had to. The company asks that we do anything that could hype the fight through FMW.com so as to build anticipation for the fight, but I’ve diverted from that route; I’ve been texting Eastwood personally. Not vulgar stuff mind you, but messages designed to get him as heated for this as possible.

Right now you’re probably wondering why on earth I’d do this; why on earth would I encourage and motivate my own opponent to beat me, and you’re perfectly right to. It’s not every day that a competitor in FMW makes it more difficult for himself... *ahem* Get to that fucking Gym...sorry, my brain with a little reminder there. Call it personal sabotage, call it a thirst for competition, call it what you like...

But I NEED Jack Eastwood to be nothing less than one hundred per cent at Ultimatum. Not eighty per cent, not ninety-three per cent, not even ninety-nine per cent...I need it all. I need him to pour his heart, his guts and his soul out for me, and in return I’ll deliver nothing less myself. I need this because I’m the UV Champion desperately clutching for respect.

“Here we are sir, that’ll be twenty-seven dollars” says Ramur as we finally pull up to the Congress Plaza Hotel. I hand him a wad of cash almost without thinking of its value, getting back my change and almost leap out of the cab. I’m greeted by the fresh air and powerful sunshine of a summer in Illinois but any thought I have of this are of course drowned out by Get to that fucking Gym. I grab my luggage in a hurry and make for reception.

Depending on your assessment of me you could call it lack of confidence or an actual viewpoint; I’ll let you decide: Right now I feel like the least legitimate Ultraviolent Champion of all time...and that’s something that eats at me. You know how it happened: I didn’t beat the champion to win the title; it was vacant. The people I faced to win the title? Neither of them had ever held the title either. And worse of all? I had three successive chances to take the title the right way from Jaro back in late 2009. Fuck, this is making me feel sick just thinking about this again. Now let’s put the cherry on top: My first title defence was a less than stellar performance, with a run in from Christian G. Smitten making all the difference to the bout. While we’ll never know, there’s every chance Eastwood could’ve taken the title in our last match...hence this rematch.

What does that say about me? What impression does that give of my championship reign, the one I’ve fought so hard to gain? I was reading an article on 411mania.com/wrestling recently; the author, who I greatly respect for his knowledge of the sport, called me “the most anticipated Ultraviolent Champion of all time”, no joke. And yet here I stand the first Ultraviolent Champion never to beat the previous for the title with a crappy first defence as his first notch. This is bullshit now Get to that fucking Gym.

This Championship has a lineage like no other in FMW: War Machine, Drew Michaels, X, John Derrick, Jaro, Nick Bryson, and Harlequin. Notice something special there? You should: Half of those men went to become FMW World Champion; Harlequin hasn’t yet but even I’ll (regrettably) admit he could well be destined for a run with it and Jaro....whether I like it or not he’s a hall of famer.

So this Championship, this title with one of the most prestigious, if not thee most prestigious title outside the World falls to me...and you know what? I’m getting pissed off just thinking about this all over again. THIS is why I need a Jack Eastwood focused, pissed off and willing to tear me limp from limp...so I beat him, So I can beat the best on offer. I need every aspect of this match to be as legitimate as possible, or else what was all the blood, sweat and even more blood for? You tell me, you fucking tell... Get to that fucking Gym.

I plough up to the Reception desk like a freight train hitting the station. Without the receptionist saying a word I’ve my passport at the ready and my hand is reaching out for a pen to sign in. With a wild scrawl I make my mark.
“Tell the bell boy leave my stuff in my room...where’s the nearest gym?”
“The hotel has one available to customers, it’s just down that corridor, then take a left and just keep going till you hit it”
“Thanks”

Get to that fucking Gym Get to that fucking Gym Get to that fucking Gym Get to that fucking Gym

I grab my gear bag and once again plough on towards the gym. I grab my iPod and plug my earphones in, because for the next two hours I’m going under. For the next two hours I won’t talk, I won’t answer my phone, I won’t acknowledge anyone else...damnit I won’t even be thinking. Because just like Eastwood, I’ve got to give one hundred per cent too.

I am proud to be the man that has always defend the red brand of FMW. I am proud to have protected it in the face of any threat. I am proud that I’ve last as long as I already have when I’ve seen countless others fall. I am proud to be respect by the fans of FMW.

But I owe to myself to be the best champion I can possible be. I owe to all the hard work and sacrifice I’ve ever put into FMW to not fuck up this championship run. This is completely and utterly true: When I started in FMW four years ago, all the way back in 2006, it was always my dream to win the UV title. Not the World title or any other achievement in this company, it was only ever this title I hold now I’ve ever wanted. So I ask you, what kind of service would I be doing to myself after all this time, after coming all this way...and I become known as the “Lesser” UV Champion.

I refuse to let that happen.

I storm into the hotel’s gym like a man possessed; it’s not my brain that’s in charge of my body anymore, it’s my heart, and it’s bursting to go.

I don’t need a skirmish at Ultimatum 3, I don’t even need a good battle...I need a knock-down, drag-out war of a match. I need a match that will drill into everyone minds that I refuse to be anything less than this title deserves.

I am not a stepping stone Champion. I am not a lesser Champion. I am not a fucking step down from my predecessors.

At Ultimatum III I’m going to go out there and be as good a UV Champion as there’s ever been: No excuses, no regrets, no holding back even a single ounce!

You are not looking at a Ultraviolent Champion, you’re looking at *thee* Ultraviolent Champion. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to hit the fucking gym.

Stormmaster and Son of Shark Boy

Seth Rotunda

Anwyl

Mark Johansson


David GS

Apotasy

Matt Ashburn

Nicholas Gray and Damian Inferno

Jack Eastwood

Christian G. Smitten

Drew Michaels

Nick Bryson

Quote :

“Heard a joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says "Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says "But, doctor...I am Pagliacci." Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains. Fade to black.”

– Alan Moore (Watchmen)

There’s a depressing fact about humanity that in thirty years of living I’ve come to accept as a universal truth; we’re all addicts. We all go back to what is familiar even if it is completely and asininely bad for you. It explains why I’m here in this shithole again - the smells of smoke, vomit, and sex filling my nostrils as foreign hands of faceless women caress me; harpies that lure this poor, hapless sailor from the safety of his boat and the definitive purpose of his odyssey to dash his broken soul upon the jagged rocks and steely waters of uncertainty. The introspection of it is causing my head to hurt. Or that might be the fact I’ve been drinking since I got here on this ordinary, bleak Wednesday afternoon. My body feels heavy and immovable and my eyelids droop slightly as the Crown moves past my lips, down my throat, and into my empty gullet.

The warmth from it spreads to my fingertips and down to my toes. The heat beneath the collar of my dingy white t-shirt rises and if not for the dimly lit setting, you could see the color in my cheekbones flush. I perspire slightly…or is that the condensation from the glass? And then it comes. What I was really waiting for – the blissful numbness. For a few moments at a time, I no longer feel anything. And it puts me at peace with myself. There are no more fights to engage in, no more causes to follow, no more crosses to bear. Just the emptiness and the fucking lack of responsibility I feel every time my lips touch the soothing elixir. Every time my nostrils are singed with the robust scent of matured blends. Every time I hear the dull ringing groping my skull peaceably as my brain cells explode from lack of oxygen. Momentarily, I no longer have to deal with the ghosts of my past or upholding the pretense that I’m a stable, functional, happy individual. I feel undefined and non-existent; ethereal and insubstantial, only adequately aware of the woman grinding and kneading her ass into my stiffening groin that grows taut inside my usually slackened jeans.

The girl herself is barely legal – only just a few years removed from Karma…no…stop. Don’t think about her right now, you dick. It’s too painful to process. Just take another sip and all will be well. There you go. Drink it all up. Soak it in, motherfucker. Focus on the girl. Focus on the feeling she gives you. Focus on the temporary happiness that will end soon and you’ll just have to replace eventually. Where was I? The girl. Does she have a name? She gave it to you when you slipped her the two hundred dollar bills. What was it again? “Jasmine”. That was it. It’s probably fake - a stage name to make her more palatable to the lonely, drunk, horny masses that she makes feel better about themselves. They barely register the fact that she probably fits the bill of the stripper trifecta. She is either a single mother, struggling college student, whore with a coke addiction, or all three rolled into one. That’s just the milieu of the bottom of the barrel. And sadly, I relate more with this stripper than that of my peers.



She’s seen things. You can tell, Dante. You can look into her eyes and see the hurt that’s masked by the awkward attempt at being sexually appealing to you. Slip her a twenty for her troubles. It’s not as if its helping you while it sits in your pocket neighboring with lint and debt. Pat yourself on the back, asshole. The one thing you’ve actually been able to maintain in your social and moral squalor is your finances. At least you can justify to yourself that you don’t fit the trifecta of every professional wrestler story. Penniless, addicted, and estranged children. Two out of three ain’t so bad, is it? But no. Focus on the girl. What does she look like? Her hair is long and straight. It’s probably a weave. Naturally, she’s a brunette. But the extensions in her hair mix in some blond. This close to Houston, it isn’t that surprising. They’re more diverse on this side of the Lone Star State. She’s obviously Hispanic…maybe a mutt. Again, it shouldn’t be surprising to you. For one, they find these girls who are of indiscriminate origins to please the patrons and allow their minds to wander. The coffee isn’t too dark for their tastes but has enough creamer in it to make it look exotic, exciting, and foreign. Go back to her eyes. What color are they? Hazel and bloodshot red. She’s had a long night and you’re her lone saving grace.

Dante Jones – Messiah of The Strippers. In-fucking-credible. Why do we feel like Duke Nuke’em right now? Pay attention. You're losing focus and making this about you again. You know where that leads. The girl is your priority. Treat her like one. Her shape? She’s built like a Coke Bottle. As the kids say these days, “cakes for days”. Her legs straddle me and her crotch grinds against mine, my eyes instinctively travel down the curvature of her flawless thighs. It’s probably just the alcohol skewing your perception. For all you know, she could really be a troll in the form of a goddess. She body rolls, entrancing me to the melody of some pop song that doesn’t seem familiar to me. Sounds like a shitty Usher song. No. Pony. Ginuwine. Fitting, really. Back to the girl. “Jasmine” was her name. Her breasts are obviously fake – too pert, too stiff, and too round to be anything other than. They press against my chest as her hot breath buzzes against my throbbing, exposed jugular. It beats with life and betrays that she has my undivided attention. I take another sip and another uncontrolled surge of numbness that keeps me at an even keel. Her voice reaches your ears and she speaks to you.

“Mmm..you like that, daddy?” she asks you. You grunt “Just keep dancing”. Be attentive but not attached. It leads your mind to wander again. Damnit. Too late. For some inexplicable reason, you think of your mother and the whore junkie that it was. You muse about the fact it seems that none of the circles you run in seem to have the nuclear family home life. And it all starts with mother. After all, in the eyes of a child, mother is God. You recall the stench of the crack dens that settled on her musky, slender, bony frame. You remember the tatter rags she always seemed to be garbed in, too concerned with finding her next fix rather than making herself presentable to the eyes of the world. You recollect the evocative imagery of the last time you saw her – her wiry, unkempt graying hair with patches missing and heavy-lidded jaundiced eyes flickering from the high as the needle query jutted from her belted arm. The track marks from her wrists and forearms looked like emptied ravines and, in your mind, encapsulates the deflated, withered husk you always assumed she was. You can still hear the grating, arsenic laced voiced that bored into you skull and suddenly, the world around you dissipates into an unnatural gray-scale. You see her and not the girl straddled atop you and, just as you remember, she looks and smells of death. Her rancid breath replaces the sweet smells of scented body glitter and the brow beating vociferousness of Chanel No. 5. The soft touch of a supple young lady is substituted by the rough, unkempt coarseness of clawed talons.

It was her. Mother Dearest and the Devil in the Torn, Blue Dress.

“Mmm..that’s a good boy,” you hear her say. Try to block it out, Dante. She’s not real. She isn’t there. “Come help momma,” she goes on to say, pouring sweet honey and emptiness into your numb plenitude, “come help momma feel good”. Ignore her, Dante. Keep your shit together and eventually she’ll dissipate. You hear me, nigga? Keep. It. Together. Don’t lose your shit. This will pass. She’s not there, damnit. She’s just a figment of your overactive imagination. Here. Take another drink. Sip it all up.



”Don’t ignore me, Dante Amaru,” she says slyly, knowing that she’s getting to you and that because she’s a part of your irrational mind, she can bleed over into your rational one, “you really gon’ do the woman who held yo’ ungrateful black ass for nine months in her womb like that? I destroyed my body for you, boy. You will respect me.” She can hear your thoughts, Dante. She can hear the gears churning inside and sense all of the turmoil as you quickly try to enact a plan to get rid of her. Permanently. Weren’t we done with this shit when fought TyranT? Didn’t we expel all off these ghosts on the inside when we knew that we had to be just as vicious, just as careless, and just as ruthless as he was.

No, you answer yourself. No we didn’t. We addressed the similarities. We never fully removed these ghosts because they make us who we are. We are both motivated and hindered by the past, Dante. We couldn’t fully let go. Not yet. We’re addicted to the melodrama of it all. We could never actually move on. It’s so ingrained on our personality to just sweep things like this under the rug and address them later that we’ve never mastered the rage. We only bottle it and release it in the proximity of the nearest victim, hoping that when the dust settles, whatever’s left can’t move long enough for us to conquer it. It’s how we’ve delt with obstacles both in and out of the ring. And its why even now we need to numb ourselves from the world so often.

“It’s alright, Dante,” says the figure, her chapped lips pressed against mine, “Momma isn’t goin’ anywhere.” The acidity of her sound causes me to tremble, no doubt making the girl on the outside of this madness believe that I’m enjoying the show. My face displays no emotion. I’ve learned over the years to mask fear as relative indifference and in order to sell the illusion, I need to sate just one more addiction to add onto the growing litany. My shaking hands reach into my pockets and my eyes close, hoping …no pleading with God to please let me not be crazy. Though if I were really crazy, I’d be convinced that I wasn’t. Wouldn’t I?

“You aren’t crazy,” her voice whispers huskily in my ear. Please get the fuck out of my head. “And I already told you I ain’t goin’ no wheres, baby. I’m part of you. You said it yo’self.” I know, bitch. I know. I can’t ever get rid of you. Your blood flows through my veins. Your influence breaks through the well-constructed veneer despite my best efforts to keep you contained. Your fucked up view on the world is what keeps me going and the sad thing is I really should thank you for the wonderful example you’ve given me in how to deal with the world’s problems. Hide your head in the sand, Dante. Eventually, everything will cease to matter. You are my demon and together, we’ve successfully alienated the world and fashioned an armor of self-medication, self-loathing, and self-deprecation. I don’t blame you, though.

I made these choices. I am my own man.

“A man? Nigga please…you a boy still stuck in the same shit that every other nigga in the hood deals with. A dead-beat dad. A drunk. Add a narcotic and you’s just a spittin’ image of me.”

Fuck you. You aren’t real. You’re a poor imitation of life and a minuscule fragment given legs by my own insecurities and unresolved issue; a malignant tumor on my soul that will go into remission once I’m done with you. Why? Why can’t you just leave me be? Why do you persist into forcing yourself into existence? Why do you keep doggin’ me at every step, trying to somehow vindicate and validate your state of being?

Why?

Why do I feel deserve you as a mother?

“Because mijo,” a voice answered as time itself stopped, the air impregnated with a heavy pause, “Because you feel are unfit to be a father. And funnily enough you’d be right.”



The world stops but I know that voice well. Reality and perception are intermingled. Fuck I can’t tell heads or tails of it. How much did I drink? How much can I have taken to have skewed things so badly? Is this real? The man before me was like my father. And there he stands as he was when he was killed wearing that fucking dingy, stained, tan duster coat, plain white collared shirt with the gun holster bulging beneath it; a plain, black tie dangling around his throat like an unfastened noose. The lacerations around his wrinkled, sagging face…frighten me as deep gouges and punctures show the ugliness of his insides on the typically serene outsides. Stab wounds litter his chest, creating a domino pattern on his torso. His crooked smile is missing teeth. It isn’t...

”It isn’t pleasant,” he completes for me, groping the insides of my brain and invading my waking thoughts, “There’s nothing pleasant about the mission, mijo. It’s all morally gray individuals like you and I have. The mission. And you’ve forgotten it, haven’t you?”. No, you old bastard. I haven’t forgotten. Every day I wake up and look in the mirror, I look a little grayer and slowly more cynical. I examine my life and the fights I’ve been in and question ‘is it what Hector would do’. And your answer?

”No,” he says in an out of character tone, “No it isn’t. You’re such a disgrace. Look at you. Look at this place. Look at what you’re becoming. You’re no better than the filthy animal I took in all those years ago. The son of a junkie and whore. Father to a bastard daughter. Failed teacher. Failed leader. Failure failure failure. That’s your identifier, cabron. “ He smiled as he taunted me with a smugness I didn’t think possible in this saintly figure and his generally peaceful eyes blazed with a maleficent inferno. Hatred. Hatred is that look in his eyes. Not the disappointment that had become routine with these vivid visitations from the beyond . Not the fatherly lecturing that I had come to expect and even embrace in times of need. No this shade…this pale imitation of Hector Mendez constructed from memories of autopsy photos was and is a reflection of my own self-hatred; the primary anchor of all my internal rage.

These are my demons. And they haunt me so.

Quote :

“I've proved my point. I've demonstrated there's no difference between me and everyone else! All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. That's how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day. You had a bad day once, am I right? I know I am. I can tell. You had a bad day and everything changed. Why else would you dress up as a flying rat? You had a bad day, and it drove you as crazy as everybody else... Only you won't admit it! You have to keep pretending that life makes sense, that there's some point to all this struggling! God you make me want to puke. I mean, what is it with you? What made you what you are? Girlfriend killed by the mob, maybe? Brother carved up by some mugger? Something like that, I bet. Something like that...”

– Alan Moore (The Killing Joke)

This is my drug.

This company is the last one of those terrible vices that remains. Try as I might, I keep coming back here. I keep subjecting myself to the ridicule and fucking non-subjective conjecture from people I know I’m better than. Yeah. I said it. I’m better than most if not all of you. It doesn’t sound like something a ‘good guy would say, does it? News flash – I’m not a good guy. I’m not some valiant hero nor have I ever claimed to be. I’ve always said I’m just the average man in an above average circumstance. But I’m getting off track. The reason why this drug..why this FMW is so potent, so lethal, and so intoxicating is really I know that I can master it but for whatever reason, I never do. And I might say that my motives lie elsewhere – that my goal is to protect, first and foremost, something I view like my child. But really? I’m a tad tired of seeing how hacked down the product has become. It’s a watered down mess with a litany of nameless fuckbags like David Gideon Smith or-or Abel Steele or our current main eventers for Ultimatum Nick Bryson and Hannibal Frost.

Urgh. Hearing those names in the main event makes me a tad green around the gills. I look on and think to myself that shit should have never gotten this bad. Let’s face facts. Pull up a chair and listen because I know you’re going to want to hear this.

Full Metal Wrestling and Lords of Pain Wrestling are two sides of the same coin. The same, shitty people are put in the same positions not out of tangible factors like popularity, talent, or potential but because they are the biggest ass kissers to the cock mongers that sit on the board of directors. We see the same problems of corruption and greed in our entire primary sports leagues across the nation and globe. In times of economic unrest, the only way to feel good…the only way to feel a part of something larger than yourself is to become immersed in the spectacle of a sporting event. In the end, all of our mindless self-indulgence in things beyond our earthly control amount to little more than this:




Clap for yourselves, kids. Because I’m about to call you out. The way this business has evolved and concurrently with other competitive sports be it the NFL or the NBA who both, mind, are going through their separate yet distinctly similar crises is that you no longer reward the talent for their hard work and effort. It’s become more about the company identity and the public perception of that entity rather than based on the individual merits of certain, gifted, enlightened people. What I mean by this is that instead of rewarding the hustlers – the Chris Austin’s, the Seth Omega’s, the TyranT’s, and the like, they are relegated to playing second fiddle to the avarice of a select few. Either these few are the peddlers of this drug we call ‘FMW’ or they are the biggest customers of the sub-par, diluted, impotent strain that has been put on the market for you to ingest as if it were a special treat. Essentially, they’re butt fucking all of you into submissiveness and you keep coming back for more like a bitch in heat. Congratulations, you fucking idiots. You’ve become their strawberries and now they can do what they please with you and you’re none the wiser.

You’ve grown weak with stagnation and apathy – much like the writing staff that puts out the scripts for these shitty shows that no longer show the grim, edgy, raw realism that Full Metal Wrestling prided itself on in its inception. You settle for mediocrity – much like the production team that can’t even be bothered to create succinct televised programming for you to digest and regurgitate to friends and family alike. You bare just as much of the blame for everything wrong with this business and the sadder truth is that even if someone opened your eyes to the truth, you’d hop right back in line for another swig of Ammunition’s watered down brandy or Corruption’s toxic, impure strain of heroin. Like little drones you’ve become to line up and pay for this shit when what you should be is mad as hell and screaming your fucking head off. In conclusion to this particular rant, fuck you for the malnourishment our child as I was away and treating her with the neglect and abuse I thought would’ve stopped when Alex and I..yeah you heard that right…fired the first salvo in the Full Metal Civil War.

I shouldn’t be too hard on you, though. You’ve been indoctrinated. You’ve been fooled to buy the hyperbole that FMW is greater than it’s ever been before. That it’s new and improved staff are trying their absolute best to give you the absolute greatest form of wrestling the world has ever seen. I call bullshit. How can that be true? On Corruption, the guy who runs shit behind stage is greener than goose shit. Kid doesn’t know a wrist lock from a plancha. He was selected because the first guy in charge was a fucking waste of space with a little man complex, too addicted to sating his own ego rather than doing what was best for his brand. When people questioned his direction, it became too much to bear and he quit. Don’t let the dirt sheets fool you. There were no personal issues involved. It came down to people being unwilling to be held accountable for their actions or, in the case of this mental and literal midget, lack thereof.

On Ammunition, the guy running the ins and outs used to be a friend of mine. I could always count on him to tell it like it is. To call shit straight down the middle and offer me no bullshit. But when I came back and asked why things were so bad, I was accused of being a shitty friend. I was accused of being too stubborn and despite everything I’ve ever fucking done for this company, was treated as though my opinions and my experience were irrelevant. When I made valid complaints at the fact that Ultimatum was poorly marketed - that the original card smacked of filler and had no substance – that people who had been inactive for long stretches of time, myself included, shouldn’t be featured on the primary programming simply to make them feel good about themselves, I was told I didn’t need to know the particulars. I hate sounding like and old fart but back in the day, that wasn’t how shit worked. The leaders of the locker room were privy to certain information and the head writers didn’t have complete authoritative power to make fed wide decisions, all the while hiding behind the feeble, bullshit lies that it was a group decision and in that same breath, saying that they were the voice of the head honchos. In truth, I miss my friend. But his addiction to the sound of his own voice and his own ideals has corrupted him beyond repair. He and this pussy, punk newbie are throwing my beloved FMW into a state of eternal flux. Again. Congratulations. You all are supporting their sick, weak willed habit and it’s slowly killing us all.

My main issue stems from the fact that the FMW Chairman and President who replaced one Jason Roy is a fucking lazy bastard. It’s only when someone stirs the pot that this bum fuck, country-ass, cousin-humping yokel can be bothered to spare his ‘divine’ presence for nothing more than a quick tug of the cock of his main bitch. This asshole has the audacity to appoint some smarmy fuck as his voice – this P. Thurston Devereaux, too much of a coward to voice his own opinions and actually take matters into his own hands. He’s completely ok with these two idiots driving the product into the ground, making it less than what it was and co-signing on whatever hair-brained scheme they’ve concocted to put over the useless fucks they’ve pegged as “special”. He’s fine with little things going beneath his notice. So long as he makes his own and gets what he wants, fuck everyone else. It’s disappointing, really. I expect better from this man whom I personally know to be more creative and more compassionate than this and yet he fails to reach those simple expectations. The straw that broke the camel’s back was a single event. One event that opened my eyes to how much this company needs a detox.

The heinous beating of one Kiyoshi Ryu.



No one stopped it. No one decided “now might be a good time to cut the feed”. No one had the balls to step up and say “this is wrong”. Not one person. And why? Because this guy was a no-body. He was too beneath anyone’s notice to be anything but a bit player in FMW’s insatiable need to outdo the competition. Or is it more sinister than that? I’d like to hope it isn’t. But in my travels, I’ve come to learn things about this unhealthy company that would make your fucking head spin. I’ve come to see that the atrocity that this promotion has become allows for people such as myself or GSW or Harlequin and Mass Caesar even to tarnish its reputation with inflammatory remarks, gestures, actions - all for the sake of increased ratings and pay per view buys. I don’t blame Leviticus nor Jonathan King. Misguided though they are, they’re just guys trying to make a living. The industry is shady and the only way to often combat it, most people transforms themselves into something ugly. I don’t even believe GSW has a legitimate gripe. They’re being given the opportunity of a life time, having their bills paid, living their dream all the while pushing an agenda I’ve been saying since late 2007. I guess their pale imitation of the Last Militia should flatter me somehow but really, it doesn’t. I just shake my head and laugh at the unreached potential of one Matthew Philip Dunn whom I personally molded or how a god-fearing man like Leviticus is alright with using lies and slander to push an agenda that supersedes the worship of his deity. Gold Standard Wrestling is the fat, golden calf; a symbol of the prevalent paganism and idolatry rampant in FMW where everyone has come to view themselves as gods of their own twisted universes.

I wish I could say that I cared enough about Jonathan King to analyze his status in this song and dance but really, he’s the quintessential filler piece that encapsulates everything wrong with the current Full Metal Wrestling programming. He’s a boy struggling to ascertain personality and individuality amongst larger than life caricatures; dumb muscle seen only to fulfill the role of making the Gold Standard Wrestling movement look threatening. In their six or so months of existence, what exactly have they actually done to be characterized as threats? The answer is absolutely nothing. They aren’t threats. They’re sideshow attractions distracting you, the paying customer, from the real threats of this entire ordeal.

Harley Quint; a brilliant doctor driven by his addiction to his own madness. As I’ve already stated, he only finds purpose by unmaking creation. He is the Red Dragon - a figment in Drew Michaels growing religious based schizophrenia. The only things that motivate the Harlequin are wanton destruction, anarchy, and disorder. If FMW is the body, he is the venom coursing through its veins, thinning its life blood, and enhancing otherwise benign growths inside its infirm cadaver. His virulence has plagued us for years, lying in wait since the inception of this company for the right moments to catch the populace unaware and unprepared for his particular brand of dark “humor”. Often compared to the Joker, Harlequin is anything but that. The comparison is a lazy analogy made by people who don’t look beyond the surface of things. Harley Quint wants to be a good man. He wants to be able to successfully rehabilitate his image. He’s shown contrition. He’s shown repentance. The unfortunate truth is that he can’t help himself. Every time he settles in what people deem normalcy, it rattles him. He fears being ordinary. And he’s too in love with the feeling…the drunken stupor of blood lust.

Harley. We aren’t all that different. We both have seen shit in our lives to bring us to certain conclusions and various ultimatums. We both know the pain of loss. We both understand the monster’s inside us. But difference between us is that you deal in the naïve concepts of black and white – you’re a bad parody of Aidan in that respect; a twisted mirror image that still clings to the last remaining saving grace that a man is defined as either good or evil. The truth is far too horrifying for you to grasp and that’s why you embrace your break with reality. You choose to continue to deeply fuck your mind into oblivion, masking whatever internally troubles you and taking out your aggressions on the world that doesn’t understand you. You crave peace and crave love and crave understanding and that’s the basis of every conflict here, isn’t it Harles? The dichotomy of you wanting to be understood yet wanting to be special isn’t unique to you, old friend. You’re no different than Chris Austin who tries so desperately to be acknowledged and loved by someone. You’re no different than Nick Bryson who struggles to remove himself from the shadow of his more successful, more honorable cousin. You’re just like everyone else. You aren’t some kind of ascended form of sanity.

You’re just a bad joke attached to a weak punchline.

Just another poor me, guzzling the bountiful bosom of self-pity. Disgusting.



I’m hoping for a day where Full Metal Wrestling can be properly balanced. I’m praying with all my might that one day, I can leave and never have to come back. But now, FMW needs me. It sounds self-important and egotistical but it’s the truth. Someone needs to check these fools. Someone needs to tell them that we will no longer just settle for what they put in front of us and lap it up as holy, dogmatic writ. It takes someone who is fractured and broken to spot the glaring cracks in the foundation.




There is a social relevance to all of this. Beyond…wrestling. Beyond the twenty by twenty feet of steel mesh, canvas, wood slats, and springs. On the eve of Ultimatum, I’m presenting all of FMW with a final choice before this final crisis consumes what I once loved with such a feverant passion. You shouldn’t be subjected to a card where its deemed entertaining or ingenious to stick a bunch of newly formed tag teams and a few veterans in a tag team title match to make you think that the division is thriving. The C-4 Division shouldn’t have to be propped up by former main eventers to make you think that the title is anything more than a prop. The Ultraviolent Division shouldn’t have to have the same four guys competing in it that were competing in it a year ago, making you think that it’s a storied rivalry when in reality, you couldn’t give a shit less about the competitors in the match. Ammunition’s saving grace and primary selling point shouldn’t be cross promotion with a smaller federation looking to leech and feed off of the monolithic and biblical greatness that FMW has fashioned for itself over the years. Corruption shouldn’t be subjected to the terror of the Harlequin simply because ratings were in a temporary slump and the smiling face of a sadistic clown has been its staple for over two years. FMW shouldn’t feed into the madness of tyrants, despots, money grubbers, and psychopaths in order to mask the fact that it is struggling to maintain relevance in an era where wrestling is looked upon as a low brow form of entertainment. It should not have to cow-tow to fat cats who don’t know about the struggle, sacrifice, and burden it requires to be both an example, a showman, and a functional if not great competitor all at once. The fan base should not have to cheer for people they don’t care about and then boo people they care even less about so as to appease the writers, producers, road agents, and the talent themselves into thinking that the job they are doing is a good one.

But this is where we stand right now, isn’t it? Looking at the bottom of this empty bottle again, trying to restructure a company that needs "saving" every six months. Your prescription and devotion to this shell devoid of life both amuses me and saddens me. Because each and every one of you are searching so deeply for purpose inside a concoction that only dulls the pain temporarily. I know. Seth knows. We’ve both been where you sit now and believe me, it’s a fucking fight to keep ourselves from slipping into old, bad habits. Even now as we speak, we’ll probably lose this match. Another L in the loss column. And we’ll be expected to get on our hands and knees to beg for another opportunity to scratch this seven year itch. I’m fine with this. I’d rather be a man about my shit and earn my place back into this company. I’d rather not have gifts handed to me with strings attached, playing puppet to smug fucks who are too cowardly to step into the light and atone for their past wrong doing. I’m addicted to this game and I need to face these demons in order to overcome them. As I said, we’re all junkies. We’re all creatures of habit. We all are defined by the monotonous purpose of striving for shortly-sustained glory. Only my appetites as well as Seth’s have changed. We’re targeting these people who would have you delve deeper into their madness. And it starts with Harlequin and Mass Caesar.

I’ve got nothing against the other guy’s in this contest. There’s nothing personal about any of this. Most of y’all are good cats who are pawns in a bigger game. So sit back and relax. Here…have a sip of beer. Don’t worry about the cost.

‘Cause this round’s on me. Even if it kills me.

Segment opens showing an abandoned police station and OJA is standing in front of it

They say to always becareful for what you wish for, sometimes you just might get what you want. After taking time away to lick my wounds caused by a fall from glory at the hands of David GS. I am now well rested and ready to step back into the ring. After dusting myself off I am ready to begin my climb back to the top and the first rung is defeating Mark Johannson for the number one contender spot to take on the Television Champ. What ya'll don't understand is that it takes a lot to keep this ol' Outlaw down and it'll take even more to prevent me from accomplishing my goals. You look at the situation and can see the odds are against me. A rookie stepping into the ring against a well known FMW veteran whom has been around for close to two or three years. A man whom has well earned his spot in the lime light but has yet to actually hold any titles; however don't count this Texan out just yet, I have the heart and charisma to hold my own not to mention the support of my fans. I am ready to go out there and show the world what I am made of and show that I am an honorable man of my word that I am going to wrestle and perform like a true sportsman regardless of the outcome. Although I am aiming for a win... I will also be satisfied with earning my opponents respect and further respect of the locker room. Here I am six foot two.. one hundred and ninety five pounds full of heart and commitment. I am going to restore justice to FMW one match at a time. Ya'll have been warned.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

Leviticus is headed to Willams' office in GSW headquarters, but when he gets there he finds his tag team partner already there. Jonathon King and Williams are sitting on a low couch, hunched over piles of paperwork that are strewn over the table in front of them. As Levi walks through the door, he can barely catch the tail end of a conversation.

King: ….too many people. Even with all of the recommendations I've made, you can't support a company this size. You need to fire at least thirty people, or GSW will never get out of the red.

Williams: I've always been afraid of this, but I'll live. I'll let some of the dead weight go.

King: I'm sorry, but you have no choice.

Williams: Can't you just donate some more?

King: Williams.... You know I can't afford to keep this company up by myself. Our agreement when I first came in was that I would keep you from going bankrupt as long as you listened to me on financial matters.

Leviticus: Well, I never thought I'd hear those words coming out of your mouth.

King: Shit....

Leviticus: There is something that the fabulously wealthy Jonathon King can't afford?

King: Yeah, it's amazing. Only Dad can buy everything.

Leviticus: Well than why don't you get him to bail out the company?

King: Because I haven't spoken to him in 8 years now.

Leviticus: That would make it rather difficult to ask him for money.

Williams: If you guys don't mind, I have work to do.

King: Sure thing boss-man, we'll head out.

Leviticus: Yeah, I'll come back later. Right now, we have to get to the bar. Tiny is waiting for us.

King: Tiny?

Leviticus: Our new trainer, you're going to love him.

King: Why are we meeting our trainer at the bar? Shouldn't we meet at the gym?

Leviticus: Probably, but Tiny is a very unusual man....

* * * * * * * *

Jonathon and Leviticus make their way into the bar when they're accosted by a very large redneck.

http://slam.canoe.ca/Slam/Wrestling/Bios/bradshaw.jpg

Pulling them to the bar, the man yells to the bartender.

Tiny: 3 shots of whiskey!

King: Make one vodka, I'm not much of a whiskey man.

Leviticus: And I don't drink.

Tiny: Well you guys are no fun. Alright barkeep, a Jack Daniels, an Absolut and a Diet Pepsi.

King: Fair enough. So I gotta ask, why am I meeting my wrestling coach in a bar?

Tiny: Because that's how you learn about people! I always say that a man with a drink in his hand is the most honest man you'll ever meet!

King: If you say so.

Tiny: Damn right.

* * * * *

Forty minutes later, Tiny and Jonathon are both very drunk, and Leviticus seems incredibly distant. He's turned to scowling into his drink and that hasn't escaped Tiny's notice.

Tiny: You, Leviticus, what crawled up in yer panties and died?

Leviticus: What?

Tiny: You've been scowling into your Pepsi for twenty minutes now, what's eatin' yer insides?

Leviticus: Why are we wasting time here? We have a title match the day after tomorrow, and you guys are drunk.

Tiny: Itsa personality exercize! I gotta learn about'cha before I train ya. Tell'em King!

King: Ever since I was a kid, I did shit myself. Since I was 19, I've done all of it drunk. I'm an incredibly lucid drunk.

Leviticus: You did shit yourself? Dude, you're a trust-fund baby.

King: Actually, no when I told Dad I wanted to wrestle, he disowned me. I've been on my own for going on 15 years now.

Leviticus: So how in the blue devil do you have all of that money.

King: heh, I'm a genius. I stole some of Daddy's money and turned it into a living, stocks, bonds, white collar crime, the works. But what I'm best at is consulting. People give me money to help them make money.

Leviticus: That seems difficult.

King: Yeah, I-

King is cut off in mid-stream by his phone ringing. Answering the phone he heads over to a quiet corner and talks for a few minutes, growing angrier and angrier. Finally he screams out “FUCK YOU!”, slams the phone and storms out the door. Leviticus rises to go after him, but Tiny pulls him back down.

Tiny: Whatever he just heard, he wants to think about it. Give him a while and we'll talk to him tomorrow.

Leviticus: That was surprisingly lucid of you Tiny.

Tiny: I know, now drive me home, I need to be at the gym early tomorrow.

Tiny tosses some bills on the bar and he and Leviticus head on out.

* * * * * * * * * *

Leviticus is working with Tiny early the next morning, doing some basic exercizes when King walks in. Calling a halt, Levi heads over to talk to him.

Leviticus: What is up with you man? Where'd you go last night?

King: It's my dad. He had another heart attack. Jade wants me to come home.

Leviticus: Well then what the hell are you still doing here? Get your ass back home!

King: No. Dad told me when I left that as long as I wanted to wrestle I would never be allowed back home, and we're both men of our words.

Leviticus: What?

King: He disowned me Levi. Dad cut me off, kicked me out and told me to never come back. I'll let the bastard die and never shed a tear.

Leviticus: You really have no love for your father?

King: Any love I had for him died with my mother. I won't even touch that bastards money anymore.

Leviticus: I'm sorry about your mother, how did she die?

King: Does it matter? She's dead and I'm not going back home.

Leviticus: Listen Jonathon, nothing is more important than family, you can't let your issues with your dad keep you from making it up.

King: Yes, I can.

Leviticus: Well than let me give you a more practical reason for going back. It's messing with your head, distracting you. If you go out there like this tonight, we are going to lose.

King: That's not my problem....

Without another word, King turns and exits the building.

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

Revelation 2:2
I know thy works, and thy labor, and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil: and thou hast tried them which say they are apostles, and are not, and hast found them liars:

**************************************************************************************

As I live and breathe
I'm watching, watching the world die
We greet this with apathy no longer

Consumed by self
We walk through each day
With no mind to deprivation and moral decay

We must destroy and rebuild
We must destroy and rebuild
For the sake of all, it starts with one
With one

**************************************************************************************

MARCH 1999

Leviticus sat at the lab table looking down at the frog in front of him. As he looked at the dead thing on the dissection tray in front of him he took a deep breath. Several people in his class had been looking forward to this day. Not him though, in fact he had been dreading it. The idea of cutting a body open and examining the inside of it didn’t sit well with him. He knew it was something he was going to have to deal with eventually, but he had spent most of his time trying not to think about it.

That led him to where he was now, staring at the dead frog on the table in front of him and the scalpel that sat beside it. He took a quick glance around the room and saw that several of the students were already eagerly cutting into their frogs. He also spotted the teacher who was walking around the room looking over his students work.

Teacher: Be careful not to cut yourself or damage your frog too severely. Mangling it will hurt your grade, and I am sure I don’t need to remind you that this lab counts toward twenty five percent of your quarter grade.

The teacher’s words sent a chill down Leviticus. Twenty five percent was a large part of the quarter grade. If he didn’t do this he may not be able to make up for the blow to his grades down the line. He looked down at the frog again and shook his head. Slowly he picked up the scalpel and took a deep breath.

Leviticus: Here goes nothing.

He placed the tip of the blade at the top of the frog’s chest and closed his eyes. He felt his hand pull the blade down the length of the frog and winced as he heard its chest open up. He sat there for a moment before opening his eyes and looking down at the frog.

As soon as he opened his eyes he saw something unusual about his frog, something the teacher hadn’t discussed when going over the procedure with them. He couldn’t help but focus on the strange, black, spongy, growth that covered the frog’s lungs. As he tried to figure out what it was he felt a hand pat his shoulder.

Teacher: Congratulations Levi, your’s has cancer.

**************************************************************************************

As I live and breathe
I'm watching, watching the world die
We greet this with apathy no longer

If we can’t break the silence (how can we survive?)
Search inside yourself (and know that you're alive)
We must break the silence
Now we are alive
Silent no longer

Make this world, take notice
The change is in our hands
The battle has just begun
We are not defeated

**************************************************************************************

SEPTEMBER 1991

Leviticus could barely see through all the tears in his eyes. His father was there with him trying his best to comfort him. He could feel the warmth of his father’s hug on the outside, but inside all he could feel was pain. His mother had been living with this condition for years; and though it was never easy his family had tried to carry on with a normal life. Every time he and his father sat in the hospital waiting room while his mother went through the chemo treatments he was reminded that it would never be normal. He lived in fear everyday of losing his mother, one of the biggest pillars in his life. She always did her best to reassure him but the fear never quite went away.

Things seemed to change after years of treatments though. The doctors informed them that the cancer that affected her cervix was in remission and there was a chance that through continued treatments that it could be purged altogether. This news had thrilled Leviticus, and offered him a new hope.

The hope wouldn’t last. In the last few months the cancer had come back stronger then ever and was doing its best to ravage his mother’s body beyond repair. His father had tried his best to hold the family together even as things became harder and harder. In the end though it didn’t change anything.

So now he sat in the hospital waiting room with tears in his eyes as he waited for the doctors to come out and give them some sort of news. He and his father had been to the chapel and prayed regularly for the Lord to do what was best for his mother. He knew in his heart that what was best for her was to be set free from the cancer, and he knew that there was only one way. In his mind though, he felt selfish. He didn’t want his mother to go. He didn’t want her to leave his life. He knew that things were out of his hands though, and that all he could really do was wait, hope, and pray.

The sound of the operating room door opening stirred Leviticus from his father’s embrace. His tear filled eyes watched the doctor as he walked over to the two of them. The doctor looked to Leviticus’s father and then to Leviticus. Leviticus could hardly contain himself as he waited for the doctor to speak. As soon as he did though Leviticus wished he had never heard what the doctor had to say.

Doctor: I’m sorry….

**************************************************************************************

If we can’t break the silence (how can we survive?)
Search inside yourself (and know that you're alive)
We must break the silence
Now we are alive
Silent no longer

With all that I am
I will lift my voice
To start this revolution
It starts today
And it starts with me
Time is no longer

With all I am
I will lift my voice
With all I am
It starts with me

**************************************************************************************

Cancer.

It’s an odd word isn’t it? A word that gets an immediate emotional response from those who hear it. It doesn’t matter if the response is one of sympathy for the ones affected by it or anger and pain from those who have suffered loss because of it; everyone has a response to it. And we seem to hear it more and more everyday.

As you just saw in the FMW financed glimpses into my past cancer is something that has plagued me for a good portion of my life. Sometimes I think that I am never going to be able to shake it.

Before I get too far ahead of myself though, let’s go back to the beginning.

It wasn’t very long ago that I was just another overlooked indy talent. I went out night after night and did my best to put on a good show for the crowds that didn’t even fill those high school gyms, hoping that I wasn’t out there doing it all for nothing. Sure, fans would come up to me after the matches and voice their appreciation for what I was doing, and it meant a lot every time they did. As much as their words meant to me I often questioned what I was doing. I didn’t question it in terms of should I, or how well I was, but rather how much good was I really doing. So I did the only thing I could do, I kept going out and doing my thing.

All my doubts were put to rest when I was contacted by J. Wroland Williams, the owner of GSW. Apparently he had attended one of the small shows I had performed at and was impressed with my talent. We talked for a long time. We talked about life, we talked about wrestling, and we talked about Florida. By the time we were done talking he offered me a contract to be a member of the GSW roster.

It didn’t take long for me to pack up the contents of my small apartment, get in my packed car, and head out toward Florida and the future.

As soon as I arrived in the arena for my first GSW show I saw that things were different. They had gotten bigger somehow. I felt overwhelmed and out of place. Lucky for me there was someone there who took the time to help me out. That someone was Jeff Whitt. Contrary to what you see on TV Jeff is a great guy. He took the time to introduce me to the rest of the locker room, the commentators, the announcers, and even the guys who put up the ring. I will never forget what Jeff did that day, reaching out his hand to a rookie like that. That day was the day I met one of my best friends.

As I performed with GSW I stepped my game up to a whole new level. After all I had a bigger stage and I wanted to knock the crowd’s socks off. Now while I was officially a member of the GSW roster I requested the ability to go and do benefit shows. By benefit shows I mean I would wave my pay and donate it to a good cause.

I felt so much better about life at that point. Not only was I performing in front of much larger crowds I was helping out people who needed it. I didn’t think things could get much better.

A few months later I was called into a meeting with Williams. As I sat there in his office he informed me that GSW was having some financial issues due to the waning interest in wrestling. I offered to wrestle for free but Williams wouldn’t have it. He told me that each and every person in the company deserved to get paid and that he would find another way. He told me that he just wanted me to know in case something went wrong.

As I left the office that day I made up my mind, I was going to go out there every night and give a performance that would draw the crowds in. I was going to leave it all in the ring and get the crowds so excited about my matches that they would come back week after week just to see me perform. I knew that I wouldn’t be the only one thinking like this, and I wasn’t. So each and every member of the GSW roster went out at each show and gave their all. The fans kept coming back just like we hoped for, but it appeared as though our television contract was in a bit of trouble.

A few weeks later Williams sent out a memo to the roster explaining that, with the help of another organization, he had come up with a possible plan to help pull GSW out of the rough times it was going through. In this memo he informed us that some scouts from that other organization were going to be attending some of our shows and approaching some of us for a program to be run in the future.

**************************************************************************************

Break the silence
Break the silence
Break the silence
We are alive

**************************************************************************************

I’ll never forget the way it felt when Drew Michaels and Chris Austin approached me after a show and told me that they liked what they saw. As I stood there stunned by their praise they asked me if I would like to be part of the program Williams had been talking about. Without missing a beat I said yes.

A week or two later I sat in a meeting room at GSW headquarters and listened while Drew, Chris, Romeo, and Jaro himself laid out the details of the plan. They wanted us to “invade” FMW. They felt as though it would create good television and help boost our brand name. They also said that they wanted us to enter FMW with some credibility. Part of that credibility would be putting the Light Heavyweight Championship around my waist.

By the time the meeting was over myself and a handful of other GSW employees were now signed to two different companies. Personally, I couldn’t have been happier. They even let me win the Light Heavyweight Championship at a benefit show while they filmed it. So with the angle set in motion all of us who had been signed got ready to do our best to help both companies look good.

Then things changed.

I was told that they wanted to hold off on me revealing my allegiance to GSW for a bit. Knowing that eventually I would get to stand with my GSW brothers I agreed. I knew that while I waited I could go out and gain more credibility that would be helpful when I “officially” joined up with GSW.

While I continued to do my best to gain some ground in FMW I watched the other initial invader, Jeff Whitt, with great enthusiasm.

What I saw shocked me. Jeff went out there and proudly promoted GSW just like had been planned. He played a top notch heel, just like had been discussed. And do you know what FMW did to Jeff for doing what he was supposed to do?

They buried him.

Match after match, angle after angle, Jeff was made to look like a fool. I petitioned the FMW heads to let me join Jeff in hopes that together we could save the angle we had put so much hope in. I also suggested that maybe we could bring in some more talent for our side and maybe even have a defector or two. Lucky for me they agreed.

Or so I thought.

We were allowed to bring in talent that was selected by FMW. That talent included Kayden Osiris, and Jon King. Granted they were great additions to our team, but they weren’t the only ones we wanted. We wanted Twitch, Max and Wyld Chylde to. When they first told us no I questioned the decision, wondering what the logic was behind it.

Now I know. They took one look at Twitch, Max and Wyld Chylde and saw how talented they are and thought to themselves, “Well gee whiz, those guys are pretty good. We can’t let them come here; they’ll make us look bad.”

But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

They gave us a list of defectors to help offset the members they had rejected. The list included Matt Dunn, Cactus Sam, Seth Omega, Damien Fox, Craig Ryans, Steve Storme and Storm. Now let’s take a look at what happened with each of them shall we?

Matt Dunn - Part of the GSW invasion

Cactus Sam - Removed from the invasion before the writers could even plan how to bring him in

Seth Omega - FMW decided he was too big of a star to affiliate with GSW

Damien Fox - Released from FMW before he could be introduced into the angle

Craig Ryans - FMW decided that his money shouldn’t be wasted on our angle

Steve Storme - Released from FMW before he could be introduced into the angle

Storm - Was brought in as part of the GSW invasion, started to gain ground and popularity, pulled from the invasion and saddled with a ridiculous gimmick and made part of a bottom rung tag team

As you can see the invasion was off to a great start. Despite this we still went out there and did our best to try and work with what we had. As they continued to bury Jeff, they gave me a shred of credibility when they had me defend the Light Heavyweight Championship against a woman. A woman. Really? Is that the best they could do for us? Well shortly after that they decided to take me and my credibility, and feed me to their golden boy David Smith.

It was in a losing effort I was allowed to “join” GSW.

Now I would be remiss if I failed to mention GSW’s feud with the Comeback Kids. You know the feud that went absolutely nowhere.

So here we were, looking like garbage, but still trying to play ball. We held onto the hope that things would get better with Mount Vesuvius on the horizon.

We were wrong again.

Sure they booked it where I had the most eliminations during the match. Sure they made me look like a legitimate threat for a moment. But, just like before they took all my momentum and fed me to another golden boy, this time Nick Bryson.

At this point several of us were angry with the way the invasion was being handled, and a few of us voiced this opinion. Doing what they do best FMW promised us that we were about to get a big push. That push involved all of us being put into the tag tam scramble match at No Holds Barred. We thought that maybe this time FMW would make good on their promises to us. We though that surely with every member of the invasion in the match we would walk out with the Tag Team Championship in our possession.

The day of No Holds Barred we were informed that the finish of the match had been changed and that the Together Demons were set to win the scramble.

So, we did what we always do. We played ball and tried to look good while doing so.

After the pay per view was over I went back to my hotel room and thought about the whole invasion angle and how badly FMW had bungled it. It was then the truth finally hit me.

FMW didn’t want to help GSW. They wanted to consume it.

That was why they made us look so bad while holding themselves up as so superior. They figured that if they looked like the superior product then the GSW fans would turn away from us and join the Full Metal Militia. In doing this they figured they would be able to take advantage of our financial troubles and purchase GSW lock, stock, and barrel.

At that moment I saw FMW for what it truly was: a black mark on professional wrestling as a whole that was willing to use cut throat methods to expand their base. They were willing to kill us so that they could grow.

You know what else kills while it grows?

Cancer.

That’s right ladies and gentlemen, FMW is a cancer. Normally I would see this as another crippling setback in my life. However, Matt Dunn has taught me something: cancer can be overcome.

So that is where I am right now. I stand here on the verge of Ultimatum III, the biggest show on the FMW calendar. I’ve been told by members of FMW that I should feel privileged and honored to even be on the card. I don’t though. To me it’s just another show.

At the same time though it’s a new beginning.

Tonight I stand ready with the golden blade of GSW, ready to start cutting away the cancer that is FMW from professional wrestling. Tonight, if FMW booking holds to form, Jon and I are slated to lose the Tag Team Championship match. I may go out there and play ball one last time, for old time’s sakes. Then again, I may forget the booking entirely and go for the win no matter what the booking is. One thing is for sure though; tonight I plan on hurting someone.

Now I am sure some of you are sitting there wondering, “Isn’t that an awfully big risk for a company that is hurting financially?”

Well, to those people I something to say.

My partner in the Tag Team Championship match tonight, Jon King, is a financial whiz. He has been talking to Williams and between the two they have managed to pull GSW out of all of its financial issues.

While this is a relief to me personally, it also brings a new found freedom. You see with our finances in order the members of GSW need no longer be beholden to FMW in any way. We can go out there and do what we had intended to do from the beginning, make GSW look good.

Granted, I’m fairly sure FMW is going to try and stop us from doing that by any means possible. In fact, I bet there are some higher ups in FMW who are pretty mad that I am exposing the truth of things to the public.

**************************************************************************************

Break the silence
Break the silence
Break the silence
We are alive

**************************************************************************************

So FMW, what are you going to do about it, fire me?

Go ahead fire me. I want you to. I’m begging you to. Set me free from your cesspool of a company and let me go back home to a place where wrestling is still more important then greed and selfishness. Let me return to the place where the fans are intelligent and appreciate what we do. End my contract with FMW so I can go back to GSW on a full time, in ring basis. Please, fire me.

When you do though consider this; you will just be proving everything I have had to say here true. You will be exposing yourself as the monster that you are.

Then again, if you let me stay know full well that GSW will be a bigger thorn in your side then ever. We won’t play ball anymore. We will go out there and show the entire world what we can do. We will make you look bad. We will cut the cancerous growth that you have become away from professional wrestling one show at a time.

So FMW, what are you going to do about it?

It doesn’t matter really. Because, no matter what you do it won’t change the mission.

GSW is saved. Now FMW must die.

Full Metal Wrestling Presents:
Ultimatum III


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