Ammunition 14.1 Voting and Promo Thread

Good Evening, Class.

After Ultimatum 3, where I for lack of a better term annihilated David GS, I realize that now the time has come. The Full Metal Wrestling Heavyweight Championship beckons. I must answer the call and I start with humiliating…

Really? Are you kidding me? You’ve thrown me in a tag match against Drew Michaels and Faith, with Abel frickin’ Steele as my partner? How incompetent are you monkeys? Again I ask; who books this crap?

Why team me with one of my punching bags, to take down Drew Fucking Michaels and a woman, hmm? Why place me in such a disadvantageous position, KNOWING I have my sights set on the FMW Championship, KNOWING that it eats at Abel that I own him?

It’s as if you don’t want me to succeed.

… OHHHHHH… I get it, I get it now.

Is that it, FMW? Do you want me to fail? You don’t want someone like me to be classified as a main eventer, do you? The 2010 Superstar of the Year, two-time Hayabusa Cup Champion, former Tag Team and C-4 Heavyweight Wrestling Champion, simultaneously I may add?

No, it can’t be that right? But I want you to know something. These little games that you’re playing? All they’re really doing is pissing me off. When I get pissed off, bad things happen to people.

Ask Hostyle, Romeo, Smitten and David. You may have to ask Faith and Drew, possibly Abel after this match is over.

Now, instead of competing for the top prize, I should be meandering around against FMW’s premier Golden Boy and a hot piece of ass who only got the job because what TyranT termed as “standing on mah own” was actually bending over and vigorously French-kissing the executives’ collective asshole.

FMW, clearly you don’t respect me because I’ll never be the superstar that every other FMW champion was or is. All of these people had a quality which endeared them to those seeking to be entertained. Bryson, Derrick and Black were charismatic; Drew and Scorpio were leaders. Hannibal and TyranT were relatable, Hostyle was a crowd-pleaser. Smitten, much like Alex O’Rion was a “long time coming” success story. Of course, they had two of the three worst reigns in the book.

I will not pander to or charm you. I do not fancy myself a Messiah. A champion does not need to be a Messiah. He has no equal. He should be pandered to, not the other way around.

As it were, Drew Michaels knows I can beat him. As for Faith, well if I can help it I will not strike that woman. Grapples, holds, slams and whatnot are a different matter entirely. She’s out of her element with daddy on the shelf and literally has no say in what happens in this match. As for Abel, well once again I’m going to make him famous by winning a match involving him.

Drew, I know you feel all high and mighty since you’ve “vanquished” TyranT, and you always have your sights set on the FMW title. Newsflash, Michaels; until Ultimatum 3 you had done nothing to garner such an opportunity. You’ve been leeching off of a magical roll in 2007 that you’ve yet to recapture. Your biggest win until TyranT was Abel Steele and if you saw the match, you’d know that he quit towards the end. Michaels, I beat you once, I’ll do it again.

As for Faith… well she’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know she is quite adept at this due to her training with Skyler, but you know what the problem is? People take her lightly. People continue to see her for who she is. I won’t make that mistake. You step in this ring and I will treat you every one should see you as, like your father saw you as: A stepping stone, someone in my way that needs to be expelled.

When that bell rings, Drew and Faith will represent two things wrong with FMW in my eyes: Succeeding based on your connections and coasting mostly off of currently inconsequential matters.

FMW, note how serious this matter is. I reiterate that no matter what question you pose to me, Chris Austin, R.C.A., King of FMW… One way or another I will answer it correctly. I will succeed despite your efforts to throw me off, even if you change the question, as you have now. You can throw these idiotic detours and these pointless roadblocks at me all you want. It won’t change anything.

Ask Drew, Abel, Smitten, Harlequin, Leon and the rest of the fools who ignorantly conjured up the mere THOUGHT that they could actually stop this train. I am the Student of the Game and no test, quiz or diversion can keep me from the throne. I DARE you to think otherwise. Ask yourself, class, REALLY ask yourself… what can you do about it?

Well Drew, your partner has the right idea. Shut up, take this loss and like it. Hell, if Abel steps out of line I’ll break him too, fella.

I’m done playing your silly little game FMW. It’s about time you started to play MY game.

Class Dismissed.




Father’s Day is not as celebrated as Mother’s Day, primarily because a mother is less likely to abandon a child I guess. However I was “lucky” enough to have both of my parents in my life. My dad was a hard-ass, yes, but due to his obligations with the military, I didn’t see him for more than 18 to 24 months at a time.

I can say this, when he was there, well he wasn’t a bad parent. Mom was different, an angel in every sense of the word. Maybe she contributed to my current views on women.

Yes, I have had bad instances with women before, shit happens. Doesn’t mean I hate women in general. Just means that some of these pieces of shit can’t be trusted and are better served on their backs or knees. However, despite what my father did, Father’s Day is his day.

So I decided to pay him a visit. See how he and James were doing. I wasn’t really sure what to get him; after all he’s always been relatively low-maintenance. In the end I decided on an autographed Tim Lincecum jersey and a Giants game.

The following silence was largely overwhelming and constant, periodically broken apart by the crack of a bat or eruption of cheers. I was not sure if I actually love him as a father anymore. I respect him, though. At least I think I do. But… eventually we did talk. It started out civil but it degenerated into a huge war of words.

He said that I had changed for the worse. Apparently he’s been watching me on TV and was disappointed in what I had become: a largely emotionless hard-ass with no real tolerance for those who don’t try and those who don’t respect themselves or what they do.

In sum, I became what I saw him as, but more apathetic and violent. He said that I didn’t know when to allow my emotions to dictate my actions. He said that if I couldn’t control them, they’d control me and that suppressing them isn’t the same as controlling them.

I retaliated by saying that if he could control his emotions, I’d be the father to the young boy that is my brother. Yet, I am not. He said that I needed to get over it, mistakes happen. It put a knot in my stomach and lacerated my soul that he dismissed what should have been the greatest moment in my life, I told him to shut the fuck up.

He then grew upset, citing that the son he raised knew better than to talk to him like that. I said that mom raised me more than he did, after all his job usually came first.

Surprisingly, instead of smacking the shit out of the back of my head as per the norm in my younger days, He said he didn’t want it to be that way but it had to be in order to keep my mother and me safe from harm, whatever that means. Apparently his job came first because his family came first.

I called bullshit, and just stared at him, venomously. Things grew a bit more somber after that but, I can remember him saying that he was sorry I felt neglected. Figures. I left him with a half-hearted wish of Happy Father’s Day. Not the way I wanted the day to go at all.




I still have to meet with Nicole, ahem, Detective Hunter, concerning that case involving the bitch named Kylie, which I truly don’t care about anymore, as well as the whole Black Mambas incident. I could easily take care of these things myself but I want to do things the right way.

In my line of work, the “right way” is useless. I seem to wrestle in a federation where the majority of the top-tier talent prioritizes something else outside of wins and losses. This practice is completely asinine.

You can have your heroism, your good deeds or your vendettas. What people don’t understand is that the history books themselves don’t significantly document anything outside of you winning or losing.

Sure, the loser himself or herself remembers the manner in which he or she lost but who cares? It is yet another reason why I feel disrespected. With that said, Detective Hunter just walked into the bustling coffee shop. Detective Couture is with her. Meh.

“Good Afternoon, Detectives.”

“Hello, Chris. As I have said before, no need to be so formal all the time.”

“Can’t help it. Allows me to keep distance.”

“Why do you need to do that, exactly?”

If I were to be honest, I feel that maintaining professionalism helps me to avoid befriending her in any fashion, despite the fact that we’ve shown common interests and see each other frequently. It dawns on me that maybe we are friends. She doesn’t come off as the kind of person I could have fun with just by sitting around and ragging on one another, but maybe she is.

She’s no Hostyle, no Chris Kelson, no Alex O’Rion. I guess he was good for something after all.

It’s here where the tag-along perks up.

“So, Mr. Austin, we’ve done some investigation and we’ve made some head room with the Black Mambas. We’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

“Ask away.”

“Good. Well, we found some tire tracks at the first crime scene and…”

“What do you mean first crime scene?”

“We discovered another member of the now-defunct Black Mambas in another alley about four or five blocks southwest of the first crime scene recently. It’s possible that they may be related.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah… anyway, I noticed that the tires on your vehicle closely resemble the pattern we found. So my question is, is there anything that you want to tell us?”

“Occasionally I frequent alleys for quiet time. Now what are you driving at exactly?”

“I think that you had more to do with the Black Mambas than you let on.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“I see. Detective Couture… is it safe to assume that your guys analyzed and tested those tire tracks to see how old they were?”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

“They were roughly four to five months old, Mr. Austin.”

I’ve had my tires changed since then, how dumb does he think I am?

“Now, based on the news coverage, that heinous crime took place in December, which falls outside of that time period, correct?”

The piss-stain’s face reddens in embarrassment as Detective Hunter looks at me inquisitively. She has a really attractive pair of green eyes but now I must focus on her words so she may not deceive me.

“Explain how you knew that.”

“One of the department’s lab interns frequents the gym where I’ve done a few workouts. Strike up a conversation and eventually, occupations come up and so on.”

I recall this particular lab rat being rather promiscuous but I didn’t need to take advantage of such a guaranteed bedpost notch. But if the mood strikes she gave me her number. I wonder if anyone would miss her if she were to suddenly disappear.

“This lab intern’s name is?”

“I do not want to cost anyone their job or internship.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Couture utters. “We’ll find out on out own.”

“Any other questions, Detectives?”

“No,” Couture says.

“Well, I bid you two adieu. Cup of coffee for your troubles?”

“If you insist,” Hunter says. Couture rolls his eyes.

You know, I sense a bit of sexual tension between Couture and Hunter. Odd given that Couture is married judging by his wedding band.

“I’ll be in the car,” Couture mutters. He then leaves, allowing me and Nicole… no, Detective Hunter, to talk on our way to the counter. We discuss how pissy Couture gets when things don’t go his way; she says I brought his asshole sort of behavior on myself. I barely remember what we discussed after that, as something more troubling ran through my mind.

Momentarily I saw myself coming home being barely able to move out of exhaustion, but something really soft and warm comes along, holds you around the neck and places a smooth, inviting cheek against yours. Then everything is alright, damn near non-existent.I imagined her being my comfort, if only for just a moment in time where my personal expectations and concerns cease to exist.

I enjoy what I’ve worked myself into, yes. I do not feel weighed down, but a new sensation wouldn’t be turned away. It would be nice from time to time if…

But would I allow myself to give in to my emotions, and in a sense become human like the rest of you; Troubled, Lacking Focus?

I felt myself beginning to slip at No Holds Barred and while at Ultimatum I was more of myself, it is no secret that I’ve always had my worst professional stretches when I spend most of my out of ring time chasing after women who I thought I loved or had taken a fancy to.

It’s only a woman’s touch. I can get it when it is an emergency, which usually amounts to nailing the first thing I see and sneaking out later that night. Lately, the quality of said coital relations has very much suffered. Mediocre effort in my case equals mediocre pussy.

I may be looking in the wrong place but the more effort I put into this, the less effort I devote to being the best wrestler in FMW.

I can’t allow that and I can’t become ‘normal’: willing and able to feel and be felt, to love and be loved, to suffer and cause suffering. When I feel, I weaken. I have too many points to prove, believers to remake of people to risk that.

On the plus side, in misconstruing my words for an invitation for a night out, she’s made it clear that it is not in her immediate interest to be in a relationship with me. Citing her work and how I relate to it, she quickly stated that it would not work.

I’ll keep her where she wants to be, just on good terms. Yet I find myself continuing to shoot the shit with her. All I can do is think that if this additional conversing outside of work isn’t what is best for me, my career or my life… then why am I still here?




I sit outside my father’s home, in the driveway, twirling around a small razor blade in my hands.

No, I’m not going to cut myself but I just wonder what would possess people to actually resort to personal loss, in order to bring about an idea of gain. As you feel the sting of the blade run across your fingers, the muscles in your face spasm into a grimace, your brain wonders what the fuck you are doing then just like that, that inattentive slut is inconsequential. Those past due bills don’t matter.

The hug and adulation that you’d have killed for can no longer compare to the twisted feeling of pleasure that you experience when your life force runs from your body, down your wrist onto the ground. It’s like your body is having a happy cry, but the tears are only temporary.

Then it’s back to the shitty life. The cycle grows repetitive, your body cries more, more tear ducts pop up and then, you’ve cried yourself into a peaceful slumber, as an upset child would but unlike you, the child would eventually wake up.

This reinforces why emotions are fucking useless. They make you do stupid shit; occasionally for the better, usually for the worse. I laugh reassuringly, as I’ll never be burdened with the cross of humanity.

As it were, I’ve decided to bury our hatchet for him. Me, I don’t care but hey… he’s my dad. I walk to the door, I knock and there’s no answer. I use the spare key hidden behind the mailbox and let myself in.

“Dad…” I calmly say. “Let’s talk.”

There is no answer. I go to the kitchen to get a drink and it’s ransacked. I walk slowly to survey the damage but I almost fall over something. What the hell happened?

DAD?

He’s not moving, in a puddle of blood. I kneel down involuntarily and I turn him over. His chest faintly rises and falls, my heartbeat increases, I can feel my eyes widen as I ask him what happened while I attempt to stop the bleeding. There’s so much of it.

Not him, not now. He deserves better… he’s got a young boy to care for, a life to actually enjoy.

His eyes flutter open like the wings of a hummingbird and I can see that the life is all but gone from his blue eyes. He reaches towards my face, hand trembling; His hand falls down to his side, the last time I saw that, David GS had been ruled unable to continue. I can’t seem to focus on him; I keep looking around hoping to see something out of the ordinary.

“Ch- Christopher, no… I’m…”

Why is he trying to talk? He should save his energy. What looks to be a gunshot wound, among other injuries that are common in a scuffle hasn’t killed him. SHUT UP. Let me get you some help. I can see myself reaching for my phone, I see myself press nine, then one twice.

“proud of.. ya-you… no matter…

…wha-what…”

He exhales slowly. Stay with me, dad. Then it hits me what he just said. He said he was proud of me. In a man’s darkest times he can truly be honest, and he said that no matter what, he was proud of what I had become, even though I’m everything he didn’t want me to be.

I get this weird feeling in my throat, like my heart’s caught. Is this panic? Everything’s moving so fast. So many things go through my mind: Why… who… what… I don’t… I feel something breaking inside of me and then a pang of discomfort all over my body. What is this feeling and why is it happening to me?

Make it stop, Austin, you’re stronger than this.

But I can’t… it starts to hurt.

It hurts so, so bad.

Act One - Glory Shall Wave...

OJA: Home of the brave, land of the free and not afraid to shove a boot up your ass if you're feelin froggy. I have had the honor to serve and stand beside noble men. Warriors who've laid their lives on the line for not only their brothers in arms but for the country they love and vowed to protect. You see Killswitch i've heard about you. How much you hate the United States. How much you hate any American whom even looks at you or even acknowledges you. Well i've had enough and have asked the FMW management for a piece of your sorry ass.

I should let you know what you're bad mouthing. A Nation whom has always stood up for the weak. A Nation whom has never went looking for a fight but will never back down from one against evil. We all stand united, ready and willing to protect our beloved Country. Can you say the same? All you preach is hate. We promote democracy and freedom. Ya see hoss. This Texan may of cleaned up his act but I am still not afraid to get my hands dirty for a noble cause. I can guarantee that you will look up and see Ol' Glory flying high and hear the National Anthem filling the arena. My skills are sharp, my blade even sharper. Ol' Glory shall forever fly. Ol' Glory shall forever wave! I sit and think to myself. Am I ready to stand up and fight for what I believe. Am I ready to shed blood for others and protect their beliefs and most importantly protect the liberties of the United States. I only have two words to answer that... SEMPER FI!!
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Act Two - Rockets Red Glare

OJA: Ah yes a nice cigar is the way to calm the mood before a big match... Even if it is just the opening match each match is one in the same. It's how you work it. How you play the fans. Well I am here to say that the only thing I hold against Canada is Killswitch. I am not going to get on the mic and insult a country because of one person. If I were to do that I would reduce myself to Killswitch's level and childish antics. While he bashes the country I love, the country I served, the country I fought for all I do is shrug it off and prepare to show him what America has to offer. He may think that he has me beat but it is all in psychology. I am going to get inside his mind and change his opinion on the United States. The first step is him singing the National Anthem. After a good ol' fashioned school of hard knocks lesson Killswitch will see why the United States will still stand strong and tall no matter who berates her..

Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called when you made your good confession in the presence of many witnesses.
1 Timothy 6:12

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The Future

Dewi sat in the locker room taping his wrists. Everything he had done for the majority of his adult life had led to this moment. He was the third generation product of two former professional wrestlers who had to scrape and claw his way up the ladder on his skill alone. It had taken him years but he was finally here, just minutes away from his first ever main event. The only thing that made it better was the fact that he had come home to experience the biggest highlight of his career.

He tore the tape and slapped it down on his wrist. A smile of satisfaction came over his face as he drove his right fist into his left palm.

Dewi: Tonight is my night.

He sat there for a moment and really let the anticipation rush over him. This was it, his ultimate test, his biggest moment, and the culmination of everything he had ever worked for all packed into one point in time.

Leviticus: Yes it is.

Dewi almost jumped, but didn’t as a second after he heard the voice of his mentor he realized who it was.

Dewi: Levi, I didn’t even hear you come in man.

Dewi stood up and walked over to the man who had been with him on this journey for so long. Leviticus had done so much to help him get to where he was now, and he couldn’t be happier he was here now. Dewi threw his arms around Leviticus and the two shared a brotherly embrace. A few moments later the two men broke apart and Leviticus surveyed his student.

Leviticus: Look at you. Look at you. A big shot, a main event guy, and you even look the part.

Dewi shook his head.

Dewi: I wouldn’t if it wasn’t for you. I just wish mom and dad could be here tonight.

The words barely had time to travel across the room when Dewi got his wish. His father, Bryan “The Dragon” Cyrus; and his mother, Kitty Hawk Cyrus stepped into the locker room. If anyone had been more instrumental in his development it would have to be the two people who brought him into this world. Kitty walked over and placed a soft kiss on her son’s cheek as Bryan patted him on the shoulder.

Bryan: Looks like you made it kid.

Dewi looked at three of the biggest influences in his life standing there in front of him, but found it to be a little difficult considering his vision was being blurred by the tears of joy that were creeping up in the corners of his eyes. As he saw them all standing there looking at him with such hope in their eyes he couldn’t help but remember some of the events that had brought them all together.

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The Past

Leviticus drove his fist into the bag in front of him just like his dad had shown him. His knuckles bit into the canvas and the bag absorbed the blow. Leviticus wasted no time in delivering a second blow to the bag, followed by a third and a fourth in rapid succession. The bag swung slightly as he took another deep breath and drove his fist into the canvas one more time. The bag continued to swing as Leviticus looked at it and smirked. There was always something liberating about pummeling a heavy bag, but it was even more liberating since this was his first time to do it as an employee of Gold Standard Wrestling. He took one last look at the bag and headed back toward the bench he had sat his water on. He reached down and grabbed the bottle of water and twisted the top off of it. As he lifted the bottle to his lips he saw someone approaching him. He had seen this person in the gym on his first tour of it but hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with him, but it looked like that was about to change.

Bryan: You must be the new kid.

Leviticus lowered the bottle and smiled and nodded. The man standing in front of him was named Bryan, but most people knew him better as The Dragon. He had heard about Bryan prior to joining GSW, and with good reason. Bryan had been instrumental in the success of XCA, the company that had since become GSW. Bryan’s career in XCA had led him to quite the list of accolades. He had been a multiple time Tag Team Champion, a Triple X Champion, a United States Cruiserweight Champion, and had even become a mainstay in the main event scene. Leviticus knew that this man taking an interest in him was quite an honor. Leviticus stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

Leviticus: Yes sir, I am. Name’s Leviticus.

Bryan took his hand and shook it firmly.

Bryan: Glad to meet you Leviticus. My name is Bryan, and I couldn’t help but notice you attempting to put your fist through that bag over there.

Leviticus grinned and looked toward the floor.

Leviticus: Just something my daddy taught me.

Leviticus raised his head and saw that Bryan was grinning to.

Bryan: You nervous kid?

Leviticus wasn’t sure how to answer the question. It was obvious that he was, but he wasn’t sure if he should let it show. He looked at Bryan, who was standing there waiting for an answer. So Leviticus answered the best way he knew how, he told the truth.

Leviticus: Yes sir.

Bryan chuckled lightly and patted Leviticus on the shoulder.

Bryan: Don’t worry, I was to.

Leviticus smiled. He had just met Bryan and he liked him already.

Bryan: Looks like you’re coming kind of like I did.

Leviticus cocked his head to the side.

Leviticus: What do you mean?

Bryan let go of Leviticus’s hand and took a step back.

Bryan: When I first started here I wasn’t a wrestler. I was just a guy who had done a lot of martial arts. I had watched wrestling my whole life so getting the chance to actually do it was like a dream come true. The first time I stepped into this gym though, I was scared out of my mind.

Leviticus nodded.

Leviticus: I hear that. So how did you overcome it?

Bryan’s smile faded, replaced by an expression that let Leviticus know that what he was about to say was serious.

Bryan: I just went in there and did it.

Leviticus stood there for a moment and though about what Bryan had to say. The more he thought about it the more sense it made.

Leviticus: Then that is what I’m going to do.

Bryan’s smile returned.

Bryan: Good, because as of this moment you are my personal project. I’m going to train you to go into that ring and give the crowds exactly what they want.

Leviticus looked at Bryan in shock. He was absolutely honored that Bryan would take his progression on as a personal project, but he had one question.

Leviticus: What about Crusoe?

Bryan shook his head.

Bryan: Oh, he’ll work with you to. It’s just that training someone with a combat background is different then training someone who doesn’t have one. I know what it takes, and I’m going to show you.

Leviticus couldn’t contain his smile.

Leviticus: Thank you sir.

Bryan shook his head again and waved the comment off with his hands.

Bryan: No problem. Now, let’s go hit that bag again, and I’ll show you a thing or two.

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The Present

Leviticus was furious. He had worked so hard to really make some headway in their efforts against FMW, but yet again they had ended in failure. He wanted to go out there in front of a worldwide audience and make GSW look like the superior product it was, but thus far he hadn’t done a very good job of it. He and King hadn’t gotten the job done at Ultimatum and he wasn’t very happy about it. He walked the halls of the GSW training center, the Fallout Shelter, with his fist clenched at his side and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He watched as each person he walked past turned their gaze away from him. He wasn’t sure if they were ashamed or afraid to look at him. It didn’t matter really. What did matter was that he had to fix the pressing issue at hand, and that issue was simple, GSW needed a big win for their claims of superiority to be taken seriously.

The door to the training center swung open in front of Leviticus. It was the weekend and he knew that there wouldn’t be too many people training this early in the morning. Normally he wouldn’t either but his frustration had kept him from sleeping well. He looked out at the empty gym and felt a smirk come over his face.

Leviticus: Let’s do this.

He walked over toward the area where the bags were hanging and smiled. He shifted his shoulder and let the duffel back slide toward the floor. As soon as it hit he knelt down and unzipped the bag and his hand went searching through the contents inside. He quickly located what he was looking for. He pulled out the fist wraps and began to wind them around his fists and wrists. A few moments later he was ready to tear into the canvas bag but the sound of the gym door opening stopped him.

Leviticus: No one is here this early on a weekend.

The words came out as a slight whisper as his eyes quickly went over to the door. Standing in the doorway was Bryan, who was holding the door open for someone. That some one turned out to be Bryan’s nine year old son, Dewi. The young boy rushed into the gym with an enthusiastic shout. Bryan smiled at his son’s glee.

Bryan: Alright Dewi go get changed and we’ll run some drills.

Dewi looked at his dad a smiled broadly.

Dewi: Yes sir.

Dewi ran toward the locker room as fast as his little legs could take him. Bryan watched his son and as soon as the door shut he scanned the training center. It didn’t take him long to spot Leviticus over by the training bags.

Bryan: How goes it Levi?

Leviticus could hardly look at the man who had done so much to help his career. He could hear Bryan’s footsteps and knew his friend was coming over to check on him. He didn’t want to look at him but knew that he had to face him eventually. Leviticus lifted his head and saw that Bryan was standing in front of him.

Bryan: I saw your match at Ultimatum.

Leviticus scowled at the mention of his failure.

Leviticus: What about it?

Bryan smiled.

Bryan: You did good.

Leviticus’s eyes narrowed.

Leviticus: No I didn’t.

Bryan sighed.

Bryan: I figured you’d see it that way. I know you didn’t win but you gave a good showing.

Leviticus turned away and looked toward the wall. He could hardly believe what Bryan was saying.

Leviticus: Whatever.

Leviticus felt Bryan’s hand on his shoulder.

Bryan: You’re working hard and people are noticing.

Leviticus spun around and faced Bryan. He could feel the anger burning in him again.

Leviticus: No they aren’t. They won’t notice until we start beating people.

Bryan shook his head and smiled.

Bryan: Your drive is good but I think you’re missing something. Wrestling isn’t just about winning, it’s about competition. If you are good people will notice. It wasn’t easy for me either but I…

Leviticus held his hand up to silence Bryan.

Leviticus: You haven’t wrestled in years Bryan. What do you know about being a warrior anymore?

Bryan narrowed his eyes this time.

Bryan: Excuse me?

Leviticus felt the anger boiling and as much as he didn’t want it to it started to spill out.

Leviticus: I don’t need some washed up has been telling me how to do my job.

Bryan looked at Leviticus in disbelief.

Bryan: I trained you didn’t I?

Leviticus got right in Bryan’s face.

Leviticus: Yeah, you trained me to be a failure just like you.

Leviticus wasn’t sure how Bryan would react to that statement, but it didn’t take him long to find out.

Leviticus barely saw the punch coming. He felt his head jerk sideways as Bryan’s fist drove into his jaw. The impact caught him off guard and caused him to go sprawling toward the ground. As soon as he hit the ground he rolled over and looked up at Bryan, who stood there with his hand out to help him up.

Bryan: You feel better now?

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

The Past

Leviticus couldn’t help but laugh. He sat there at the dinner table and looked at Bryan who was laughing to. He then looked over to Kitty who had just finished telling a story about the antics of her brothers Wyldchylde and Grey Hawk. He had watched them on television as well, but hearing Kitty tell stories about them made him realize despite their larger then life personalities, they were just guys like him. The three continued to laugh as Kitty scooted her chair out.

Kitty: Excuse me for a minute. I have to go let Dewi know its cake time.

As Kitty walked out of the room Bryan turned and watched her leave. Leviticus watched her to, but for an entirely different reason.

Leviticus: She’s amazing.

Bryan looked back toward Leviticus and smiled.

Bryan: That’s why I married her.

The two men laughed again.

Leviticus: I just hope things go as well for me as they have for you guys.

Bryan smiled and picked his glass of iced tea up off the table.

Bryan: They will. You just have to know what you want to do in this business.

Leviticus smiled broadly. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

Leviticus: I want to main event.

Bryan took a sip of his iced tea and sat the glass back down on the table.

Bryan: Everyone does. Not everyone gets to though. That’s why you have to find a bigger goal.

Leviticus thought about it for a moment. Bryan was right; he had to have a bigger purpose beyond just being a wrestler. As he sat there trying to figure out what that purpose was Dewi ran into the room.

Dewi: Cake!

Leviticus looked at his friend’s four year old soon and smiled. As he watched the boy run over to the counter and wait for his mom to get him a piece of cake, it suddenly occurred to him what he wanted to do.

Leviticus: I want to be a hero.

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

The Present

Leviticus reached up and took Bryan’s hand. His friend helped him up off the floor. The two stood there in silence for a moment before Leviticus finally spoke.

Leviticus: I’m sorry man.

Bryan shook his head.

Bryan: Don’t sweat it Levi. We all get worked up over this business every now and then. I’m just glad I caught you before it went too far.

Leviticus nodded and rubbed his jaw.

Leviticus: Well if it makes you feel any better, your punch it still brutal.

Bryan laughed.

Bryan: Useful piece of information.

Leviticus shook his head. He wanted to smile but his jaw hurt to bad to actually do so.

Leviticus: So you really think people are noticing?

Bryan nodded and smiled.

Bryan: Definitely. You just have to be careful to not become the monster you face though.

Leviticus nodded. Bryan was always good at finding the right words at the right time. Maybe it was because he had been involved in this business for so long. Maybe it was all that Zen training that he did for his marital arts. It didn’t matter really, Leviticus was just glad Bryan chose to share his wisdom with him.

Leviticus: You’re right. I keep on going out there and trying to do things their way. I haven’t been doing them our way.

Bryan put his hand on Leviticus’s shoulder.

Bryan: And you have to do things our way for people to know how good we really are.

Leviticus looked down at the floor again. He had screwed up, and thanks to Bryan he knew it. He had spent so long trying to be an FMW guy trying to carry the GSW banner that he had lost sight of what really mattered.

Bryan: As soon as you get back to doing things our way I bet you that you’ll start winning again.

Leviticus looked at Bryan. Bryan had been a mentor to him in many ways, and things were no different now. He knew what he had to do; all he needed now was something to get him started back down that right path again.

Leviticus: How can I fix everything I screwed up?

Bryan just smiled.

Bryan: What do you want to do while you represent GSW in FMW?

Leviticus’s mind raced with so many things that he wanted to accomplish, but all those thoughts stopped when he saw Dewi come out of the locker room ready to train.

Leviticus lifted his head and looked Bryan right in the eyes.

Leviticus: I want to be a hero.

Bryan smiled and nodded.

Bryan: Then do it.

Leviticus nodded as well before hugging his mentor. Bryan returned the hug and the two stood there for a moment locked in a brotherly embrace. Dewi’s voice called them away from their bonding moment.

Dewi: Are you going to win the Tag Titles Levi?

Leviticus smiled and knelt down in front of Dewi.

Leviticus: I’m certainly going to try Dewi.

Dewi smiled broadly.

Dewi: You can do it Levi.

Leviticus felt his spirits lift immediately. He stood back up and watched as Dewi ran toward the ring followed closely by Bryan. Dewi had faith in him and that meant something. It meant he was a hero to someone. All he had to do now was show everyone else why he was a hero. As he walked toward the ring he smiled because he knew exactly how he was going to do that. He was going to do it the Gold Standard way.

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

The Future

The camera flashed as Kitty took a picture of Dewi posing for her. As soon as the picture was recorded in the memory banks of the digital camera she stepped over and hugged her son.

Kitty: I’m so proud of you Dewi.

Dewi hugged his mom back and tried his hardest to fight back the tears that still threatened to fall at any moment.

Dewi: Thanks mom.

As the two broke their embrace Kitty reached up and wiped the tears from her eyes and took a step back. Bryan was next. He walked over to his son and patted him on the shoulder.

Bryan: Go get em champ.

Dewi smiled and nodded. Out in the arena he could hear the fans chanting his name. He could feel the anticipation building in him as he heard his name over and over again. He reached down and grabbed his red mask out of his bag and slipped it on over his head. As soon as the mask was on he saw that Leviticus was standing in front of him.

Leviticus: What do you want to do out there?

Dewi smiled.

Dewi: Do you all proud.

Leviticus smiled.

Leviticus: And what else?

Dewi smirked knowing what Leviticus was getting at.

Dewi: Be a hero, just like you guys.

Leviticus nodded approvingly.

Leviticus: Then go make it happen.

Dewi nodded enthusiastically.

Dewi: Count on it.

The four then shared one last group hug before Dewi headed toward the ramp. He was glad they had been here tonight. After all they were the ones who had helped shape him into who he was at that moment. They were the ones who walked with him as he went down this road. They were his friends. They were his family. Mostly though, they were his heroes.

Damien is found sitting on a bench in the locker room with his newly acquired Full Metal Wrestling Tag Team Championship belt in his hands. He stares at the center plate, unable to do anything except breathe as his disbelief exposes itself on his face. He finds himself thinking back to when he first started in FMW, teaming with Gabriel Crow. Damien's only goal in the federation at the time was to win the tag belts with the man whom, at the time, he called his best friend, but that never happened. Injury derailed his dreams, and he disappeared for a while.

Now, here he is, with one half of the championship he's coveted for so long, and it comes as such a bitter-sweet development given the timing. The man he teamed with before turned his back on him and then disappeared himself. His girlfriend proved herself to be nothing more than a back-stabbing whore. The girl he'd grown attached to following the dissolution of the last relationship. . . Well, lets not get into that.

And yet, here he is, triumphant, finally having taken his prize. A weak smile crosses his lips. He drapes the belt over his shoulder and attempts to stand, cringing a bit in pain.

"Shit," he mumbles, twisting his torso from side to side, trying to pop his back.

The match had been a grueling one. Soreness engulfs his body. But, just like frying Matt Dunn at No Holds Barred had made all the pain he'd suffered more than worth it, so too had acquiring the gold and leather belt draped over his shoulder made this pain worth it.

He runs a hand through his long, thick raven-black hair, pushing some stray stands out of his face, and slowly starts to stand. He walks over to his locker, opens it, and retreives his back pack. He walks back to the bench, sits the pack down, and unzips it, pulling out the shirt he brought to change into after the match. After setting the shirt where he was seated, Damien pulls the belt from his shoulder, gently folds it so that the center plate is the only visible piece of gold, and places it on the shirt.

Damien knows the importance of this belt, and its twin, currently in the possession of his partner and friend, Nicholas Gray. They are proof that he is a member of the greatest tag team in the world, even if the name of said team was bit ridiculous. So, he will show the belt the respect it deserves. He wraps it within the shirt, slowly places his recently claimed prize into his bag, and zips it up.

His pride taken care of, he reaches into one of the smaller side pouches and retrieves from within it a photograph. Eliza, in all her royal beauty, posing by a tall tree on Robert's property. Her back lays against the trunk, her hand above her head pushing against the bark. One of her legs is bent at the knee, and a lazy smile adorns her lips.

Damien can still feel her lips touching his, her small, full frame pressed against him. As a wave of sorrow and anger washes over him, he focuses a small fraction of it on the photo, and the top-right corner begins to burn. Startled at this involuntary action, Damien drops the photo, and the flames quickly spread. Before it can even hit the ground, the picture is nothing more than ash.

She may have been a succubus, a demon, and she may have been eating at Damien, quite literally, possibly ending his life. He almost didnt care, love had blinded him. Now? She is dead... and he killed her. Not that he'd had much of a choice at the time. It was either kill her or be come a little edible puppet that would eventually waste away into nothingness.

In his mind and heart, that made little difference. He had fought long and hard to resist and, after a long struggle, imprison his urge to kill, his demons. In one days time, he had given in. And now, he is more inspired than ever to resist.

He swings the bag over a shoulder and walks to the door. As he rushes to exit, he opens the door. After only a few inches it knocks into someone.

"God damn it," Damien half yells, half sighs. "Do people 'round here not have the sense to not-"

He stops mid-sentence once he realizes who he had hit with the door. Laying on the floor out in the hallway, rubbing his nose where it had just had an unfortunate meeting with a rather large and solid piece of wood, is a young man who bears a resemblance to Damien. His hair is cut much shorter, only coming to his eyes. In contrast to Damien's usual casual wear, he wears a dark blue silk dress shirt and a pair of khaki jeans. He is much skinnier than Damien, missing all the muscle of a professional wrestler. He is maybe two inches shorter than the man standing over him, but one look at their faces would give them away as twins.

"Hey, bro," he says, smiling warmly in spite of the current circumstance, "Mind helping me up? Some ass opened a door in my face."

"David," Damien says, reaching his gloved hand out to help his brother up. "What are you doin' here?"

"You think I would have missed the biggest match of your career," he asks, still smiling as he is lifted to his feet. "I'm insulted."

David starts wiping his shirt to knock off any dust or dirt which might have gotten on it after he fell. When he is satisfied, he rubs at his nose once again, which has turned bright red. He gives his brother a mock-stern look. Damien shrugs.

"Oops."

"You really should watch where you're going, Damien."

"You should really not stand just outside a door when it swings toward you."

David coughs out a guffaw of laughter and says, "Touche."

Damien smiles and pulls his brother into a "man-hug". David pretends to become short of breath, as if he is being suffocated.

"Agh. Can't. . . Breathe!"

"Wuss," Damien mumbles through a chuckle, but releases his brother.

David inhales and exhales exaggeratedly, pounds his chest, and coughs.

"We can't all be huge, muscular pro wrestlers. There needs to be scrawny guys."

"Whatever," Damien says, shaking his head. "When'd you get here? I thought you were back in Austin tryin' to settle down."

"I was, but I saw a commercial on tv about you and nine others in a tag team title match at FMW's biggest show. I figured it was your time, so I flew out yesterday."

He looks his brother up and down, his lips slowly arching into a frown.

"By the way, where's the belt? I wanted to see it."

Damien smiles half-heartedly. He swings his backpack around, unzips it, and retrieves the bundle containing his belt. He unwraps the t-shirt and unfolds the championship. David's eyes widen.

"That's an awesome belt, bro," he says, running a hand over the centerplate. He looks up at his brother. "I'm proud of you."

Damien smiles and drapes the belt over his shoulder.

"Thanks."

David returns his brother's smile.

"Hey, let's go celebrate. See if they've got Chili's up here. What do you say?"

Damuen hesitates. It sounds fun, but fun is the last thing on his mind.

"I can't, bro. I have some things I have to do."

David stares at Damien intently.

"Something's different about you," he says.

Shit, Damien thinks. David's sixth sense is kickin' into gear.

To put it simply, David is a clairvoyant. In terms of supernatural skill, where he lacks Damien's wizardly power, he makes up for it with varying degrees of prescience, telepathy, aura reading, and empathy. It is not impossible to hide things from him, but it's a hell of a challenge.

Poker face, don't fail me now.

"What do you mean," Damien asks, trying to keep a straight face.

"Your aura," David responds, running a hand over his chin in thought. "It's all jacked up. It's a bit. . . darker than last time I saw you. What's going on?"

Damien shoulders his backpack and turns away, shaking his head.

"Not a damn thing. I'm fine."

David snorts. "What the hell have you done this time, dumb ass?"

Damien remains silent, anger starting to rise within him. David had meant the jab to be playful, but this isn't the right time. He slowly begins to walk away, but feels David grab onto his shirt.

"Don't ignore me, you ass!"

Damien spins and slams his brother into the wall. Not very hard, but just enough to shake him up. The force and speed of the turn causes the belt to fall from Damien's shoulder, but at the moment, it doesn't matter.

"Go back to Texas, David, and stay the fuck away from me."

David stares into his brother's eyes in disbelief. Damien takes hold of his shirt and raises him a few inches off the ground. David gasps.

"Damien, wha-"

"Shut up," Damien yells, grimacing as his rage boils over. "Mind your own business. And stay the fuck outta my head. I don't want you anywhere near me."

Without waiting for David to respond, Damien drops him. David crumples to the ground, nothing hurt but his pride and his feelings. Damien turns, retreives his belt, returns it to his shoulder, and walks away from his brother. He ignores David as he cries out for Damien to come back.

Just stay away, David, Damien begs inaudibly, hoping all at once that David can and can not hear him. Stay away.


Everyone has their own way of coping with their sins. Some choos to forget them, and focus on the positives in life. Others sin in excess, never caring for the pain they cause.

And then, there is Damien. How does a man who can bear witness to the sins of others deal with his own? Simple. By fascilitating luck in others.

He hadn't checked his bank account in months, but he was sure that it hadn't been breached. If it had, he was using a Swiss bank for no good reason. As he walks into the enormous artistically built building, he feels like an eyesore amidst countless
businessmen wearing various forms of "stylish" office-wear that had probably cost them in the quadruple digits. As always, Damien is dressed casually; a pair of loose-fitting black jeans held in place by a belt, a long-sleeved Helloween t-shirt, a pair of black combat boots, and a pair of thin gloves. He draws stares from his fellow patrons, but ignores them and continues on to the front desk.

As Damien approaches, he is noticed by the receptionist, a stout older man with a bad comb-over and similar attire to the majority of the patrons.

"Ahh, monsieur Inferno," Pierre exclaims, rushing to traverse the oath around the desk to meet me. "It has been a while, no? How are you, sir?"

"All fine on this end," Damien lies, putting on his best fake smile and reaching his hand out to shake Pierre's.

"Ah, very good, sir," the smaller man replies, taking his client's hand and shaking it firmly.

"I keep tellin' ya to call me Damien, Pierre. I do consider you a friend after all."

Pierre smirks and shakes his head. They have gone through this conversation before, and it will end the same as ever.

"And I keep telling you, sir, that we who work in this place must observe business level formalities."

Damien returns the smirk and releases Pierre's hand.

"Are the deposits still arriving every month?"

Pierre nods and replies, "Like clockwork, sir. And I will never know where all your money comes from."

"You ain't the only one, Frenchy," Damien mutters under his breath, gaining a glare of chastisement from Pierre.

"Shall we just get on with business as usual, sir?"

Damien sighs, robbed of his amusement, and relents.

"Why not?"

Pierre motions for Damien to take a seat in front of the desk. Damien obliges, and his financial adviser returns to his seat. Immediately, he begins to click and type away at his computer, a brand new model from some obscure company that seemed to deem an aesthetic look more important than functionality. After a moment, a slip of paper begins to emerge from a small printer next to the computer's screen. Pierre tears it off and hands it over to Damien. For the sake of the man's privacy, the amount of money printed upon the paper will not be revealed. Believe me, however, when I say that few people can say they have ever so much as seen so much money, let alone owned as much.

Damien glances at the paper and hands it back to Pierre, who immediately feeds it into a small shredder. Damien reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded up sheet of paper torn from a notebook. Pierre raises a quizzical eyebrow.

"More charities, I suppose," he says, reaching out to take the list from his client. "You are far too generous, sir."

"No," Damien sighs, shaking his head. "I just have a lot to make up for. Just make sure-"

Damien catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A mane of golden blonde hair adorning a bomb-shell's head. He turns to see her, and all over again, rage begins to boil in his blood.

Jess.

She is standing outside a pair of glass doors, her usual confident grin stretching her lips. She raises her hand and blows Damien a kiss, and then waves as she slowly begins to walk away. Damien turns back to Pierre, who is now staring at Damien in addled discomfort.

"Sir, is there something wr-"

Damien leaps from his seat and jets toward the door.

"Just make sure the money makes it to the charities," he yells back over his shoulder.

Damien slams the doors open hard and turns to chase after Jess. He sees her disappear around a corner at the end of the building, and he sprints to keep up. He turns the corner to see her standing before an alley half a block ahead and across the street. She beckons for him to follow, and then slowly and provocatively turns and enters the alley. Feeling the fire rise within him, he gives chase without a second thought.

As he reaches the alley, he finds her walking half-way in. His rage takes power, and he releases the fire burning his soul. A crimson walled conflagration erupts before Jess, startling her slightly. She turns back to Damien. He is perspiring heavily now, and panting. She clucks her tongue critically.

"Not practicing enough, hm? You keep this up, you'll exhaust your power." She pauses for a moment, then adds, "Or kill yourself. And we simply can't have that."

Damien holds his tongue and simply glares at the woman who had torn his heart to shreds. He hadn't brought any of his blades with him to the bank, and he is kicking himself for it now.

"And in any case," Jess continues, advancing upon her winded ex, "the fire was unnecessary. A simple, 'Hey, Jess,' would have sufficed."

"I ain't gonna waste my time bein' polite, bitch," Damien snarls, filling the words with venom.

Jess giggles playfully.

"So feisty, lover. Still nursing a grudge over London and New York?" She rolls her eyes, clearly taking much in the way of amusement from the situation. "And after I came all this way to help you. Shame on you, Damien."

"That's so funny," Damien says, glaring into Jess' eyes,"I forgot to laugh. As if I would ever accept your help."

"I think I can change your mind," she retorts, and approaches Damien.

She produces a photograph from her purse and holds it out to him. He hesitates for a moment, but decides to take it. Upon taking one glimpse, he finds himself in a state of panic.

"David!"

In the photo, his brother has been badly beaten, bruises covering most of his visible flesh, blood beneath his nose and at the corners of his mouth. He is tied to a chair, unconscious, his clothes torn and barely hanging off of him by threads. As Damien studies the photograph, Jess continues.

"Joseph was quite angry after you burned his face. Ever since, he was waiting for a chance to get back at you. When our spies told us of your little spat with David after your tag team title match, he saw the perfect opportunity."

Damien drops the photo and lunges at Jess. He grabs her by the throat, lifts her and smashes her back first against the alley's brick wall, eliciting a grunt of pain from Jess.

"Where is he?!"

She chuckles sensuously.

"You know I like it rough, Damien. Knowing how to please a woman was always one of your gifts."

Damien raises his arm, clenching his fist along the way. He has never punched a woman unprovoked before, but his brother was in danger. Desperate times and all that. Jess shakes her head.

"I said that I'm here to help you. I meant it Damien. But I have my price."

Damien raises his eyebrow and slowly lowers Jess back to the ground.

"Name it."

Jess raises both of her eyebrows at Damien. She allows her eyes to drift down his body, rest on a spot just below the belt, and then drift back up. Her eyes seemed to give off steam.

"Oh," Damien growls, feeling his stomach turn. "You sick slut."

Jess crosses her arms. Pure annoyance floods her face.

"You asshole, Damien. I'm not a damn slut. That you would call me that is beyond insulting. I'm a whore, and proud of it. I don't just give this-" she pauses for a moment and motions over her body, "-away anymore."

"Whatever, bitch," Damien shoots back. "In any case, you and Joseph turned me into a fuckin' sin-eater. If we did this, I'd get a front row seat to every fucked up thing you ever did. Not exactly somethin' I'm too keen on."

"Not a problem. Thanks to a little help from my boss, I'm immune to the sin-eater touch."

Damien stays silent for a moment. It is either leave his brother to what ever malicious intents Joseph has in store, or give into his former lover's demands.

"Fine," he says, feeling sorrow beat its way into his heart. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."

"On the contrary," Jess replies, shedding her dress quickly as she speaks. "I nothing would give me greater pleasure than knowing the pain this will cause you. . . Right here, right now. Let's go"

As Damien removes his clothes, his thoughts drift back to the perfection that had been Eliza. Thinking of her is all that prepares him for what lies immediately ahead.

I'm sorry, he thinks, and embraces Jess. . . .


It has finally happened. I've found a partner with whom I can hold the FMW Tag Team Championship. I've realized a dream that I have strived for since I started her a few years ago.

And yet, it couldn't have come at a worse time.

Leviticus. Jonothan King. Butters. Slegnadamus. You boys've got a rude awakening comin' your way.

Levi and King. You two bein' GSW and all, I ain't honna show you any mercy. At every chance, I'm going to cause you as much pain as I can. You don't deserve the tag titles. And me and Gray will make sure you never get your hands on them. Are you the best GSW has to offer? Generic religious preacher guy and a spoiled rich brat with daddy issues? Please.

Bob. Sleg. I have to apologize to you in advance, guys. We're friends, but you guys got this chance at the wrong time. For every bit of pain in this match, I am sorry. If Gray and I do lose tonight, I'd prefer it to be you guys that won.

But that ain't gonna happen.

The tag belts mean a lot to me. It's taken me a long time to get here. And I ain't just gonna let them get away from me so quickly. Not when I have a mission with them.

Take a look at some of the teams that have held the tag titles.

The Cancer. Matt Dunn and Cactus Sam.

HavOc. Jack Eastwood and Andrew O'Rion.

The Together Demons. Harlequin and MASS Caesar.

The point? The titles have a tarnished reputation. Being held by such deplorable men has taken their prestige away. FMW needs a real tag team to make the tag belts mean somethin' again. That's my aim. The tag titles mean too damn much to be pulled any lower.

GSW. Comeback Kids. Get ready. You're about to see a real tag team in action.

We see Apostasy watching Ultimatum III from the locker room. On the screen, David GS goes limps in a hold of Chris Austin’s

Apostasy: I guess that means I’m up.

Apostasy rises from his chair and walks into the hall, Abandoned title in hand. There, he meets his opponent, Leon Caprice. They both stand away from the curtain as “Premeditated Murder”, Austin’s theme is playing. Austin walks through the curtain, and is greeted and congratulated by none other than Edible Smith, in suit and tie. Austin nods in silence, and continues walking, not even giving recognition to either Leon or Apostasy.

Edible: You two ready?

Apostasy: Of course.

Leon: Always. Good luck, Apo.

Apostasy: Err… same to you?

The two men shake hands as a clearly exhausted David GS is carried through the curtains by FMW officials.

Edible: Better luck next time, superstar.

David appears unable to communicate, and is helped onto a waiting stretcher.

Edible: Give it a minute, and then you two are up. Leon, you’re first since you’re the challenger.

Leon: Is that always the rule?

Edible: … Yes. It’s kind of a tradition. Did you not know that?

Leon: No

Apostasy chuckles, and looks at a nearby monitor to gauge the crowd.

Apostasy: They look fired up. Time for us to keep them that way.

Caprice’s theme “Grace” hits, and Leon makes his way out from behind the curtain, to a decent sized ovation.

Apostasy: Well, that’s disappointing.


Edible: How’s that?

Apostasy: I was hoping to have some fans on my side for this one. I don’t hear anybody booing Leon.

Edible: You’ll get a nice pop, I’m sure.

Leon does his point-to-the-sky followed by fireworks schtick. Apostasy shakes his head in disgust.

Apostasy: So, you’re now some sort of producer?

Edible: Nope. Just came by to wish you good luck. I never got to be on one of these cards. This is now your second.

Apostasy: Weird to think I’m no longer the unseasoned rookie around here.

Edible: You’ll do great, kid.

Leon finishes posing for the crowd. Apostasy grabs the Abandoned title and shakes Edible’s hand. Apostasy’s music hits. He goes out to the ramp and poses with the belt above his head, the belt facing the crowd as he faces the curtain.

Apostasy: Here we go…

Apostasy turns to a mixed reaction.

Apostasy (quietly, to himself): Guess this means I’m the villain today.

Apostasy reaches the bottom of the ramp, and mockingly re-enacts Leon’s entrance schtick

Apostasy (loudly): HEY! Where’s my pyro? Why doesn’t god give ME pyro?

Cherry: And his opponent, he is the FMW ABANDONED CHAMPION, THE FAMILY-FRIENDLY ANTI-CHRIST…. APOOOOOOOOSTASY!
-----------------------------

I felt it was an appropriate response to Leon’s irritatingly public display of faith. As I’ve said before, I don’t have a problem with most faithful people. I have a problem with people like Leon. People who do things like credit all of their achievements to god without ever blaming their failings on the same god. The cognitive dissonance there has always astounded me. People like Leon irritate me when they make flashy and showy displays of just HOW faithful they are, when faith is a private matter, and certainly not a contest.

Ultimately, though, I was a bit upset at how nobody booed Leon, but they found time to boo me. Additionally, I was a little mad that FMW actually went through with that stupid nickname. At that point, I was reminded of Edible Matthewson’s words to me all those years ago. They will never accept us the way they accept people like Leon Caprice and Drew Michaels. I felt at that moment that I had to accept that truth, even if I didn’t want to. I had resisted all of this time, but this truth was forced down my throat like a package of Tums. It wasn’t tasty, I didn’t want it…

But it made everything better.

That match, I wrestled ANGRY. I threw Leon around into the barricade like he was a bag of mulch. In my mind, I knew it was at least somewhat of a sound strategy. The point of the match was to beat him down so hard he couldn’t answer a ten count, after all. I wrestled knowing that I couldn’t put him away with my Apathetic Choke… which is my best weapon in that ring. I wrestled knowing that I wasn’t the fan favorite on this particular night, except to those particular few who chose to cheer me and not Leon.

At the end of that match, I dropped Leon onto his head and neck using the Burning Hammer. I felt him setting up for God’s Wrath, but I had figured out this counter long before this match began. I picked him up onto my shoulders and sent him down. I felt him land rather awkwardly, but I had to get on my feet to start the ten count. I rested in the corner, fully expecting Leon to recover. “There’s no way that will put him down”, I thought. I schemed in my head that perhaps I’d have to put him on the turnbuckle and perform the move from the top rope to really END this match. But Leon never got up. He never even stirred.

In my focus, I had neglected the crowd. I hadn’t heard them getting louder. But when that ref reached ten, I heard perhaps the loudest ovation of my career. I was surprised as the ref handed me my belt, and I was able to walk away from THIS ultimatum victorious. My head was held high as I raised my belt in that ring. I was proud of my victory not just in the ring, but over those fans. I told Edible Matthewson all those years ago that people will root for moments, and I had been proven right.

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

Apostasy walks through the curtain as the monitor shows an ongoing skit with Gold Standard Wrestling. Edible Matthewson sneaks up on Apostasy and pats his back.

Edible: Good match, kid. Congrats.

Apostasy: Thanks.

Edible: Rest up, though. Your next defense is going to be on Ammunition against either Celt or Eastwood, whoever loses in the Ultraviolent title match tonight.

Apostasy: That’s official?

Edible: Yes.

Apostasy: Why Ammunition?

Edible: The suits want to keep the cross-brand action going. Plus, the people running Amm want to see if you’re more of an Ultraviolent wrestler or a C4 wrestler.

Apostasy: …

Edible: Sound good?

Apostasy: Sure. I just don’t understand the booking, I guess.

Edible: I don’t either, but it’s not my job to bitch. Listen, the Abandoned title is kind-of random anyway, so don’t worry about it.

Apostasy: I know.

Edible: Just so you know… I know you and I had our differences. But I am proud of you. You’re better than I ever was, and you’ve got the achievements to prove it. Congrats.

Apostasy: Thanks.

An awkward silence ensues, followed by Leon Caprice being helped through the curtain by officials. Leon mumbles something incoherent as he limps to his locker room.

Edible: Jeez… I think you might have concussed him.

Apostasy shrugs

Apostasy: Sucks for him. See you later, Ed.

Edible: Of course.

Apostasy heads to his locker room, passing GSW on his way. Apostasy enters his locker room, where a flyer has been attached to his locker, and the lockers of nearly every single locker. The flyer reads:


Apostasy: Jesus, those guys are desperate.

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

Later on, I would learn that my opponent would end up being Jack Eastwood for this episode of Ammunition. Interestingly enough, I didn’t respond to that flyer. Because if I can be candid for a moment, allow me to state that the Pack is a joke. They’ve had something like 6 members, precisely one of which anyone has ever given a fuck about with Jack Eastwood. And the only reason anyone remembers him is because he was in a stable with Hannibal Frost and Harlequin, if we’re being totally honest with ourselves.

I have some respect for Seth Rotunda, given that he gave me a good fight a few weeks back and that he’s always at least giving it his all. I haven’t seen much to be impressed with from the rest of their members, which includes a (if I’m not mistaken) winless Daniel Prideman, and something called a Blake Vendetta… who has since been Future Endeavored, if I’m not mistaken. There might be another member or two. I’ve lost count, and I never much cared to begin with. I don’t think I’m alone in that sentiment.

I know why they’re all in that group. They’re all a bunch of stablewhores. It’s something I was certainly guilty of at one point, having joined the Broken Saints for no real reason except that Drew Michaels was an idol of mine. The young guys all hope that being in that group will help get them over, and give them some sort of protection. Eastwood hopes that being in that group gives him some backup and security, the sort he always had in Havoc.

The problem is that the Pack have never made any sort of impact, because quite frankly none of them are any good. And so I highly doubt that Eastwood got any replies on his dopey and somewhat sad little flyer. I doubt that Eastwood will have any newcomers in his stable that are of any relevance. At the end of the day, he knows that the Pack is on borrowed time.

Here’s what I know, from watching my own stable, the Broken Saints, crumble. It’s not hard to get people to join. It’s hard to get people to STAY. Unless you have a clear idea of what direction your group is headed, and you have some tangible success to show that you’re getting there… people start to turn. People don’t want to be associated with failure, and they are going to be quick to quit if they aren’t properly motivated to endure any shortcomings the group may experience.

So Eastwood needs something. He needs a splashy new signing, or he needs to win this Abandoned title. I am sure he will receive neither. And when his two remaining protégés, Rotunda and Prideman, are defeated by arguably the GREATEST TAG TEAM CURRENTLY IN EXISTENCE – Son of Sharkboy and Stormmaster – I don’t doubt that the team will experience a bit of infighting. I suspect that the group will start to splinter, just as the Broken Saints did. Ultimately, that group needs someone to hold them together, like Edible Matthewson did for The Misfits so long ago…

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

The 4 Misfits – TJ Rage, Drew “Headbanger” Michaels, Edible Matthewson and Trey Spruance, sit in silence in a lockerroom. Off to the side in silence sits a young Heath Yates.

TJ Rage: So… are we going to talk about this or what?

Trey: What the fuck is there to say? We’re going to have to beat the fuck out of each other tonight. And the winner gets a shot at the US title. Oh, and… SPOILER ALERT… Ed here has been gunning for that title since forever.

TJ Rage: I ain’t laying down for any of you

Edible: Nobody wants that, TJ

TJ Rage: This is fucking bullshit! Wevv can’t let us have a crack at those tag belts, even if we’ve earned them. But he pulls this shit…

Trey: Calm the fuck down, man. Do you want a j? It’ll calm your nerves.

TJ Rage: I ain’t touching that shit! Especially not before a match? You trying to take me off my game?

Trey: No way. It always gets me ON mine…

TJ Rage: And how’s that working out for you. What’s your record?

Drew sighs, and looks toward Edible with pleading eyes. Edible nods

Edible: C’mon man, let’s not do this. We’ve all got a damn good opportunity coming up. We can’t let this shit drive us apart.

Drew nods, and places a reassuring hand on TJ Rage.

Edible: Listen. I want that damn title. But I also want to fucking earn it. I said that I wanted to live out the Real American Dream, but I’m not doing that if any of you just lie down for me. So we’re going to go out there, and we’re going to put on a damn good match. And one of us is going to get a great opportunity. And afterwards, we’re going to be the same old Misfits.

Trey: Are we going to go bowling afterwards.

Drew: You bet your ass, Trey.

Edible: That’s what makes us a great stable. We aren’t a hive mind. We’re all individual competitors. We don’t interfere in each other’s matches, because we know that we would all become dependent and weak if we pulled that shit. We grow stronger as a team by being individuals, but tattooed on all of our hearts is the same thing. We are Misfits. We are outsiders. We are rebels. AND WE OWN!

All 4 men shake their heads in agreement. Edible puts his hand in the middle, and the rest of them follow. Heath jumps up from his seat, and attempts to place his hand in the huddle, but he is unable to squeeze between Trey and Rage.

All 4: MISFITS OWN!

Rage and Trey exit the locker room, visibly pumped up. Drew turns to Edible.

Drew: Thank you.

Edible: It’s nothing. See you out there.

Drew tussles Heath’s hair and heads out.

Drew: You can learn a lot from this guy here. He’s a good guy to have in your corner.

As Drew leaves, Edible has Heath grab the team’s bags.

Edible: Alright kid, keep an eye on those while you watch.

Heath: Mr. Matthewson?

Edible: Yeah?

Heath: Did you believe all of that?

Edible hesitates for a second.

Edible: Yeah… why? Did you think it sounded dishonest?

Heath: No. It’s just that you do an awful lot for others, and I thought you might just be saying that for Drew.

Edible: No, no, no. I believe it. Well, as much as I can believe anything, I suppose. There’s always a little bit of skepticism to be applied to everything.

Heath: What if one of them wins tonight?

Edible: Well… then it will be tough, but I’ll support them. And some day, I’m going to earn another shot at that title. Hopefully today is that day.

Heath: I hope so too.

A silence passes, followed by Trey’s music is faintly overheard in the lockerroom.

Heath: Edible, do you think you’re the leader of The Misfits?

Edible: I don’t know about that. We don’t really have one, not yet anyways.

Heath: You sure do act like it sometimes.

Edible: You think so? I mean, I’m just trying to be a good team player. That’s what brotherhood is all about.

Heath: You think I’ll be a Misfit some day?

Edible: Maybe, if we’re still around. Not many stables last that long, and you’re still 2 years away from being old enough to sign a contract. Of course, I’m sure the fellows like you enough to let you in. And then you’ll see what brotherhood is all about.

Heath smiles as Edible walks towards the curtain. Heath follows, clutching the bags of all 4 Misfits. Drew “Headbanger” Michaels goes through the curtain, pausing to wave at Heath before going out.

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

Drew Michaels won that match. I could tell that it ate up at Edible, despite what he had said. But I saw Edible pull that group through so many tough times, even bringing his friend Mass Chaos into the group. I saw a man that watched as Drew, then known as Headbanger, became the unquestioned leader of the group. He watched Drew take his US title, and eventually go on to the World Title. All the while, Edible failed to sustain any sort of success whether it be in tag matches with Mass Chaos or in singles competition.

Later on, Edible snapped at Drew, and turned on the Misfits. He left Mass Chaos in a pool of his own blood. He destroyed TJ Rage in a match, and his departure caused Trey Spruance to also leave. He eventually got his match with Drew, but lost despite his effort. The next week, he sobbingly returned to The Misfits, in his last ever television appearance.

I never saw him during that dark time.

I showed up to train with him at our usual hangout in Cleveland, but he never showed. In desperation, I called Drew Michaels, who hadn’t heard from him at all. Edible had isolated himself. He felt that without the Misfits, he was totally alone. He felt that he deserved nobody at that time. Not too long after, I received my plane ticket to LA to train with the OTHER Edible in my life, Edible Smith of FMW fame.

I bring this up because that sense of brotherhood was incredibly powerful to me. It’s why I joined the Broken Saints, but alas that group wasn’t anything resembling cohesive. As I watched that group break apart I wondered if I needed to be the glue that held that group together, as Edible Matthewson was for the Misfits. Ultimately, though, everyone there didn’t think much of me. They thought of me as Drew’s lackey. Romeo didn’t care for anyone’s opinion, certainly not mine. Seth had enough history with me to disregard anything I said. Mark and Grey hardly knew me, since they were both on different brands.

I know that the idea of an unbreakable brotherhood is an attractive one. I suspect that it’s all that holds The Pack together. Ultimately, The Misfits did survive the betrayal of Edible Matthewson, and lived for many more years in some form or another. I watched Drew grow into his role as leader, as the rest of them looked up to him. They all felt better about themselves, despite their win-loss records, just by being associated with the US Champion.

I know that’s what Jack Eastwood would like to be. And on some level, I can appreciate that. But I will not relinquish this title. I know that by defeating him, I may very well aide in the further destruction of The Pack. I know that by pointing all this out, I may very well be making that group out to be more of a joke than it is. I know this, but I know that I must win. I have grown too attached to this title to give it up out of pure sympathy.

If that makes me the bad guy, I understand. So it goes…

OBSERVATIONS OF A MAD MAN.

You don’t want to be inside my head.

I’m sorry if this wasn’t the introduction you were looking for, but nevertheless it is the sentence I will preface my story with. People have described me as many things in my day. Thinker. Philosopher. Mentalist. Murderer. You can call me any or all of those, because they’re all true.

I digress, though. I was telling you that you wouldn’t want to be inside my head. ‘Why not’, you may ask. And if not, I would repeat the same question to you. Questioning things is instinctive and quite possibly one of the most natural things in the world. It’s like… tectonic plates shifting. Only my brain works a bit differently. When I see things there is a flood of…


ideas…
theories…
observations…

It can be a bit overwhelming at times. Even now, while drinking tea at a quaint little shop, reminiscent of the many cafes I'm used to seeing in England, I can't escape it. My mind is active and it has no off switch. You probably still don't realize what I'm referring to. Let me explain.

A waiter approaches me and asks for a refill and...


As I see his hand extending I work out the disabling ability. I extend my fist, palm first, jabbing him solidly in the heart. While stepping back, two palms to the ears to knock him senseless. Before he can react, my hand would shoot out, grabbing hold of his arm and twisting him around violently. Repeated blows and knees to the kidney. Side-step and knee to the face. Total debilitation in less than ten seconds...

...I say 'Yes please'. The waiter leaves, oblivious to what might have happened. But I know. I can't forget. It won't let me forget. Let me just clarify: I'm not possessed or anything. My mind just works in overdrive. While you are experiencing your one linear progression in life my mind works out scenarios for each fork.

Pretty fucked up, right?

The waiter returns and refills my cup. The same scenario as earlier plays again in my mind, but I won't bother you with it this time. It's hard enough for me to have to live with this, I wouldn't want to encroach it upon you too.

In case you were wondering, I wasn't always this bitter. Oh no, I used to be quite happy. I had a steady job, lots of friends, a girlfriend that loved me. I guess even with all my intelligence I just wasn't all that smart... because I lost it all.

So let me tell you my story. It probably won't bore you. It has a lot of the qualities that, theoretically, should make stories great. Cops, murder, drugs.

It, like so many other stories, began with a girl...


28 years ago

...who married a guy. The guy's name was Matthew Quinn. He was a typical Irish bloke from Galwin. Matthew was a simple man. I don't mean that in a disrespectful way, either. He was a wordly man who knew how to get around. Knew how to get through life properly. Good manners, good friend, good person. He also happened to be a cop.

The girl's name was Yoko Maru. She was a Japanese girl who was spending a summer holiday in Galwin. Yoko, although prone to casual fits, was also a good person - Kind and generous and very straightforward about her feelings.

These two had a romance. Two things resulted from this marriage: The first being a happy marriage and the second being me. I was born, from Irish and Japanese ancestry into the world and given the name of my mother's father - Ryu and the surname of my father - Quinn. Please to meet you.

My mother died when I was about five. We were living in Japan at the time, with my mother's side of the family. Even with my acute mental ability, I don't remember much about her or that period in my life. Or maybe I don't want to remember. I have my own theories on that, but I don't want to share that right now. But I do remember Japan. It was a beautiful place.

After my mother's death father was never quite the same. He began to drink heavily. He never laid a hand on me, though. He wasn't that kind of drunk. We moved back to Ireland. It took about 3 years until the drink finally got him. There I was, at the age of 8, both parents deceased. Ryu Quinn, ethnically diverse orphan. Oh joy, a lot of families would sure want to adopt someone like that!

Then there was uncle Tom. Tom Quinn. He was my designated 'next of kin'. He took me in after the death of my parents. Uncle Tom was a strange fellow. To put it delicately, uncle Tom was a scavenging rat that would steal the icing off a cake. He was a conniving conman who could hone in on your least insecurity or highest desire and use it to his advantage. He would convince you to give him your money and you would feel secure in the fact that he was an honorable man.

He might have been a conman, but he was a charming one. I remember the day I met him.

"Hello, little one", Uncle Tom began, extending his big smile. "What do they call you?"

"Ryu, sir", I replied.

"Yes, yes, I know that", he said, waving his hand in the air as if to dismiss this. "I didn't ask your name, I asked what they called you. It's no use me calling you Ryu when it's nothing but a pseudonym, is it?"

"People call me Ryu, sir. I like it."

"You do?" Tom asked and glanced at me speculatively. "You like it? It's foreign, though, isn't it? Doesn't it set up a barrier between you and other kids. Makes you different from them?"

"I don't mind", I had replied. "I am different. It shows where I came from."

Uncle Tom had laughed at that. "Indeed. Makes you stand out. It has its purpose, at times."

I didn't know it at that time, but me and Uncle Tom were really alike. He had this way of always keeping you off your feet in a conversation. Whether it was the constant and seemingly random questions, he always wanted to enquire. To know.

I learned a lot from Uncle Tom. He was a very intelligent man. Conmen usually are. Over my time of living with him, I saw him swindle hundreds of people out of thousands of pounds. My naturally intelligent mind grew even sharper living with him. Watching him and learning from him.

I lived with him until I was 17, when the police ransacked our home. They found everything and had enough proof to send Uncle Tom to jail for more than 20 years. I suppose I should have been sad at that. I wasn't. Uncle Tom was a rat that kept going for the cheese. If a rat dances like that with a trap long enough, he would be bound to be caught.


2 Years Ago

You'd think I'd have developed a natural hatred for the police, after they carted my family away. In a way, I did hate them, but only as far as departmental pride was concerned. See, I had joined Scotland Yard.

I have said all along I was a questioning man. When the question came to me 'How did they catch my uncle', it was only natural I'd investigate. I found out that everything that was going on in my brain would find a natural outlet in Detective work. I could catch the bad guys who thought they were smart enough to circumvent the law. I could play a game of wits.

It was fun. At least at first.

So, there I was, rookie of Scotland Yard and boasting a conviction rate of 100%. Yes, you read that right. One hundred percent of the people I caught got convicted. Because I was clever. I found the clues and I got the confessions.

Sure, some criminals required a bit of 'gentle persuasion', but never the physical kind. When I couldn't find the evidence I needed, I used trickery and deceit in order to get a confession out of them. Of course I captured it on tape. Don't feel empathy for the criminals now, though. They were murders and I tricked them to get them off the streets.

Entrapment is a bullshit term the guilty try to hide behind.

That's how it was with Gilbert Donnovan.

Gilbert Donnovan was a murderer. We were certain he had committed 9 murders in the last few years and we had tagged him as a suspect in at least 5 more. He was one of those guys who would almost openly admit to the murder in front of you, but just throw that little nugget of truth into the conversation as well: That you have no proof.

He was right. Through our surveillance, our sting operations, our informants; through every channel imaginable we tried getting the dirt on this guy.

There was just never anything that would stick. Gilbert Donnovan nearly defined the term 'untouchable'. I remember my first encounter with the man. I had grown irrational. Lost my temper and sought him out. I remember having a gun in my pocket. A stupid substitute for courage.

I had waited in my car outside his block of apartments until I saw him coming down the street. As soon as he entered the building, I was out of the car, following him. The adrenaline was pumping at that stage. I followed him up three flights of stairs and just as he opened the door to his apartment, I ran up and pushed him inside the room. Throwing him up against the wall, I pressed the gun into his back.

"Hello Gilbert", I said, practically fuming with supressed rage.

"Hello... whoever the hell you are", he said back calmly. I even thought I heard a hint of mocking in his voice. "Don't be rude now, introduce yourself."

"My name is Ryu. I'm a Detective that's been working on a certain case. A string of girls, all murdered and raped brutally. Gashes cut beneat their eyelids so that it looks like they died crying. Ring any bells, Gilbert?"

"I should have known it was a cop", Gilbert said, snorting. "Only a cop would be so stupid to confront me with something he was already sure about."

"I want you to admit that you did it!" I shouted angrily.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll pull this trigger. There are about 8 rounds in this chamber. There's no coming back from that, Gilbert. You will either die immediately and nearly painlessly or bleed to death before the aumblance gets here."

"So what? You're extorting a confession out of me?"

"I would rather call it 'Settings the wheels of justice in motion'."

"Fine, fine", Gilbert said, turning around and facing me. "I killed them."

"Which ones?" I asked and when he hesitated, I pulled the trigger back a little bit. I saw that it got his attention.

"All of them... Tina Morgan, Jess Brana, Jamie Dohan, Tara Rose, Willlow Cumbridge, Dahlia Terris, Sephina Moran and Jenna Davison. I murdered all of them, OK?"

I smiled then and relaxed a bit. "Thank you, Gilbert", I said, extending my jacket a bit, so that he could notice the tape recorder that lined the inside of it. "I think I've got everything I need now." With those words he suddenly lunged forward, extending both his hands to grab me around the throat. Without a seconds hesitation I swung the gun hard across his forehead, knocking him to the floor. As I saw his eyes close and he sunk into unconsciousness, I remember feeling a smug contentedness and a feel that I had won. I had been wrong. Like I said before, being intelligent certainly doesn't make you smart.

The court proceedings went from weeks to months to a year, but lickly not the plural. After 18 months, the felon Gilbert Donnovan was dragged in front of the court. For three months the case continued, the prosecution and defense fighting against each other. Ultimately, it came down to my evidence. The tape recording was the string that held the entire thing together.

The defense lawyer managed to snap that string and with it, set Gilbert Donnovan back on his path to murder, rape and God-knows what else.

"Your honor", he had said, "may I point out that the arresting officer had entered my client's house without a warrant and held him hostage at gunpoint. It was in this extremely dire situation that he used a form of entrapment to force my client to give a confession. But was it truly a confession, your honor? My client acted on the truly instinctive human behavior: The desire to live."

He had looked right at me at that point. Me and old Gilbert had a staredown right in that court room. Even then, I had known that I had lost. But the lawyer continued on anyway, determined to say it too.

"My client simply said the words that the Detective wanted to hear, in the hopes of self preservation. The evidence was not acquired through legal means: I vote that it be ruled inadmissable."

The judge had agreed. Not immediately, of course. The legal procedure is a long, drawn out one, as it tormenting perpetrators with their dual state of freedom and capture. When he finally made the ruling, he had lifted his little hammer and struck his desk. It felt like the hammer had crushed a part of myself as well.


It was amazing how fast it all went downhill from there.

My flawless record of 100% convictions was shattered, but it didn't bother me much. As far as I was concerned, it was only a matter of time before we caught Gilbert Donnovan. Until that time, I would be watching his every move. I would be certain to stop him if he tried to murder again. In retrospect it had been naive to try and deal with Gilbert as a rational man.

I should have seen him as what he was: a psychopath.

The events of that one fateful day still remain etched into my memory: A canvas of blood, ice, fire and fury. A tragedy beyond the works of Shakespeare.

It begun with a call. I had picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Detective Quinn?" a voice had asked.

"Yes?" I had replied.

"Detective Quinn, we're down at 514 Harlbridge Road, investigating a murder. We think you should come down here and take a look."

I had paused after that, taking in a deep breath. A small part of me was hoping beyond hope that it was all just a coincidence. When I finally spoke, I managed to keep my voice level, much to my own surprise. "Are there cuts beneath the victim's eyes, like teardrops of blood?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Yes sir, but... you'd better get down here."

I remember getting into my car and racing down there. It was a surprise that I hadn't killed myself with reckless driving. When I sped to a halt in front of the house, I had gotten out and run up the porch. The front door stood ajar.

As I entered, I immediately saw the looks of suspicion on the men's faces. I immediately flashed my badge at them and they seemed to relax.

"Detective Quinn here", I said and before anyone could say anything I continued "Take me to the body."

One of the officers shook his head. "I'm sorry, Detective, but the body has already been taken away."

"It has?" I had asked, in surprise.

"Yes, sir" the officer said. "We called you over here because there was a note in one of the victim's pockets." He looked at Quinn. "It was addressed to you, sir."

It had caught me by surprise, but only for a moment. A psychopath like Gilbert would have probably liked to play games of cat and mouse. Extending my hand,I took the letter from the officer and read it.

Luminous arrows point your way,
to the victor of the day.

I had always been good at riddles, but even I had not known what it would be pointing me to. Nevertheless, I walked over to the wall switch and turned off the light. Immediately, a trail of luminous arrows were clearly visible on the walls.

"By god", one of the officers said, dumbfounded.

I wasn't listening at that point. I followed the trail of arrows. It led me, past the kitchen into the living room. The arrows stopped just in front of a rather large persian carpet. Kicking it aside, we noticed the cellar door.

I grabbed hold of the handle and pulled it open... staring straight at the smiling face of Gilbert Donnovan.

"I win", he had said, from his basement vantage and had laughed. The worst part was: He had been right.


One year ago

The conviction went much smoother this time. Gilbert Donnovan was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. I had quit the force and, as one last act of defiance, had gone to the jail to visit Gilbert Donnovan.

I remember our conversation clearly.

"Why, hello there, Ryu", Gilbert had said, smiling at me.

"I don't have time for chitchat, Gilbert", I had said. "I'm just here to tell you to remember this defeat. Remember that you will rot here for the rest of your days. Remember that we have prevailed over you and your pathetic..."

"NO!" he had said, loudly, before bringing his voice back to a level tune. "No, Ryu, you remember, boy. Remember how I snatched victory from defeat. How I left you with a dying career. How I effectively took everything from you. You remember that, you inbred little dog."

I did remember. I still remember. Every day.


Well, folks. That is my story. Maybe it's a little too boring for your taste. Maybe it's a little too mushy for your taste. Maybe it doesn't convince you that I would make a proper wrestler. But I'm here now. I'm here because I have this guilt inside me and it's threatening to devour me.

To eat away at my entire frame bit by bit until there's absolutely nothing left.

And I want to fight other men, because in that brute, basic and primal way... For those few seconds that I'm being beaten up or beating down another... That's when I forget. I forget the past. The loss, the hatred, the self-loathing. Even if just for an instant.

Gilbert Donnovan defeated me.

I hope no-one else ever does.

So now I've been thrown into a match with David GS and Osiris. Both men have been here longer than me. Both men probably deserve to win more than me. But life isn't fair. Life isn't about what's fair. It is also basic and primal, cruel and uncaring.

So I will try to win. I will try not to be a statistic for Osiris. I will try not to be the 'redemption' of David GS - Just someone to defeat to get his confidence back.

I will try, because honestly, I don't want to lose again.

I finish the last of my tea, take a five pound note and place it on the table. Standing up, I start walking away. I'm walking towards my new life and then someone bumps into me...

And I immediately spin around, striking him with a back elbow to the back of the head. I immediately grab hold of his neck, locking in a choke hold, before sweeping the leg, planting him face down onto the concrete and rendering him unconscious...

...and apologize, before continuing onwards. It's all about picking your battles.

The unthinkable has occurred. Nicholas Gray, the constant failure, the least effective member of the Broken Saints...has won a title. He was not alone, he co-holds a tag team title with Damien Inferno, but the fact remains. This man, known almost solely for his various failings in the world of wrestling...is a champion.

But that match was chaos. People flying around, thrown around into one another. And by some unspoken agreement made in the end of it, they all came together to break the ring, with Nicholas managing to be the one to crawl out of the wreckage first. It was not a feat of athleticism nor a showing of skill that ended it. With that one has to wonder...

Was it just pure luck?

Champions are defined by a property inside of themselves. Something that allows them to keep going beyond the limits of their peers. Something that refuses to allow their bodies to stop moving. To allow them to put themselves through things most humans would think mad or even fatal, in search of victory and gold. It pushes them to do things and survive what others wouldn't be able to. It is a quality well known to many, but few ultimately possess it.

So the question is a simple one. Does he possess that quality.

Does Nicholas Gray have the heart of a champion?

–

She walks into the room, walking up behind his chair and putting a hand on his shoulder as she leans in to watch. A scene of carnage, sweaty bodies laying about a crushed ring, two men standing as a man in a striped shirt raises their hands. Gray and his cute little partner.

Her: Mmm, I could watch that all day.

Him: I have been.

Her: I would imagine so.

He waves his hand, making the image freeze on Gray's triumphant face.

Him: Him winning was...unexpected.

Her:You realize the problem this presents?

Him: Of course.

Her: A champion has appearance responsibilities. Talk shows, magazines, the spectrum of human entertainment. His time spent here will drastically decrease if he does not lose it immediately.

She pressed her hand into his shoulder, whispering the words into his ear, trying to effect him with her abilities. He was not swayed.

Him: I have already planned for this.

Her: Oh?

Him: It is simple, we must make sure he will lose.

Her: And how will you do that...dear?

He had to suppress a laugh at that.

Him: A few changes in certain people's emotional levels, and with Gray's odd obsession with “helping” anyone in need, he will quickly be unable to defend himself against those who seek his belt. A hatchling is capable of it.

Her: Mmm...lovely. I can't wait to see.

She releases his shoulder and walks out of the room. Good. She was too focused on the present, unable to look at the future like he could. The truth was, he was not seeking to exclusively break Gray physically. No, this was different. He wanted to see how he would react to it. This was a project on his own, one he would attend to personally.

Him: Consider it a...test. Nicholas.

–

Why the fuck do cats like climbing so much when they're too scared to climb back down?

I got a call a little after 6 in the morning, asking if I could come help with a lost pet. It'd be nice if they told me that by lost, they meant climbed up a tree and refused to come back down. But still, pay is pay, and the little old lady who owns the cat seemed so distressed by her fluffy friend's amateur mountaineering that I couldn't bring myself to say no.

So that's why I'm on a tree branch 20 feet in the air at 6:30 in the morning. Have I mentioned I'm actually deathly afraid of heights? Yeah, probably as good a time as any to be thinking about that.

I hold onto the branch for dear life as I slowly pull myself forward towards the cat. Cute little white fluffy one. Seems amazingly disinterested in me. Get in line. I slowly extend one hand, and the cat sniffs it, but doesn't move, accepting me. Thank fuck. I reach over and pick up under his arms and move him towards me, smiling.

Gray: Now, I know someone who's gonna be really happy when we get down from here.

Suddenly the cat is kind of glaring at me, his ears flattening on his head. Oh fu-

The cat lashes out, rapidly scratching my face. My eyes scrunch up, and my balance shifts suddenly, and I'm in the air, dropping. I hit a branch, yelling out as my arm suddenly flares in pain, and the yell leaves me again as I crash to the ground on my other arm. I can hear the old lady asking me if I'm okay. Can't worry her.

Gray: Fine...I'm fine. Just a...just a little fall.

Nothing cracked. Arms aren't broken. Just hurt like all fuck. I hear a meow, and realize the cat had climbed back down. At least he didn't fall with me. The old lady scoops him up as I manage to get back to my feet. He's purring in her arms, and she's practically nuzzling him. Seeing their happiness alleviates some of the pain.

She's thanking me repeatedly, saying she'll go and get her purse to pay me. I shake my head, and tell her it's fine, she could keep the money. I smile and give her and the cat a thumbs-up as I begin to walk off.

I reach the curb when my phone goes off. Hippy. I manage to force my finger to flip the phone open and answer.

Gray: Hey.

Hippy: Hey, Nicholas! Did you finish the job for Mrs. Peterson?

Gray: Yeah, it was alright.

Hippy: Are you alright?

Gray: Ah, I'm fine. Kind of fell out of a tree. And don't start! I'm fine. What's up?

Hippy: Well...you know Liz? The librarian?

Gray: Uh...barely? Why.

Hippy: She wants to hire you to find a book. She's misplaced it.

I groan and start to rub my brow. I'm not a lost and found dammit.

Hippy: It's a children's book, and a lot of kids have been asking for it, and she sounded really sad about it.

In other words, she needs my help. I'm not a lost and found, but I help people. I think the pain in my arms is making me a bit of an ass.

Gray: Fine, fine. I'll ride over there now.

Hippy: Great! How about we have lunch at the cafe after? We can catch up.

Oh boy, I can't wait to hear about the latest feng shui cooking technique he's learned. That'll be the damn highlight of my day.

Gray: Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll see you later.

I wince a bit as I put the phone back in my pocket. Pain's varying, but I can manage. Long as someone's asking for my help. I walk down the curb to my Honda, a Fireblade. My baby. It'd really suck if the owner ever came looking for it. Oh well. I put the helmet on before riding off.

–

When he said find a book, I should have known it'd mean I'd have to go through two floors of book shelves to find it. I should have known. Still, it wasn't too bad. My arms ache more, but the look on the one kid's face when I brought the book up to the desk just as he was asking about it was gold. I feel better now.

I'm about five blocks away from the cafe when I see the scene at the top of the street. Three guys chasing a man down, one of them carrying a bat. One of them tackles the man, and they gather around him to start beating him down. Hell no. I skid the bike to a stop and jump off, tossing my helmet aside as I kick the one with the bat in the stomach, making him drop it as he doubles over. They didn't see me coming, so the element of surprise is mine. I punch another one in the face, knocking him down and out. I grab the first one by the head and ram my knee into his face, and that's it for him. I start to turn to the last one when a blinding pain strikes the inside of my knee. The last one had picked the bat up. I go down to one knee, involuntarily reaching for my knee. I let go of it to try to elbow him, but he's suddenly ducking and backing up. I see the guy they were going to beat on, swinging my discarded motorcycle helmet like a madman. Apparently it's enough to get the guy to give up, as he turns and runs.

The guy drops my helmet and moves over to me, concern and gratitude all over his face.

Guy: Are...are you alright?

I do my best to smile.

Gray: Don't worry...I'm fine. It's not broken.

He offers me a hand and I take it, and he helps me back to my feet. I wince as I put pressure on the leg, pain shooting up.

Guy: I'm sorry...

Gray: I said don't worry. I'm just glad you weren't hurt by these guys. Call the cops, alright?

The guy nods, still showing his gratitude on his face. I'm glad I helped him. I grab my helmet and put it back on my head, getting back on my bike. I give him a nod and and a thumbs up before riding off to the cafe.

When I get there I can already see Hippy's ordered some terrible vegan processed sludge for us both. Joy. I hobble over to the table and just about collapse into the seat. It's so nice to be sitting...

Oh boy, he looks concerned. This will only end badly.

Hippy: Nicholas...what happened?

Gray: Nothing. I helped a guy who was about to get a beatdown.

Hippy: ...so why were you limping over here?

Gray: It's nothing. A guy hit me with a bat to my knee, that's it.

Hippy: What!? We should get you to a hospital to get checked out!

I wave my hand dismissively, looking around at the people around us, a good few staring at us.

Gray: Keep quiet. I'm fine. Any other cases?

He sighed.

Hippy: Nicholas...

Gray: Are there any more cases?

Hippy: Just listen to me, okay? I think you need to go back and get some rest. You're hurt.

Gray: I'm fine.

Hippy: Nicholas. I know you like to help anyone, but...you need to think about you. Just rest a bit, people can wait.

Gray: And we both know why I can't.

His head droops, he knows why I do things this way, and he knows I can't be reasoned with this.

Gray: Besides, even if I wanted to rest, I know I wouldn't be able to. Because, it's like, inside me there's this...energy. And it keeps my body going forward, no matter what. I don't argue with it, because I help people with it.

Hippy: Fine...there aren't any more cases, okay? Liz was the last one who called today. Will you please, please, go to the office and rest? Until I get another call?

I sigh, and nod. That's acceptable. I stand up, gripping the back of the chair for support as I start to stumble off. He's yelling something about me forgetting to eat the fancy wheat pancakes he got, but I ignore it as I get back to my bike.

–

I'm riding back to the office. And I have to admit, Hippy's right. Some rest would probably help me. I stop outside the park, and look over it. It's beautiful. A little detour won't hurt. I turn the bike to the right and start to ride through the park. It'll only put me a block further away then going straight up would, and the scenery is far better.

It takes about an hour to ride through, but it's so worth it. It really is beautiful. As I'm getting near the exit, I pick up a bit of speed. Suddenly, someone steps into the way, I see an old man for a split second before I lean as far over as I can to try and make the bike avoid him. The Fireblade starts to skid, and hits a rock, propelling me into the air, where I finally slam into a tree back-first. I cry out as I drop to the ground. I writhe there for a moment, before I hear the old man I saw calling out for me. I force myself to flip onto my stomach, and to grab a low branch to pull myself up. My knee is screaming at me, and my back doesn't feel like it will crack back into place easily. Terrible. The old man is slowly walking towards me, so I try my best to put the look of pain on my face away. I stumble over to him. He looks lost and confused.

Old Man: Young man...are you okay?

Gray: Fine...I'm fine. What's wrong?

Old Man: I...I don't know where I am. I was walking home from the grocery store, and now...I don't know how I got here...I don't know where here IS...

He needs help. Forget my own pain. Help him.

Gray: I'll help you...can you remember where your home is?

Old Man: Um...Griffin...Avenue? Parkway?

Gray: Avenue. It's just three blocks over.

I stumble over to where the Fireblade is and manage to pull it up. I look back at the old man. I can't ride the bike with him. Looks like I'll have to walk.

Gray: Come on...it's not that far.

I start to push the bike forward by the handlebars, keeping an arm around the old man half so he can keep on the path, and half to keep from having to pull the full weight on my leg. At the pace we're going at, it takes almost an hour to get to the right street, and I see a woman frantically running out of her house to her car. She stops when she seems us, and even from here I can see the sudden joy on her face as she runs over to us.

Woman: Dad! I was so worried!

Old Man: Oh, I'm sorry Christine...I got lost...this young man helped me.

She looks at me, taking in my attempt to hide the pain evident on my face, hunched forward slightly, trying to keep off a leg. It's not hard to guess how we met.

Christine: Oh no...I am so sorry...he forgets things easily now, and...I am just so sorry...

Gray: Don't worry...it's fine.

Christine: No, I mean, you're clearly...

Gray: I said...don't worry. I'm just glad your father is home safe, alright? Take care of him.

I manage to smile, as I raise my hand up to give them a thumbs up. Christine's look of gratitude and joy make the pain worth it. I start to push the bike towards the office, not sure if I'd be able to ride it without an accident. It's about ten blocks to the office. God.

The truth is, I am hurting. Badly. Feels like every limb is aching all over. But I can't let other people know I'm hurting. People wouldn't have confidence in me to help them if they see me admitting I'm hurting. I can deal with any amount of pain, as long as I can try and help people. Perhaps not the right way to do it, but I've said before that it's what I deserve. This energy I feel in me will let me keep going. I trust it.

I finally get to the office, and I just let the bike fall over as I stumble to the door, pushing it open. I take a few steps, before my body collapses onto the ground, and I drift off...

–

I don't know where I am.

It's bright, white. All around me. No floor or walls, just white stretching on for infinity. I stumble backwards though, and something stops me from falling. I look, and all I see is white. My whole body is in pain. Like every break and ache I suffered today has been multiplied, and shot throughout my entire body. It hurts to stand. I try to walk forward on burning legs, but a gap in the “floor” makes me stumble backwards.

Suddenly the distance isn't bright. It's turning dark, as a red-tinged darkness moves forward. I know what it is before the figure appears. Clad in a suit, but the face obscured by the darkness, like it's taunting me. Of course.

Gray: You...

Him: Of course, Nicholas. Did you expect someone else?

Gray: Should have...known.

Him: Come now, we both know you're not smart enough for that.

As it gets closer, the pain in my body keeps increasing. It's getting unbearable.

Gray: Why...why this shit?

It waves it's hand dismissively. Should have remembered, it NEVER answers what I want to know. Feels like every nerve in my body is on fire, but something's keeping me standing.

Him: I'm curious. Your body is aching, your bones are cracked. You're physically breaking down. And yet...you still stand. Why?

I'm breathing hard, and it hurts my lungs to do so.

Gray: Not a clue...

Him: Hm. I've encountered it before, and I still cannot find an explanation for it.

Gray: Well...if it's something you don't know about...guess that makes it my best friend.

My heart is racing, beating too fast. Feels like it's gonna burst. Everything hurts.

Him: Hah. It won't be of much use to you at this point.

It's lifting a hand up. Everything hurts. Feels like everything's going to go out at once. Is this the end?

Gray: No.

Him: Hm?

Am I really going to let this piece of shit cocksucker end me here? Will I really let it win here? Without even trying to put a fight? When there are still people who need my help?

Never.

Gray: I said...No.

Beside all the pain in my body, I can feel something else. A warmth, that's creeping up into my limbs, lessening the aches and break just a bit. But a bit's enough. The warmth is pulling my legs to go forward. I agree with it. Gathering what's left in me, I let out a yell as I start to run forward. It looks surprised a bit, a wonderful sight, as it raises it's hands and the next thing I know all I can hear are booms next to me as blasts of concussive force hit next to me. A rib cracks. My ears start to bleed. But the feeling in me keeps me going forward, as I reach the edge of the gap and leap.

In the air I can faintly feel it as the belt wraps itself around me, the feeling in me seeping out into it, covering me in armor. Not the same as before, when I feel hope. This is something new. The edges of my vision is tinted with light green as the helmet appears. Now it looks really surprised, and that makes some of the pain fade away.

I land on my feet in front of it, and for a moment we share a look. I hope it can see my eyes behind the helmet. I want it to know that it'll take far more than that to ever put me down for good. I want it to see this energy inside of me. I can feel more of the warmth in my right leg now, burning hot. I jump in the air, twisting my body as I bring the leg around to roundhouse it, it brings it's arms up as a shield as my leg connects, a burst of energy blowing it backwards, still standing.

There's a brief pause as it gets it's bearings back completely. I start to make the warmth gather in my leg again as it raises it's arms, but I catch sight of something on it. And it's so wonderful a sight I'm a bit too slow at trying to stop it. A blast of concussive force slams into my chest, blasting me back over the gap. My leg slams into the edge of the gap and is twisted forwards under me. Pain erupts through it as I land awkwardly on my stomach. The pain is intense, and the feeling in me is doing it's best to reduce the pain where it can, but it can only do so much. But I can't be put down now.

Despite the pain I force myself up onto my hands, putting my good foot onto the ground as I start to try to stand. I don't know how I'll even be able to do so with other leg bending the wrong way. But more blasts hit me, sending my flying back into the barrier. An explosion of stars in my head.

I've...slid down the wall...on my ass now...how degrading. Head pounding...dimly aware of blood coating inside of helmet...don't want to think of where it's from...everything hurts...warmth still there...still trying...have to keep trying...

My hand is raising towards it...armor's cracking...losing focus...can't keep it on me...is this it?..no, never...will never be put down...raising his arms again...have to stop him...I see it again...comforting...

Everything around me begins to explode, and everything's fading...

–

He reached up and pushed the sunglasses back up his nose, looking across at his enemy, his old friend, as he laid there dead. It was amazingly anticlimactic. After all of the planning and preparation it had taken, it turned out that he was not at all the correct person for it. How annoying. He would have to find a new one to attach himself to now, and the process leading to this one had already taken a few centuries. No matter, time was irrelevant.

He was still annoyed at it however. For a few moments, when he transformed into that green armor and attacked him he had expected something special from him. But it was for not, something kept distracting him. The fool. Well, there was hardly a point to remain there, he had to inform the others of this failure, they would have to remove the entirety of the project, and that would be an aggravating task. He turned on his heel and began to walk away when he heard a faint wheeze.

He turned around and saw the crumpled, broken body of his old friend twitch. Another wheeze as his hand, shaking, moved up a small bit, trying to grip the ground to push itself forward. Surprising. But at this point unnecessary.

Him: How is it you won't stay down?

He begun to lift an arm, to blow the failure away forever, when a sudden, new, sharp feeling crackled up his arm. He held his arm up and examined it. To his shock, across his forearm there ran a deep cut, the frayed edges of the material of his suit tinged with flickering bits of light green energy. A quick look revealed an identical one on his other arm. He realized why Gray had become distracted. He had managed to hurt him. Pain...that was most certainly a new experience.

A chuckle left his mouth as he felt it throb in his arms. This was exciting. He had been correct after all. He was the correct one for this.

Him: I suppose you pass after all...Mr. Gray.

He suppressed the smile that had appeared on his face as he willed the white landscape around him to fade away as he returned back to the office. She and a few others were watching over him, waiting. He kept his face even as he stood up, crossing his arms behind his back to keep them from their view.

Him: Return him. Remove the effects of this test from him.

One of them tilted their heads in confusion, a lesser one, perhaps catching the use of the word test, one that didn't understand the full scope of this. Unable to understand that, ultimately, as long as he was deemed as worthy of the role picked for him, Nicholas Gray was not allowed to die.

Him: Do it now. I'll be in the nether room, making sure of the rest of our current project's arms are functioning correctly.

He walked out of the room before he could be questioned about what happened. He had to get stitched up and changed. The others were not to see any kind of damage given to this host. His kind all had their own goals to gain, wanting to become Perfect instead of anyone else, and if one of them thought he was capable of being injured they would pounce at the chance to remove him from the equation. In time that would be dealt with, according to his plan.

Still, he could not help but let the slight smile return to him. Surprise, shock, and pain, practically at once. Three things he had never known before.

Him: I suppose I underestimated you...Mr. Gray.

–

Someone's knocking on my door.

I slowly open my eyes, looking up at the ceiling fan slowly spin round and round. I bring a hand to my mouth and wipe. Some drool, but no blood. I sit up and look around the office, the cat's curled up next to me, asleep. I smile and reach over, scratching behind his ear. He slowly looks up at me with an expression of “Oh, you're awake? Good, pour me some food you mongoloid.”

Gray: Heh. Good mornin' to you too.

I get up to my feet. The pain in my leg is gone, as is the pain from my arms. My spine still hurts, but that was from before yesterday anyhow. For a second I wonder if it was a dream. But I dash that from my head immediately. That happened. I don't know why, but it happened. I hurt it. I made it bleed. I'm calling it a victory. Even if they already have a few thousand points up on me, even one point closing to overtaking them is important to me.

Still, I have to wonder. I was certainly going to die there...god, I almost died. I shake my head, there's no point dwelling on that, I'm not dead. But still, I was near-death...why did they fix me up when they had me where they want me? I'll have to ponder on it later.

Whoever's pounding on my door is getting desperate.

I walk over and open it to find Hippy standing there, holding a little care box.

Gray: I'm closing the door now.

He starts to pout, and puts his foot in the way of the door, even though he knows well enough to know I won't slam the door in his face. Against his head though...

Hippy: I wanted to check on you. I was worried.

Gray: I told you not to worry.

I lift my leg up and flex my arms, showing him the pain's gone.

Hippy: I knew it. You just needed some rest.

I sigh, but that doesn't stop a small smile from appearing.

Gray: Fine, I guess I did. Thanks for looking out for me.

Hippy: Well someone has to.

He extends the box to me, and I take it.

Hippy: I made you breakfast.

Oh boy. I open it and find a multitude of oat related foods. I grab a chocolate covered bar and drop the box at the door for the cat, though I doubt he'll eat it either.

Gray: Yeah, thanks. Any calls?

Hippy: Well, Mr. Johnson is getting threats from that loan shark again, Miss Delancey has misplaced her car...and Mrs. Peterson's cat has climbed up the tree again.

Sigh. Of course. Though, I get the feeling this time he'll be a bit more cooperative.

Gray: Don't worry, I'll take care of it.

I walk over to the Fireblade and pull it back up, putting the helmet on as I get seated on it. My back makes a little crack as I lean back for a second, and I sigh. I can feel Hippy's suddenly worried expression from here.

Hippy: Nicholas...you remember what we talked about yesterday don't you? Maybe you should get a bit more rest. They can wait a little longer.

I look back at him, reaching up and flipping the motorcycle helmet's visor up so we can look each other in the eye. I don't have to say anything, I can tell by his eyes that he already knows that I won't rest longer than I have to if there's someone asking for my help. That's how I am now. And I'm damn proud of it. Instead of words, I just smile and raise my arm up, giving him a thumbs up. He smiles back and returns it as I flip the visor back down and ride off down the road to the next person who needs my help, still feeling this energy within me pushing me further and further forward.

I'm glad I have it.

–

Come one, come all.

Try to take me down.

Try to beat me down.

Because I'll show you all...

What the heart of a champion looks like.

Perception is fluid.

How we, as human beings, perceive the world around us is the defining factor in how we choose to interact with it. If we find that world warm and inviting, we may choose to devote our lives to keeping that way or making it moreso; should our surrounding strike us as cold, intimidating, or maybe even dangerous, we may decide to put a stop to whatever makes it that way.

Our perceptions, however, are eternally bound by our experiences - the things we've done, the things we've heard, the things we've seen. A woman who's friend has been the victim of rape probably won't jump at the idea of walking down a dark alley alone. Likewise, a young man who, as a child, watched as his father beat his mother into submission is not likely to have a healthy view of the relationship between a man and a woman. Someone who has seen the school bully win fight after fight out on the playground would have to be suicidal to pick a fight with said bully . . . unless, of course, they have already proven that they have what it takes to beat said bully.

Curiously enough, though, recent experience often overshadows distant-past experience. This is no doubt due to the disparity of memory - recent experiences are far more vivid in our mind's eye and therefore have a greater pull in our perceptions of things - and yet, at the same time, this disparity can cloud our judgment, leading us to make decisions and judgments that are . . .

. . . unwise.



Beneath the SoA's Clubhouse there lay a gym. Red-painted walls lined with full-length mirrors surrounded a plethora of weight machines and workout equipment - a veritable forest of steel towers and chrome plate racks. Leon Caprice and the Celt stood near the entrance to the weight room; both were dressed in workout attire and coated in light layers of sweat, and they watched in silence as David GS powered through a set of inverted pull-ups on a stationary bar near the center of the room. Feet raised towards the ceiling and head pointed towards the floor, the rookie Son of Attrition continued to pull himself upwards, his face a strained rictus.

Celt: He's going to hurt himself.

Leon: No . . . I don't think so.

It ended abruptly - David's legs swung down and he dropped to the mat directly beneath him, immediately sinking down into a seated position and resting his forehead on his knees. His breath came and went in harsh gasps; veins stood out on his arms like shock cords, in sharp contrast to the bruises that still remained from his match at Ultimatum. Leon and the Celt went over to him as he rose back up to his feet, making a concerted effort to get his breathing under control.

Leon: You okay?

David planted his hands on his hips and stared at the floor for a moment, still fighting to get his breathing back into a normal rhythm and pitch.

DGS: . . . yeah, fine. Why?

Leon: You've been hitting it really hard the past couple days. In here before us, out of here after us . . . we're just thinking that you maybe ought to slow it down a little.

David looked Leon in the face for a moment, studying it. He then turned to Celt - the Ultraviolent Champion didn't say anything, but the expression on his face said that he agreed with Leon. David frowned - they were concerned for him, and that was fine, but not if it meant that they were going to try and impede his progress.

DGS: I'm fine, guys. Really.

The words came out a bit harsher than he'd intended, but they got the message across just fine. Celt and Leon shared a look, but David didn't give either of them the opportunity to respond. He grabbed his already-damp handtowel off a nearby weight machine and shouldered his way past them, headed for the door that would lead back up into the mansion proper. He couldn't have been more than three steps from the exit when the Celt's voice stopped him cold.

Celt: It's Austin, isn't it?

DGS: . . . Yeah. Yeah, it is.

Celt: We're not idiots, David - we can see it day by day. You've started spending more time here at the Clubhouse, and almost all of that time is spent down here, training in solitude. The rest is spend upstairs in the theater, watching footage of Austin, yourself, or both. It's becoming an obsession, this need of yours to beat him.

DGS: It's not an obsession . . . I don't need to beat him, you fire-crotched son of a bitch. I know I can beat him.

Leon: Yeah, it is.

David hadn't yet turned around to face them, but he could feel his teammates' eyes boring into his back. He finally turned to see them standing exactly where'd left them - shoulder to shoulder by the pull-up bar, staring reprehensively at him.

Leon: We get it, David - you came so close, so unbelievably close to beating him, just to slip up and lose the whole thing in the end.

DGS: . . . Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Leon: We've been there before, both of us. If Hannibal were awake right now, he'd tell you the same thing. Losses happen - some of them are so close to going the other way that you just want to rip your hair out. But you can't freak out over every single one of them. You'll go insane if you do.

David could feel himself getting angry, angry at both of them. If there was one thing he hated, one thing he absolutely could not STAND, it was being lectured. His grip on the handtowel tightened, so much so that his knuckles turned white; had the piece of cloth not been in his hand, his own fingernails would've likely drawn blood from his palm. When he finally responded, his tone of voice was one of offense and confrontation.

DGS: So . . . what are you saying?

Celt, being the more confrontational of the two, took offense to the challenge and stepped forward.

Celt: What we're saying, is that while we understand you're upset about losing at Ultimatum, you need to get. The fuck. Over it. And move. The fuck. On.

David's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't been expecting such a blunt, up-front response.

Leon: He's right. You're facing Osiris and that new guy Quinn at 14.1, and while we're sure you can handle them just fine, one of them could very easily get the drop on you if you aren't focused . . .

Celt: Which you aren't.

DGS: . . . fine.Shows how much you know. I'll squash those two bugs, just to spite you.

Celt: What was that?

David didn't honor him with a reply; instead, he threw the towel over his shoulder and turned, heading through the exit and trudging up the winding staircase that led to the Clubhouse's ground level. He heard footsteps behind him as they came to the bottom of the stairs, and Leon's voice traveled up after him.

Leon: Where are you going?

David's reply was curt, more of a formality than an actual farewell.

DGS: I'm going to shower. After that, I'm taking the jet back to Omaha. I'll see you guys at 14.1.

He arrived at the top of the staircase, stepped through the door there, and slammed it shut behind him.



The man who had designed the Clubhouse had spared no expense on any aspect of the place, and the bathrooms were no exception. David tossed his workout clothes off to one side and stepped into the all-glass shower enclosure, pulling the door shut behind him. Every time he'd come to spend a few days at the Clubhouse, whether it was to use the gym, study up for a match, or simply to spend some time with his fellow Sons of Attrition, three men who he'd come to call his friends, he'd made a point to use this particular shower at least once before he left.

The thing was a real piece of work. The water came from four ceiling-mounted showerheads that were designed to look like ceiling tiles; there was a dial on the wall inside the shower that let users adjust not only the way the water came out (settings included rainshower and waterfall), but a series of chromatherapy lights set into each showerhead. Once the glass fogged up and trapped the light inside, it became an almost ethereal experience that David never got tired of.

He simply stood there, head tilted back, eyes closed, as water and soft blue light filled the glass enclosure. More than anything, right then he needed to cool off after his confrontation with Leon and the Celt.

DGS: . . . Calm down, Dave. Just calm down. They're just trying to help - it's not their fault that they don't get it.

David's eyes snapped open. They didn't understand. That was the problem. They thought they did, and probably rightly so - after all, like they said, they'd both come close to victory only to have it snatched away before, just as he had at Ultimatum. Leon and the Celt both thought they knew what he was feeling, they both thought they'd already tread the path he was on . . . but they hadn't.

DGS: . . . I'm not like them. I'm nothing like them.

This was different - not just from any loss that Leon or the Celt or Hannibal Frost had ever suffered, but from any loss that he had ever suffered.

It ate at him.

It kept him up at night.

He thought about it every day - most days it was all he thought about. And that was a bad thing. David's soaked eyebrows furrowed as he recalled what Leon had said to him before he'd stormed out of the workout center.

Leon: . . . one of them could easily get the drop on you if you aren't focused . . .

He hated to admit it, but there was some truth behind Leon's words. If he let this obsession with beating Austin consume him - which, as the Celt had so bluntly pointed out, he was - it would be easy for an opportunistic individual like Ryu Quinn to get the jump on him in the ring. He couldn't let that happen.

He wouldn't let it happen.

David put his hand to the control panel for the shower and shut the whole thing down. Pushing the condensation-coated door open, he stepped out onto the blue tile flooring and grabbed a towel off the nearby rack.

DGS: Never happen.



He bumped into Leon on his way down the stairs. There was a moment of terse silence between the two Sons of Attrition, neither man really knowing what to say to the other, or even if he should say anything at all. David adjusted the shoulder strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder; he was all packed and ready to head to the nearby airfield, where the SoA's private Learjet was waiting to take him back to Omaha. Leon looked like he'd just gotten done showering himself.

DGS: Hey, listen, I -

Leon: Don't.

David blinked, waiting for a harsh diatribe from his teammate. None came, however; instead, a reassuring smile spread over Leon's face.

Leon: It's fine, really. What Celt and I said about us knowing what you're going through, we meant it - we both know what it's like to come close and have the rug pulled out from under you.

David's brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

Leon: We didn't . . . we didn't handle it correctly down there. Sometimes it's not as easy as just getting over it and moving on. I know that, Celt knows that, and Hannibal knows it too. So I'm, uh . . . I'm sorry we didn't give you the same benefit. You're having a harder time dealing with this loss than we first thought, and we should've been more on board with you than we have been. For that, I'm sorry.

DGS: Wow. I, um . . . thanks. Really, thank you.

Leon: Of course. Listen, I know that the three of us may not've made this very clear, what with us over on Corruption and you all alone on Ammunition, but you have our full support in everything you do.

Leon extended his hand, and David only hesitated for a moment before grasping it firmly. He was already feeling better. He passed Leon and continued down the mansion's grand staircase, and was halfway across the front foyer when, again, the sound of his fellow Son of Attrition's voice stopped him.

Leon: I will say this, though.

David turned to see Leon hadn't moved from his spot on the steps.

DGS: Yes?

Leon: I'm not going to tell you to get over the loss. What I will tell you is that you're putting too much stock in it. Chris Austin beat you in singles competition...once. Matt Ashburn beat you in singles competition...once. That's two losses, and no matter who they were to, anyone who wants to judge your ability as a wrestler still has to stack those two losses up against nine wins. Remember that.

Leon turned and headed up the stairs. David watched him go, a small grin breaking out on his face. He then turned and headed out the front door.



Pilot: Attention, this is the Captain speaking. We've reached our cruising altitude of 33,000 feet; our flight time to Omaha, Nebraska will be approximately five hours and forty minutes. The skies are clear, so we're expecting relatively little turbulence, which means you are free to move about the cabin. Have a nice flight.

David barely glanced up at the intercom announcement from the Learjet's pilot. He didn't really see a point to it; after all, besides the co-pilot and flight attendants, he was the only other person on the aircraft. He sat in one of two long, white leather couches that lined the jet's cabin, hunched over the laptop computer that sat on a small end table in front of him. His fingers danced nimbly across the keyboard, and his eyes roved over the screen.

Ryu Quinn.

He was a smart guy, that was for sure. Former detective, spent years in Scotland Yard, ended with a case-closed record of 100%. In the brief, ego-driven conversation David had had with him, it had been made crystal-clear that from a mental standpoint, the guy was miles ahead of himself. He also seemed thoroughly convinced that his intellectual superiority was all that was necessary for him to beat David at 14.1. What he failed to observe was that while he'd been buying, blackmailing, and extorting his way through a career in criminal justice, David had been wrestling.

Nothing else - just wrestling.

Quinn would pose no threat - literally none whatsoever. The guy was a brain, a liar, and a coward - in other words, a perfect punching bag. He did, on the other hand, have to worry about . . .

Kayden Osiris.

Standard GSW grunt? Could be, but looking through background info on the guy left David thinking otherwise.

Instead of a detective, he used to be a cop - that made him a more credible threat in the ring almost by default. An apparent mental disconnect coupled with a desire to inflict pain for its own sake did nothing but further enforce David's initial assessment: that Kayden Osiris was a far more credible threat in the ring than Ryu Quinn.

DGS: Still gotta be wary, though . . .

???: You say somethin', hon?

David snapped his head up to see a pretty redheaded flight attendant standing over him, hands clasped delicately in front of her. Unable to help himself, he gave the slender woman a quick elevator eye; he liked what he saw, but after the whole ordeal he'd gone through with Anna, he knew better than to let such thoughts linger in his head. He noticed her nametag - it said "Gwen".

Gwen: Is there anything I can get for you, Sir? Something to eat? Something to drink?

Her eyes suddenly took on a different look to them, one that David had seen in his wife's many times.

Gwen: . . . other things?

DGS: You're very kind - very beautiful, too - but I'm married.

He held up his ring hand for her to see; the woman's cheeks turned a shade of red nearly as deep as her hair, and her mouth opened and closed without making any sound.

Gwen: I - I - I'm so sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to -

DGS: It's fine. Really, don't feel bad.

He patted the space next to him on the couch. She seemed hesitant at first but then sat down, keeping a respectul distance between them both. David supposed he should've expected something like this to happen on the jet - after all, Hannibal had been the one who'd done all of the hiring. Giving himself the location and the means to join the Mile High Club was kind of a given. He went back to the laptop, beginning a search for any prior footage of Quinn or Osiris he could use, and soon felt the flight attendant looking over his shoulder.

Gwen: What're you doing?

DGS: Research.

Gwen: For . . . ?

David pinched the bridge of his nose.

DGS: You know I'm a professional wrestler, right? Like Frost, like Leon, like the Celt, right?

When he didn't get a response right away, David turned to look over at the flight attendant. There was a blank expression on her face that persisted for a good five seconds before realization suddenly dawned there.

Gwen: Ohhhh . . .

David pinched the bridge of his nose again. She was pretty - he supposed that for a flight attendant on a private jet owned by four professional wrestlers, that was all that mattered.



It was one-thirty in the morning when David stepped through the door to his penthouse apartment. Rachel was lounged on the couch, watching TV; she turned towards the door as he let his duffel bag slide from his shoulder, stretching and groaning aloud as he did so.

DGS: Mmmmm . . . hey, babe.

He let his arms fall to his sides, smiling as she got up from the couch and taking her in his arms as she came to him. Rachel buried her face in his chest and he rested his chin atop her head; her hair was slightly damp and smelled of apricot shampoo.

Rachel: Welcome home . . . how'd it go?

DGS: Really good. I had a talk with the guys about my loss to Austin, and they said some stuff I think I needed to hear.

Rachel: That's great, baby - you really were freaking out about that, y'know.

David broke the embrace, holding her at arm's length and smiling good-naturedly at her.

DGS: You're not supposed to agree with me - you know that, right?

She offered up a smile to him in return . . . that's how David knew something was wrong. Normally, she would've laughed, maybe kissed him or something. Receiving naught but a smile - a half-hearted one, at that - meant that something had happened while he had been away, and the odds of him liking it were slim to none.

DGS: Rayche . . . babe, what's wrong?

Rachel: N - nothing. Everything's fine.

She tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

DGS: Rachel.

That was all it took - a simple utterance of her name, carrying with the utmost weight and gravity. David watched as her guarded frown melted into a expression that was equal parts bewilderment, anxiety, and fear.

Rachel: It's . . . it's Anna.

David's heart jumped into his throat. Please, God . . . he'd thought that he'd left all that behind him.

DGS: What . . . what about Anna?

Rachel: They . . . it was on the news tonight. She's . . . she's missing.

David let her go right then. He let her go and walked past her, over to the couch she had been sitting on just minutes prior and flopping down onto it. Her words had stunned him . . . no, strike that. It hadn't been the words that had stunned him so much as the reaction that they'd set off within him. He felt hot and cold at the same time, terrified for Anna's safety and also furious with her for disappearing, for reigniting the feeling's he'd developed for her in one fell swoop.

Rachel sat down next to him. She was talking, saying things to him in an attempt to comfort him. He didn't hear her, though - he didn't hear anything, didn't see anything.

He thought he was done with this, thought he was over her.

But he wasn't.



Our perceptions are molded by our experiences - what we see, what we hear, what we do and feel, they're all changing our view of the world on a daily basis. Take, for example, my opponents at 14.1 - Ryu Quinn and Kayden Osiris. Had I defeated Matt Ashburn and Chris Austin at No Holds Barred and Ultimatum, neither of them would think they had a chance in hell against me. Granted, had I come out on top in those matches, they probably wouldn't even be booked against me, but that's beside the point.

I lost both of those matches. As a result, my two opponents - Quinn in particular - have successfully convinced themselves that they can beat me in a wrestling ring.

This is not the case. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

I am David GS. I am the Phenom. And a mere bump-in-the-road loss or two does not make me any less than the fastest rising star this company has ever seen. Regardless of what you may have seen or heard, I am not in a downward spiral, I am not in the middle of a multi-show chokefest, and I am NOT someone two rookies can handle, not on their best day.

Many things in this world are fluid. Perception is one of them.

My meteoric ascension is not.

I won't be back until Sunday evening, so these may be final votes. Sorry!

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

Votes are subject to change as more promos come in.

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/Jeff Whitt and Crusoe) vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

Waitan for more promos.

Ammunition 14.1
from the Nationwide Arena in Columbus, Ohio

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

In a brightly lit studio, on the set of the popular talk show “Point of Veiw”, King and Leviticus are seated across the desk from the host, Tom Rodgers. King is dressed in a dark gray, three-piece suit, while Leviticus is wearing jeans, a t-shirt and leather jacket, and the contrast between the two is staggering. The flashy and polished King is offset by his serious, silent companion, but the two share a quick grin as the show's music plays and Rodgers starts them off.

Rodgers: Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to tonight's edition of “Point of Veiw”. Regular veiwers o the program may recognize our first guest, GSW superstar, former mixed martial artist, entreupaneur, and very, very good friend of the show, Mr. Jonathon King! Mr. King, it's great to have you back on the show.

Now that's he's been introduced, King flashes a quick grin, first at the audience, and then at Tom.

King: Always a pleasure, Tom. I never turn down an opportunity to make fun of you.

Rodgers: You might say that, but I am absolutely determined not to embarrass myself this time.

King: Yeah, good luck with that.

The audience laughs at seeing the normally domineering host humbled so quickly.

Rodgers: Hey! I thought you guys were supposed to be on my side!

Laughing, Rodgers throws his hands up in the air and turns back to King.

Rodgers: Honestly, they were so well-behaved before you came along. Anyway, for those veiwers who don't know, why don't you introduce yourselves.

King: Sure thing, my name is Jonathon King, and the large, angry-looking man sitting next to me is my tag team partner and good friend, Leviticus. We're professional wrestlers, and damned good ones at that.

Rodgers: Now then, I understand you have had an important development in your life since you last graced us with your presence. Last time we saw you, you were talking about GSW's Pay-Per-Veiw plans, but there was nothing confirmed. So imagine my surprise when I tuned into Full Metal Wrestling's Pay-Per-Veiw event Ultimatum, and saw you! Care to explain?

King: Well, Leviticus and I are a special case in our industry. You see, we are GSW superstars, but thanks to a business agreement and an additional contract, we, and several other GSW stars, were invited to perform with a rival company, Full Metal Wrestling.

Rodgers: Do you mind explaining that? Why would you do that?

King: Well, I think I'll let Levi take this one, he's been at it a lot longer than I have. Levi?

Leviticus: Well Mr. Rodgers, what I think you need to understand is that while GSW simply wanted to showcase our skills, FMW had ulterior motives. FMW wanted GSW stars to appear on it's shows, but it wanted to squash them, to ruin their reputations and hopefully, steal away their fanbase. They wanted to crush us, drive GSW into the dust and take over our market share. Basically Mr. Rodgers, they want us to die.

Rodgers: Why on Earth would you sign with a company that had that aim?

Leviticus: Well they didn't make it obvious to start. They were all smiling faces and helpful words, but as time wore on, the smiles faded, and their true feelings shone through. Now I can see them for what they really are, and I won't stop until we beat them.

Rodgers: Very strong words, are you sure you can back them up?

Leviticus: Heh, just watch us on Ammunition, you'll see for yourself what we can do.

Rodgers: Oooh, I like you. King, going back to you, I'm going to give you the question you've been waiting for. You and Leviticus have been loudly trumpeting the benefits of GSW, so let me toss you an easy one. Why is Gold Standard Wrestling better than anywhere else?

King: Because we're far more than a company, we're family. We come from all walks of life, with orphans, reformed gang members and abused children standing should to shoulder with college students, sports heros and rich kids, and whenever anyone needs support, encouragement or a friend, they know that the rest of the locker room will be there for them. When my Dad took everything away and kicked me out of the house, I stayed with some of the guys until I could scrape up enough to get my own place. Most of our roster is missing someone, a father, a mother, a role model, or a hero, so the rest of us do what we can.

Rodgers: So that's why it's better for the workers, what about for the fans? Why should we tune into GSW instead of FMW?

King: You mean besides the obvious talent difference? The fact that GSW actually listens to their fans? Belts that aren't defended in meaningless gimmick matches simply because they can be? How about the fact that GSW is a place for role models. When you tune into FMW, you see degenerates, cretins and fools running the show, in every match, in every promo you see the very worst humanity has to offer. Now there are exceptions, namely Drew Michaels, but one man cannot save a company. Tell me Tom, would you rather your kids want to be Leviticus, or Nick Bryson? GSW has heroes, good, honorable men that you, and your kids, can look up to without being led astray. Heroes like my friend Leviticus, who pulled himself out of poverty and violence through hard work and determination. Who better to model yourself after than a self-made superstar, a hard work success story?

Rodgers: What about you, King? Are you a role model?

King: I don't see why I couldn't be, but I'm not the focus here, I'm the mouthpiece. This is about GSW, and our struggle to survive. We're doing everything we can, but we need help from all of you, from the fans. We need your support, so please, tune into GSW programming, buy GSW merchandise, and support our crusade against the evils and injustice that plague FMW.

Rodgers: And on that note, we're out of time for this interview. Ladies and gentlemen, GSW superstars Leviticus and Jonathon King!

The crowd applauds as the cameras shut down and all three of the men on stage relax. With the show over, Rodgers and King loosen their ties and quietly joking amongst themselves, they head backstage.

* * * * *

Leviticus: How do you survive doing that? That was brutal.

Leviticus and King are at a coffeeshop, leaning against the counter. A cute young barista takes their order and shoos them out of the way of the other customers. They back off to a corner booth, far away from the “musicians” that are always around.

King: You're kidding me, right? You go out in front of thousands of people every week, and you talk, but a talk show interveiw scares you?

Leviticus: I'm not scared, it's just tough. And I never said it made sense, but I would rather go out in front of a million people and lecture them than do another one of those itnerviews.

King: Well luckily for you, you have me to do them for you, I just thought you might want to get a glimpse of what I do when you're not around.

Leviticus: And you're going to continue to do it without me around. I never want to do that again, it's just not my thing.

The barista calls out their order, and they grab their drinks. Heading back to their table, King slumps into his seat.

King: So, are we really going to do this?

Leviticus: Do what?

King: Be heroes? Tell the world to model themselves after us?

Leviticus: Of course.

King: But, why?

Leviticus: Because someone has to be. There aren't enough heroes in the world anymore, King. And the ones we have, aren't very good.

King: You're telling me.

Leviticus: So someone needs to step up, and show the FMW fans that there's a better way to be. Who do they have to look up to now?

King: Not exactly a lot of options.

Leviticus: Exactly. So why not us?

King: Well, I can't wait. I've always wanted to be a hero. The question becomes, how? How do we show these people the right way?

Leviticus: Well, who is your hero?
King: Hell, Levi, I haven't had a hero in about 6 years now.

Leviticus: Why, what happened?

King: Let's just say that my last hero let me down.

Leviticus: Who was it?

King: My father.

Leviticus: You have some serious daddy issues, don't you?

King: As much as that makes me sound like a stripper, it's pretty much true. Dad and I have had a rocky relationship in the best of times.

Leviticus: And this is not one of those times?

King: Oh gee asshole, what makes you think that? I haven't spoken to my father in years.

Leviticus: Why not?

King: He doesn't want me to. You remember back in my early GSW days, when I had to come train with you guys in secret? That was Dad's doing.

Leviticus: Not big on “sports entertainment”?

King: Well that depends on how you look at it. When he first caught me watching wrestling, he took away my tv. First time I bought wrestling merchandise, he took away my wallet and cut me off from the family funds for six months. When I told him I wanted to be a wrestler, he locked me in my room for a week, without food. I'll leave you to guess how he reacted when he caught me at the training center.

Leviticus: I don't have to, I was there, remember?

King: Oh yeah. Well, you can imagine how it felt to have my Dad, my hero, look me in the eyes and tell me I was worthless. How I'd disappointed him for doing what I wanted most. Then he kicked me out, cut me off and declared that I was no longer a member of his family.

Leviticus: Hmmm, sounds like he's a happy man.

King: Ha, that man's issues make me look like the fucking Pope.

Leviticus: Ok, yeah, your daddy issues are well founded. But don't you see, this is an opportunity for you! Your hero let you down, but now you can give kids just like you a hero that won't! We can be the role models that they need, that you needed.

King: Sold, but I'm not going to be the golden boy. You will. I'm just going to make sure you stay at the top of the mountian.

Leviticus: We need to do one thing before we can do this...

King: And what's that?

Leviticus: We've got some tag belts to win.

King: I think we can do that. Think Tiny and Crusoe are still at the gym?

Leviticus: Let's find out.

The two of them finish off their drinks and head out the door, clambering into King's Lamborghini. King revs the engine and they go squealing down the road.

THE FUTURE, BEGINS HERE

The following footage follows a match at a Full Metal Wrestling LIVE House-show

The footage is showing Anwyl getting a gash on his head stitched up while the medical team is working on him trying to keep him awake. They fear he may have a concussion and are working around the clock to protect him.

Anwyl doesn’t care though; he is shouting orders at the film crew

Anwyl: Make sure you are getting all this Paulie, Tamara cancel that interview tonight... no wait, I’ll still do it

Anwyl attempts to turn slightly, but a member of the medical staff pins him down.

Anwyl: Did you know doc, that they are making a movie about me?

Doctor:Make sure he isn’t able to talk, please.

Nurse:Sure thing doctor

Anwyl: What happened anyway?

One of the camera crew brings over a small screen, Anwyl’s half open eyes are fixated on the small moving images.

Anwyl is lifted up by a young talent, Anwyl tries selling the best he can but he is dropped straight onto his forehead, blood splashing onto the mat. Anwyl’s assistant’s pulls Anwyl out of the ring while the referee calls a ten count. The rookie wins by default

Anwyl: IMMA KILL THE CUNT!

The doctors continue to pin down Anwyl while he thrashes on the medical table.

Doctor:Let me finish these stitches Anwyl and you’ll be right to leave.

The young man that Anwyl (who has been seemingly calmed down with some painkilling injections) had the match with walks into the medical office and walks over to the medical table,

Rookie Todd: Umm, I am Todd; we had a match just before... Are you alright Anwyl?

Anwyl: WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE? I AM IN PAIN AND STITCHES RIGHT NOW!

With the years of substance abuse, Anwyl is almost immune to the effects of the drug

Rookie Todd: I’m sorry

Anwyl: I am the next big thing, I am the future of this company and you botch a simple suplex. YOU ARE A FUCKING IDIOT.

Rookie Todd: I told you I couldn’t lift you up.

Anwyl: SO WHY DID YOU TRY?

Rookie Todd: I wanted to impress

Anwyl: I don’t care for you, not at all. I am being followed by a film crew, I had a killer of a pre-show match at Ultimatum 3, I had an epic rant right in the middle of the Ultimatum and every person in the IWC is eating out of my hands. I AM THE NEWEST & GREATEST! THE FUTURE

Rookie Todd: I’m sorry

Anwyl: Get out of my sight, RIGHT NOW

Rookie Todd leaves the room, his head facing the floor. His soft saunter showing a sureness of sadness, Anwyl looks towards him and begins to feel a little remorse.

Anwyl: GET OUT AND STAY OUT!

The remorse fades away and leaves Anwyl. The harshness slowly creeps back and a cocky smile proceeds to grow on his face.

Doctor:You are all stitched up, the painkillers will slowly wear off in the next hour

Tamara: I will look after him, thank you doctor. Anwyl we have an interview in half an hour with David Letterman on the Late Show.

Anwyl gives a nod, shakes the doctor’s hand and follows his crew to the limousine taking slow steps as his regains his composure.


David Letterman: ... and our next guest on the show tonight is a young professional wrestler from Australia working for Canadian company Full Metal Wrestling and is currently in the process of filming a documentary following his demise from his rise to stardom and the rebuild to superstardom. “THE FUTURE” ANWYL,

Paul Shaffer and the CBS Orchestra play a jazz version of “My Curse” by Killswitch Engage. Anwyl doesn’t acknowledge David’s cheering fans, and walks to his seat. David and Anwyl shake hands and the music cuts out.

David Letterman: Welcome to my show Anwyl.

Anwyl: If I was a one dimensional and shallow person I would probably say “It’s a pleasure to be here” but I am not one of those people Dave.

I am a man, a man with a plan to become the greatest in what I do. Are you the greatest at what you do?

David Letterman: I assume so. But this isn’t your show to be asking questions

Anwyl: I would highly doubt you are the best David, the Jay guy with the huge head. Leno! He would give you a run for your money.

Letterman continues with the next question

David Letterman: Your new movie, it’s a documentary being currently filmed at the moment, what is it about?

Anwyl: It’s about me; it’s about the greatness I possess. The endless talent I show in the ring, I AM THE FUTURE of sports entertainment. This movie shows the rise to greatness from the doldrums where I once laid.

David Letterman: The doldrums, is that various drug problems you had, am I right?

Anwyl: All I can say is drugs are bad, sometimes. I’ll address your question with this, I am going to be the greatest professional wrestler, and of course I am the future.

David Letterman: That didn’t answer my question.

Anwyl: I did

David Letterman: Your thoughts on Nick Bryson

Anwyl: A man. Isn’t this interview about me anyway?

David Letterman: Your match against Artemtis Copeland is a real test, he is a speed hump towards your rise to stardom, how do prepare for an opponent who you have no background knowledge on?

Anwyl:Pretty sure I am the King of The Rookies, so death to Artemis. Next question

David Letterman: What is the biggest hurdle in your career

Anwyl: Allowing a film crew to follow me around, you know that a superstar as myself has a tight schedule and these guys follow me around it gets hard sometimes

David Letterman: Who is your major influence in wrestling?

Anwyl: Obviously myself, I am a future Full Metal Champion and Hall of Famer. What have you done?

Letterman climbs out of his chair and leans over Anwyl

David Letterman: I HAVE MADE MORE MONEY THAN YOU’LL EVER SEE. I AM ONE OF THE GREATEST LATE SHOW HOSTS EVER...

Anwyl: Well doubt that...

Letterman tries to grasp Anwyl, but he swiftly moves. Letterman falls over the desk and Anwyl grabs him by the scruff of the neck.

Anwyl starts whispering words into his ear, while security pin Anwyl down. Anwyl grabs the microphone that has fallen.

Anwyl: WATCH ME ON FULL METAL WRESTLING... Go to my Facebook page facebook... dot com forward slash Jacob dot Anwyl FMW follow me on twitter at the underscore Anwyl... [/color]

The studio cuts off the microphone and security drag him out.

Late Show Announcer: Absolute Pandemonium, although Anwyl would have drank a lot of Absolut in his day. We’ll be back after the break with music from SECONDS!

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

Eastwood is the last passenger to step off a rickety, dust-caked bus in the middle of Namibia, imitation designer sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. He pulls a cigarette pack out of his duffel bag and lights one up, the nicotine hitting the back of his throat like a pipebomb in a crowded arena. With a grunt, he wanders over to a dirty pig-iron shack, steps inside and unzips his flies, releasing the pressure of a six-hour trip. A small spark floats down from the tip of the cigarette, landing on his wedding tackle. He jumps up in surprise, dropping the cigarette from his lips into the open drainpipe that signifies a urinal.

Jack: Fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Glancing around shiftily, he places one hand across his exposed crotch, desperately trying to soothe the burn, aware that what he is doing looks wrong. With a soothed sigh, he hitches his pants back up and walks out of the shack, sparking up another smoke to replace the one he lost. He looks around for a place of civilisation, noticing the small tourist trap village, the bus’ final destination, on the western horizon. He nods to the bus driver, calling him over.

Jack: I’m gonna walk the rest of the way.

Driver: Are you sure sir? It is several miles.

Jack: I’ll live. Besides, I’m sure I’ll meet some interesting characters on the road.

The driver looks seriously concerned about Jack walking the trail.

Driver: Sir, please, I know this area... I really think you should get back on the bus.

Jack: Oh really? And why is that? Mountain bandits, perhaps? On a flat desert trail? Or maybe I’ll die of dehydration from the lack of water that I don’t have in my bag?

Driver: But you have water in your bag.

Jack: Yeah, sarcasm doesn’t translate well, does it? Alright, look. Whatever’s down there is something that’s worth seeing. I’m going down there whether you like it or not. So are you going to give me a hint or not?

Driver: If you go down there, you will die and be reborn.

Jack: Don’t be ridiculous.

Funny what we say when we’re not immortal.

With that, Eastwood sets off walking, wondering exactly what the driver was talking about. He sips copious amounts of water on his trek, the African sun beating down on his brow. About a mile into his trek he notices a small hillock, out of which juts another pig-iron structure, this one fortified with as much scrap metal as could possibly be salvaged in this bleak wasteland. He raises one dark blond eyebrow and steps over to it, curiosity about to kill the cat.

Jack: Hello? Anybody here?

No reply comes from the metal, but unperturbed he approaches it, a man-sized hole within the shack revealing itself from his blind side. He ducks his head to enter, looking around at the remnants of civilisation. He looks over to the smouldering fire pit, placing a hand over it to check its heat.

Jack: Still warm...

The scraping of metal on metal behind him turns his head. An elderly African native, dressed in plain, beaten robes stands before Eastwood, a knife outstretched in his quivering hand towards Eastwood’s jugular. Jack licks his lips carefully, watching the man’s eyes to see if he will move first. The old man’s eyes, misty with time, stare right back into his, the piercing green at contrast with his dishevelled frame. After what seems like an eternity, the man lowers his knife, sheathing it into a hilt on his hip. He clears his throat wildly, thin lips spreading into a cracked grimace.

Old Man: You are evil.

Jack: Hang on. What?

Old Man: You are the old spirit, the seventh son of the seventh son, the fiend of Earth’s pasture. You run like a cancer across this world, spreading misery and death whereso you touch.

Jack: Alright, come on mate, I’m sorry for invading your privacy but there’s no call for insults.

Old Man: I do not insult you. I merely speak the truth. You have committed unspeakable crimes.

Jack: I’ve changed. I’m trying to be a better man.

Old Man: Trying is not the same as doing. You still have evil intentions and a jet-black heart. And no matter how much you try to resist the temptation, eventually your bloodlust will come rising to the surface.

Jack: And who are you to say that?

Old Man: I keep the face of those who would wish to hide themselves.

Jack: You’re not making any sense.

Old Man: The mask, boy, the mask! Your burden is one that can only be eased by the suffering of others! Yet even as you recover you grow weaker in your indulgence, reliant upon the demolition around you!

Jack: ...prove it.

Old Man: I don’t need to. You know. You know in your head that there will always be part of you addicted to the destruction.

Eastwood sighs, wiping his brow in the heat. He casts his gaze downwards, trying to deny the thoughts in his head. Eventually though, he has to look the old man in his eye again... and admit he is correct.

Jack: So what do you want? The satisfaction of knowing you’re right?

Old Man: That... and the satisfaction of knowing that this weapon has a safety cache.

Jack: Which weapon?

Old Man: You, of course.

Jack: I’m not a weapon.

Old Man: Not in the traditional sense. But you are a tool of destruction.

Jack: Not any more.

Old Man: You are a tool, Jack Eastwood. Not one-

Jack: How do you know my name?

Old Man: It is irrelevant. You are not a tool of man but a tool of yourself. But like all tools you must use yourself wisely in order to be effective.

From a shelf behind him he pulls out a dusty oak wood box and opens it, releasing a cloud of white into the air. Jack turns away and coughs, looking back into the hollow eyes of a steel-gray mask, a crudely-welded piece with a mouth grill to hide the wearer’s identity. With it proffered, Jack picks it up and examines it, the sharp edges digging into his palm. He looks up, quizzical.

Jack: So how does a mask help me, exactly? Not being funny, but a thin sheet of metal isn’t going to help me feel any different.

Old Man: An ordinary mask, perhaps. But this is a mask that was found here in Namibia which has been guarded by my family for hundreds and hundreds of years, waiting for the right person to come down here.

Jack: So how did you know nobody would come down here?

Old Man: Nobody ever does. Besides my family that live in the village, you are the first person I have seen all my life.

Jack: So then you knew I was the one to accept this from the moment I walked in here.

Old Man: Exactly. And now possession of the mask falls to you.

Jack slaps the lid shut.

Jack: Are you sure about this? I mean, what will you do now?

Old Man: Survive. The same as you.



Jack: ...look, Deveraux, frankly I couldn’t give a piss whether or not putting up signs in locker rooms is illegal or not. I didn’t do it, and if you gave just one short sharp shit about the talent you have in this organisation you’d realise that’s not my style... yes, I am fairly sure that someone within The Pack is responsible for those advertisements, because let’s be honest, someone who doesn’t like us is really going to go through all the effort of putting up flyers on nearly every locker, right... fuck, I’ll speak to you like that if I so well please. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t even be in this position!... yes, that’s right, I’m taking responsibility for your position of power... yeah, same to you sunshine!

Eastwood angrily cancels the phone call he is making in Orlando airport, clutching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He flicks to the left where Snake is approaching, wheeling out a couple of bags from the turntable. Slipping the mobile into his pocket he turns his bag trolley around, which Snake puts the suitcases upon. Jack wheels the trolley outside to where a rental jet-black SUV is sitting. While Snake loads up the suitcases in the van, Eastwood lights a cigarette, fuming.

Snake: Problems?

Jack: Yeah, I just got my damn ear chewed off by that prick Deveraux because somebody put adverts up in the locker room at Ultimatum III about joining The Pack.

Snake: ...ehe.

Jack: Oh gods Snake, please don’t tell me it was you.

Snake: ...I thought it was a good idea at the time.

Jack: What have I told you? Your ideas get you into shit, all the time! Remember what it was like when I first found you?

Snake: Because I’m really going to forget that...

Snake, former locksmith and business owner in Fort Lauderdale. It’s astonishing how much one word can corrupt somebody’s life. Though Snake had moderate success and a healthy social life, it self-imploded when he was falsely accused of a terrible crime.

Snake awoke one day to find the word ‘pedophile’ spray-painted across the window of his cash and carry.

It was a fallacy; merely a business rival’s jealous attack on Snake for taking his business. His rival couldn’t settle for being second best and, in frustration, took it out on Snake. While there was no evidence for the crime he was accused of, the damage was done. The flow of customers stopped and Snake went out of business. Forced onto the streets, Snake slummed it for a few months before one night, when he got drunk on a bottle of stolen whisky, broke into his rival’s business and wrecked the place.

Unfortunately in his drunken haze he forgot to disable the closed circuit television cameras and was put in prison for two years. When he got out he was bitter and angry – the perfect candidate for Dunnwood’s Congregation.

Jack: Are you really sure coming back home is such a good idea, anyway?

Snake: Truth be told man, no. But I haven’t seen my folks in forever. And I need to bury the hatchet with my dad about the whole kid fiddling thing.

Jack: Not a problem. You alright with leaving it until we finish talking with Matt?

Snake: Sure, why not.

Jack: Cool, let’s move.

They set off, making the hour-long journey to Tampa, arriving at the base of Gold Standard Wrestling. Jack turns to Snake, frowning.

Jack: You might want to wait in the van.

Snake: No problem, I’ve got a call to make.

Eastwood climbs out and raps on the door with a ham-sized fist. Jeff Whitt opens the door, looking Jack up and down and frowning.

Whitt: What do you want?

Jack: Nice to see you too. Can I come in?

Whitt: Not really, we’re busy.

Jack: Look, this isn’t one of your Full Metal – Gold Standard hate debates. I just want a quick word with Matt.

Whitt: What about?

Jack: ...it’s not something you really want to hear about.

Whitt: If it’s good enough for Matthew then it’s good enough for me.

Jack: ...it’s to do with Dunnwood.

Whitt: You mean to tell me that wasn’t just a poor attempt at piggybacking off of Matthew’s success in your sham of a federation?

Jack: It was either a psychotropic experience or some hellish machinimation – either way I didn’t decide to imitate him. It just happened. And I told you this isn’t an FMDub thing. Now can I please come in?

Whitt: No. But he can come out to you.

Jeff disappears inside for a few minutes, returning with an unmasked Matt Dunn, who glares at Eastwood.

Dunn: I figured this would come up sooner or later.

Jack: Yeah. Look. I need to know. Why did I become you?

Dunn: You want the truth from me? How should I know?

Jack: I just assumed-

Dunn: Assumed what? That what happened was my fault somehow? I understand less than you, Sir Eastwood, and to be frank I don’t care.

Jack: Really? You honestly don’t give a shit? Because I do. I named my damn son after you, Matthew. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?

Dunn: Are you really that bothered?

Jack: Enough with the fucking questions, Matt! Will you help me or not?

Dunn: What incentive do you have?

Jack: Incentive?

Dunn: You want my help, I’m going to need a reason to help you. You have an Abandoned title match, right?

Jack: ...oh, fuck no.

Dunn: Take it or leave it.

Jack: Yeah, exactly. I go through all the effort of gaining the Abandoned title just to gift it to you? What sort of man are you?

Dunn: One whose help you need. Like I said, take it or leave it.

Jack: ...I need some time to think.

Dunn: You need to win it first.

Ordinarily, you’d think that’d be enough. Sounds like enough motivation, right?

But it feels like I’m just being a selfish, egotistical prick. All I’m doing is fighting for myself. And I’m done with that. But what other reason do I have?

In the Asylum, Jack places a large sheet of white paper with scrawlings all over it on the wall, before turning to his Pack mates, slamming a hand on the sheet. He raises his voice loud, addressing them all.

Jack: Alright people, listen up. Today is the first round of The Cull. The rules are simple. Those of you who lose are going home. Whoever wins advances to the next round. Fights are unarmed and can be won by submission or knockout. Any questions?

Gael: Who are you going to fight, ese?

The crowd parts like the Red Sea to reveal Gael Jagielka, a former Mexican drug dealer who was absolved into The Pack after his cartel was killed in a bloody firefight with the police. Having previously snubbed Jack’s offer to join, he begged Eastwood to let him in as Jack was leaving Mexico. Despite Jack showing compassion and agreeing, all Jagielka had ever done was question Jack’s leadership.

Jack: It’s funny you should mention that, Gael. I’m fighting you. And we’re up first.



The two men circled each other in the Cull Pit, the words of Dunn playing on Eastwood’s mind. He rushed forward awkwardly, lunging at Gael with a fist and missing. Gael turned, catching Eastwood with a knee to the solar plexus. Jack doubled, winded, and Jagielka used the opportunity to smash an elbow across the taller man’s back. He collapsed, gasping for breath, managing to roll out of the way of an incoming boot to the gut. Picking himself up, he swung a kick at Gael’s head, who ducked, trapping the leg underneath his arm on its way down. Desperate, Eastwood spun the other leg around, enzuigiri-style. He missed with the second and ended up on his hands, in the wheelbarrow position. Gael threw his head forward, making contact in the space between Jack’s legs, before throwing him to the concrete floor.

Blood poured from Eastwood’s nose as he looked up, into the shocked faces of his Pack. They were witnessing the death of their saviour, their hero. Eyes made contact; Panther, Vendetta, Snake, Rotunda and Prideman... these were the people whom he had seen his reflection in. These were the people whom he needed and whom needed him. To fight for them was to fight for himself; to fight for himself was to fight for them. One group, a mass of lost souls, strong enough to support each other in a nexus of understanding. Each one of them a bloody face, ignored by society. It was time for them to stand up and be counted.

He stood up, and was counted. Gael smirked, the look of a man too confident to think he can lose. He wasn’t expecting the first fist. Or the second. Or the third. The first knocked him out, it was true, but Jack’s fists carried the strength and speed of everyone worthy to walk the path with him. To fight the fight with him. The second and third impacted Jagielka’s limp body, sending him sprawling. Jack grinned, shaking blood droplets off his hand, before looking up at The Pack, knowing that half of them would be gone within the week.

Jack: Who’s next?

Do you understand now, Apostasy, why I fight for the Abandoned Championship?

Your reasoning was excellent – but you were just a little off with my motives.

It’s not a case of my wanting this strap to be a spearhead for my group. I want this strap for myself and my group... to share what it brings.

Certainly I’m the de facto leader of this, but what does that count for? I’m just one man amongst hundreds. One single drop of rain in a typhoon.

And you’d be surprised just how much damage that one spot can cause when it’s lashed about by the force of the wind.

Are you ready for this, Apostasy?

Let the storm begin.

Killswitch is sitting in his office, a newspaper covering his face. The headline on the front page reads “Local Boy Signs with Major Wrestling Company”. As he smiles, reading the article, the phone rings. He puts the paper down and answers.

Killswitch: Prime Minister, what can I do for you today?

PM: You can explain to me how being in a wrestling company furthers the Canadian cause.

Killswitch: Well sir, it's very simple. Full Metal Wrestling is a Canadian company that has lost its way. Non-Canadian scum run rampant. I need to step in an eradicate them. Make FMW the pinnacle of Canadian professional wrestling. FMW reaches millions of viewers each show. We can push our cause that way.

PM: I'm not seeing it, Ryan.

Killswitch bristles at the use of his birth name.

Killswitch: My name, sir, is Killswitch.

PM: Who are you talking to? Because you can't be talking to me, not in that tone.

Killswitch rolls his eyes, but answers the question.

Killswitch: Of course not, sir. I was merely a bit piqued by the use of my birth name. I have forgotten that past. I am the future. I am Killswitch.

PM: Better. If I ever hear you use that tone with me again, you'll be in isolation for a month.

Killswitch: Of course, sir.

PM: I completely disagree with you here, Killswitch. You are chasing nothing. You have nothing to gain here, and neither does our great country.

Killswitch stands up, the phone clenched in his hand.

Killswitch: Nothing!? This is a matter of national pride! If the Americans continue to dominate our company, we will lose everything! How can you believe that flooding FMW with Canadian content will not be beneficial? This is our time! I will not back down from this, sir.

Dead silence rings through the phone before the PM responds.

PM: Fine. I will give you time. If you begin to garner interest in our cause through this joke, we will continue. If you fail, you will face the consequences. Do I make myself clear?

Killswitch: Crystal, sir.

The phone clicks as the PM hangs up. Killswitch slams the phone down, and walks over to his window, staring out into the Canadian winter.

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe) vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

The scene opens with Osiris, wearing a black hoodie walking through a busy street in Columbus, Ohio. Through the hustle and bustle, Osiris doesn’t look to be bothered by people accidentally bumping into him. He takes an earbud out of his right ear and pulls out a phone and dials a number.

Osiris: Jeff?

Whitt: Where the hell have you been?

Osiris: Dealing with lawsuits from the hospital.

Whitt: You realize you’ve been letting GSW down right? Your performances have been seriously lacking in the quality that you have shown in our GSW shows.

Osiris: I don’t care.

Whitt: Well, why not!?

Osiris: I’m not here to make friends, be it with the FMW roster or the GSW stable. I hate every single one of you people. I’m only here to find out about my backstory.

Whitt: How cliche of you.

Osiris: If you were in a coma and woke up in a hospital, and you didn’t remember anything you’ve done in your life prior to finding yourself in that situation, you would want to find out the gritty details.

Whitt: Well, yeah.

Osiris: Now you see what my agenda is at this point in time.

Whitt: I’m going to cut to the chase, are you going to show up tonight with the intention of actually doing well against DGS and Ryu Quinn?

Osiris chuckles

Osiris: More than that, Jeffery. I will force all the people who look down upon me to rethink their judgements, before I make mine regarding their fate. David GS, a man who is no stranger to the golden treasure, will be shocked at the fact that he will inevitably fail to win this match. As for Ryu Quinn, the curious man he is, has been heading down a path his entire life that will secure his downfall. For a man who calls himself the “Quintessential Truth”, the ways that he obtained the truth from people in his previous profession were not done in an...angelic way. He is my main target tonight. Ryu Quinn will be forced to redeem himself, or face a painful destruction.

Whitt: What?

Osiris: Tell me, Jeffery, does your heart weigh more than a feather?

Whitt: Logic dictates that it does, yes.

Osiris: You should watch your back at every opportunity. Whether I am on “your side” or not, I will be keeping a very close eye on you.

Whitt: What are you talking about, Kayden?

Osiris: Goodbye, Jeffery. I will be seeing you, the rest of GSW, DGS, and The Quintessential Liar tonight. Take good care of yourself.

Whitt: What kind of drugs are you-

Kayden hangs up on Jeff and slides his phone back in his pocket. At that moment, a man is plowing through the crowd of people shouting Osiris’ name. He then meets up with Kayden.

Man: Kayden Osiris?

Osiris letting out a groan: What?

Man: Tyler Riggs, journalist extraordinaire.

Osiris looks around puzzled

Riggs: Some guy dropped by the studio earlier today and handed me this envelope.

The journalist hands Kayden the envelope, who eyes it before taking it.

Riggs: The guy said he was some sort of professional wrestling manager or something like that. He sent me to come find you and deliver this message. I wonder if he knows that us journalists are most definitely [/i]not[/i] “delivery boys”, but then I thought, “well, maybe this can turn into some sort of scandal in the professional wrestling biz.” You know, like steroids!

Osiris: Why are you bothering me?

Riggs: Well, calm down there buddy. I just told you, but since you’re in the ‘rasslin biz, I maaaaaaaay have to slow down a bit. Can you keep up with me?

Osiris becomes increasingly irritated.

Riggs: Good. Now, to reiterate. A guy who looked to be in the neighborhood of six feet, maybe three inches. Probably two hundred and forty pounds or so. Well built. Well, he came to me and said, “Tyler, I want you to do somethin’ for me. I want you to find this monster known as Kayden Osiris. I want you to give him this important document. I trust you with this, because you look like a guy who could save humanity from the aliens or something!” So I replied with, “Sir, as a journalist, it is my civic duty to be a hero to the population.” Okay, so he didn’t say any of that, and he just asked me to find you and give you thi-

Osiris lays out Riggs with a well placed, hard right hand to the jaw and the journalist crumples down. Kayden then kneels down near Riggs, who is rubbing his jaw.

Osiris: If there’s one thing I hate more than those who hold themselves higher and are undeserving of their own praise, it’s journalist scum.

Osiris stands up and walks out of the scene. The camera focuses on Tyler Riggs, still clutching his jaw.

Riggs: “Professional Wrestler Brutalizes Good-Hearted Reporter.” I think I may have found the scandal I’ve been looking for...

The scene fades to black leaving the viewer with a shot of Tyler Riggs’ swollen jaw.

The next scene fades in as we see Kayden Osiris enter the GSW locker room, minutes before the show starts. The GSW members are staring a hole through Kayden, and rightfully so.

Osiris: Focusing your disdain on me will prove to be a very grave mistake. My advice for you is as such; carry on with your conversations, but be careful with what you say, and take responsibility for your actions. Failure to do so will result in a swift, unrelenting judgement.

Some snickering can be heard.

Osiris: Heh, unbelievers.

Jeff Whitt approaches Kayden.

Jeff: What’s the deal with our chat on the phone?

Osiris: What about it?

Jeff: You haven’t shown myself, or any member of the GSW roster any respect.

Osiris: I think we’ve been over this, Jeffery.

Jeff: Yeah, you said something to the effect of “fuck every single one of you, I only look out for myself.”

Osiris: Close enough, I suppose.

Jeff: You had better start showing GSW some respect. If not all of GSW, then at least myself and Leviticus. And if not Leviticus, then you damn sure better respect me.

Osiris: Leviticus is more relevant than you could ever hope to be.

Jeff: Oh, really now? And why is that?

Osiris: I’d take more pleasure in researching his life, and picking apart every single minute detail, and putting together evidence as to why he is a worthless human being as opposed to sharing the same oxygen with you.

Jeff: You should be happy that we’re forced to share the same oxygen. Who knows, maybe by inhaling the carbon dioxide that I exhale, you just might be worth a damn as opposed to being on the bottom of the food chain like you currently are.

Osiris: Your perception of me is worrisome. How much faith do you have in GSW?

Jeff: More than you know.

Osiris: Okay then. Perhaps you should show a little tolerance of your peers, then. Remember when I asked about the weight of your heart as compared to a feather?

Jeff: Yeah, and I’m still confused by that.

Osiris: Let me put it into terms that you’ll hopefully understand.

Jeff: Go for it.

Osiris: Stop being a dickhead.

Jeff, looking surprised at Osiris’ unwillingness to abide by the rules, shrugs and walks away, while not taking his eyes off of Osiris’. Once Jeff leaves the scene, Kayden sits down in a chair that is away from everyone else. He looks at the envelope and then opens it. The camera focuses on the letter, and the viewers read the following.


Kayden Osiris. How are you? Let’s skip the introduction and get right down to the point of this letter. I’ve seen your matches before you and the rest of the GSW gang were scooped up by FMW. I like your work, and being a professional wrestler myself, I would love to train with you one day. Maybe learn a thing or two from you, if that’s all well and good. Listen, I know that your career in FMW has been lackluster so far, but I’m here to help. After your match tonight against DGS and Ryu Quinn (stupid names, by the way), forget about GSW. Now, I’m not saying to ditch the vision that the company/stable/whatever it is nowadays is pursuing. No, no, no. You can still be against Full Metal Wrestling, but I want you to focus more on yourself and your own personal goals and interests, without worrying about the extra baggage that the losers around you bring to the table.
What I’m saying is this, I want to manage you. My credentials are excellent, but we’ll get into that at another time. Now, I know that this sounds pretty shady, but it’s better if we get to know each other later on down the road.

You now have my address, so please respond to me at your earliest convenience. An answer to my offer would be great, but if you just want to be pen pals, well, I guess that’s cool too.

Go be the monster I know you are, and destroy DGS and Ryu “Totally Doesn’t Do Hadoukens” Quinn.

Best wishes,

-S

P.S. If that newspaper guy caused you any problems, I sincerely hope you didn’t take shit from him, and that you decked him in the face. He looks like a guy I would punch.

The camera focuses back onto Osiris, who has an intrigued look on his face. The scene then fades to black as Kayden folds up the letter and puts it back into the envelope.

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters

Watch this space for voting and feedback simular to my Corruption post.

Ammunition 14.1

National Anthem Match
Killswitch vs "Outlaw" John Andrews

Triple Threat Match
David GS vs Osiris (w/ Jeff Whitt and Crusoe)vs Ryu Quinn

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Artemis

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy (c) vs Eastwood

Tag Team Match
Drew Michaels and Faith vs Chris Austin and Abel Steele

Main Event
FMW Tag Team Championship Match
Damien Inferno and Nick Gray (c) vs Leviticus and Jonathan King vs Slegnadamus and Butters