Corruption 14.1 Voting and Promo Thread

Blog Title: O.Em.F’N.G – D-Day is Here!

Date: August 2, 2011
Time: 2pm
Location: Amtrak Train Station, Providence, RI
Mood: Excited
Song: Black Eyed Peas – “Don’t Stop the Party”

Can you believe it people? The day has finally come! My first match in Full Metal Wrestling is upon us and to say I’m nervous is an understatement. Just think of the big names that came out of that organization.

(I will not bore you with a list. I can’t sound like too much of a mark now! (!!!))

And here I walk into this company as a true fan of the sport.
The pageantry.
The storylines.

It’s a soap opera for men (even if you women think it’s gay. You still love it! ). A soap opera that I am proud to be part of. But what I was thinking was doing something totally different. You know, something…STRONG-STYLE! (lol). I’m bringing my cousin along with me to be my cameraman. There’s always something going on in life and I don’t want to miss a second of it. He’ll be by my side recording all “Blair Witch Project” style (except without the awkward snot shots up the nose. That was just ludicrous). You Rhodies always told me I should have my own reality show so now, it’s coming to YOU! Figured I’d just upload them during my travels so you can see the absurdity that is my life 24/7. How effing lucky are you?! LOL. OK. I gotta go. The train is here.

T-Minus 5 hours (yeah, 5 effing hours. Damn Amtrak and all their stops) til NYC!

Say What!?!
R.S.








Ryder Strong enters the train and finds his seat in Business Class. With his cameraman sitting across from him, Ryder begins to place his luggage in the overhead bin and walks to the café lounge. There, he orders a Sprite and a turkey sandwich. But before he collects his items, he is accosted by two young teenagers with pens in hand.

Boy #1: Dude! Ryder Strong! You’re like…a local icon in Rhode Island.

Ryder Strong: That must count for something! LOL.

Boy #2: Awww cool! You even “LOL” in person.

Ryder Strong: Wait. Doesn’t everyone?

The two boys look at each other, then back at Ryder, who looks at Boy #2, who then looks at Boy #1, who looks back at the attendant behind the counter who looks back at Ryder.

Ryder Strong: That was uncomfortably awkward.

What can I do for you guys?

Boy #1: Could you sign our shirts?

Ryder Strong: Sure, no problem. Just don’t sell this on eBay. If we want this movement to take over the world, we must preserve all STRONG SWAG! Let’s take the local “celebreality” and make him a household name!

I want everyone to feel the vibes of goodness throughout every bone in their body. I want everyone to lighten up and stop taking everything so seriously. I want everyone to take a moment and just…smile.

Boy #2: Smile?

Ryder Strong: Yeah, dude. There’s so much negativity out there in the world. Why must we continue to add to it. I believe if the world were to smile more (and do other things, nudge, nudge, wink, wink!) there’d be happiness for days. And that’s all I’m here in the FMW to do: spread the love. Some of the people there are a little…tightly wound…yeah, that’s a good term.

I’m just here to have some fun!

Here, you two want a turkey sandwich?

Boy #1 /Boy #2: COOL!

As the two boys scamper away with their signed shirts and newly achieved turkey sandwich, the attendant turns to Ryder Strong with a confused look on her face.

Attendant: You are not concerned…about money? Are you too high to realize there’s a recession going on? If I were you, I’d milk this new job for all that it’s worth.

Ryder Strong: Sorry, ma’am. I can’t I have a responsibility to my cult following and myself to represent the qualities of living life to its fullest and making everyone as happy as can be. If I were so concerned about status, money and, even “wins”, then I’d be just like everyone else in the FMW locker room…well presumably.

I can believe everything I read on the dirt sheets!

Don’t worry.

The attendant quickly makes Ryder Strong another sandwich. Ryder takes out a few more dollar bills but the attendant motions for him to just take it. Ryder flashes his pearly white smile and takes his seat back in business class.

During the long train ride, Ryder and his cameraman film numerous Rhode Island fans or his “Cult” as he likes to call them, asking for pictures and autographs and Ryder doesn’t hesitate in giving the people what they want.

As the train passes through Connecticut and is approaching New York City, the vibe has changed. The jovial Ryder Strong has now transformed into a focused man. He begins typing out another blog before finally reaching his destination: New York City, Pennsylvania Station. Grabbing his bag and his cameraman, Ryder exits the train and begins ascending up the escalator.

Ryder Strong: Excuse me, sir. Which way is Madison Square Garden?

Dirty Cabbie: What is this?! Stop filming me or I’ll press charges!

Ryder Strong: Wh-What?

Dirty Cabbie: You heard you idiot! Tell that man to stop filming me! Damned Borat has made a mockery out of our people! I will not stand for this!

Ryder Strong: Sir, I just wanted to know the direction of the Garden. I have a…

Dirty Cabbie: That way, moron. Now get that camera out of my face!

The Cab driver gets in his vehicle and drives off leaving Ryder and his cameraman standing there.

Ryder Strong: Welp, guess we’re not in Rhode Island anymore, cousin. I hope the FMW lockerroom is a little more…receptive to our camera being here…if not…they’ll have no choice but to Live. Laugh. And Love It.









The people in New England are so nice. Like, seriously, you guys on the train (I know you’re problem reading this right now, lol) have made this small town boy feel like one of Hollywood’s leading men. I appreciate your love and support through the transition I am making. Many of you suggested that I should try another avenue to spread my message but I believe this is the perfect platform for US. Not only will I be seen and heard by millions but it doesn’t hurt that in the process I may be able to show everyone in the wrestling business that jacked up bodies (steroid –alert!) mean nothing if you have the intelligence to back it up.

Intelligence – something most people are lacking.

But I know what you’re thinking, “Ryder, it doesn’t seem to be all that intelligent to get into a wrestling ring when you don’t know the first thing about wrestling!” To those people I say…”you’re right”. However, what I have is a huge driving force behind me that I cannot let down –

You people.
My people.
The CULT.

With you all beside me, I know I can do it.

Now I’ve read on the dirt sheets that I’ll be facing someone named Christian and a Machine of War. All I have to say is “LOL”.

These guys don’t even know what’s coming. See, I am the unknown. Most people fear the unknown. Therefore, they fear us.

I didn’t even know War Machine was still around. I remember seeing this guy on TV. Rough and tough; he’s one hombre you wouldn’t want to mess with. I wonder what happened to him…

I won’t even pretend as if I know who Christian (insert last name here) is so I’ll just say….damn I’m hungry again. I need another turkey sandwich. Everyone tune into Corruption and watch me try to win my first match. All you CULT members in the NYC area, come on down and show RYDER STRONG some support!@

I’m gonna need it…

Stay well, everyone.

Say Say what!?!,
R.S.

Bzzzzt

Bzzzt

Bzzt.

Bryson: You have got to be shitting me.

Nick Bryson places his hands over his face as the scene fades in from black. He sits up in his oversized bed and clicks a remote, opening the mechanical curtains of his home's windows. It's been a whirlwind of a time for the man. His film, his oscar buzz, and meltdown, his move to another country, his knighthood, and now his new role as Full Metal Champion, one he was most firmiliar with.

Bryson looked over at the naked brunette laying in his bed, the Full Metal Championship Belt still draped over the small of her back. He paused for a second, remembering how nicely it fit over her backside. With a sigh, he tenderly touched the scratchmarks running down his back and side before swinging his feet over the edge of his bed.

Bzzzzt.

Bzzzzt.

Bzzzzt.

As he moved to set his foot down, he is startled briefly by the second nude woman laying down on the floor. Cautiously, Bryson stepped over her body and walked over to his dresser to grab his vibrating phone. He turned and leaned back against the black dresser and looked at his screen.




He pushed the green yes button and pulled the phone up to his ear, looking out at his large bedroom, only just now noticing the third woman hanging partially off the foot of his bed.

Deveraux: Bryson. P. Thurston Deveraux here. This is an unfortunate start to your first day as champion. Call me back as soon as you hear this. You should have the number. Thank you.

Bryson once again looks at the phones screen and touches the images to call the head office back. After a few seconds of the dial tone there is a click as Bryson can tell he's being placed on speaker phone.

Deveraux: Nick Bryson, glad you responded so quickly. It would be nice to have someone answer their phone for once, but apparently we dont live in such kind times.

Bryson: Hurry up with the point. I've got things to do.

Deveraux: Indeed you do, Bryson. You see, as Full Metal Champion you're obligated to do specific tasks for the benefit of the company as its face.

Bryson: If I remember correctly, my face is what got me this belt and your amazingly increased ratings, buyrates, and paychecks.

Deveraux: Yes, Mister Bryson, thats all fine and dandy but you know about these obligations as well as anyone, having done them before in the past. Now, I know you believe you are above such rules, but I do not and neither does the board, who are here with me-

Bryson: Yeah, swell. Get on with it.

Deveraux: Fine. You've been booked to appear at a few places over the next few days. Yes, I know how horrendous this may be for you, but Im sure the minimal ammount of time you have to pretend to care about associating with the public wont hurt your big plans of the day too much.

Bryson: Where am I going so I can tell my driver. Why cant you just call him.

Deveraux: Because we like bothering you. Today you've been scheduled to appear at a rehab facility, located a few miles from the residence you have here. We'll send the location in a PDF to your phone. Im sure you can forward it to your driver. Enjoy your day, Mister Bry-

Bryson hung up the phone and set it back on his dresser before walking back over to the bed and dragging the belt off of the brunette. He opened the door to his walk in closet and opened the door to a small safe, placing the belt inside before grabbing his clothes.



Subject: Champion Appearance
Date: 8/01/11
To: Nick Bryson

As per contractual agreements, you are scheduled to appear at the St. Albans Rehabilitation Center today. The head doctor, Kyle Reeves, will be giving you a tour of the facility and introducing you to some of the patients. Afterwards you will give a speech to an assembly of current patients.

From the office of:
P. Thurston Deveraux.



The car Nick Bryson was riding in casually slowed to a stop as they pulled under the archway of the St. Albans Rehabilitation Center. Bryson sipped an energy drink and pulled the sunglasses off his face when his driver opened the door. He steps out in front of a man in a white coat and two nurses who greet him with a smile, which he does not reciprocate.

Dr. Reeves: Hello, Mister Bryson. My name is Doctor Kyle Reeves, I'm the head doctor here at the rehabilitation center. Can I say it is just a real treat to have you here.

Bryson: Yeah, you can, but I think I'd have to place your age at fifty. Who the fuck says treat anymore, Doctor.

The doctor is taken aback at Bryson's sarcasm.

Dr. Reeves: Oh, well, at any rate your presense has been the talk of the town today. The patients here are really excited to have you here, you're inspirational to them.

Bryson: Can we get inside.

Bryson begins walking forward without waiting for a response. The cold breeze tussles Bryson's hair as the doors slide back and the four of them enter the facility.

Dr. Reeves: We'd like to give you a tour of our facility before you actually get to the main atrium and speak, Mister Bryson.

Bryson: Oh, yeah, that sounds excellent. I've got endless time in my day to just devote to you and your stunning facility. Wait one second, let me just cancel my other appointments.

Bryson pulls out his phone and pretends to play around with it.

Bryson: Oh darn, I've got a full day that I just can't cancel because you think you're super. Lets just get this over with then.

The three of the staff look at each other awkwardly before leading Bryson down the side hallway. There are a few men and women who stare, starstruck, at Bryson as he walks with the staff. The doctor stops at a room with very large windows.

Dr. Reeves: This is the room that the patients call the fishbowl room, ha ha-

Bryson doesn't laugh. The doctor tries to clear his throat.

Dr. Reeves: But its, uh, the room where we educate our patients. We inform them about health and the long term effects of their choices in life. In fact, more than a few of our graduates have left this facility and gone on to work in the health field.

Bryson: Aside from the fact that you consider these people graduates, the knowledge of people like this potentially taking care of me and my health issues fightens me. Severely.

Dr. Reeves: I see. Well we have a very low relapse rate, so we feel that the education we provide here is key to keeping them from making the same choices.

Bryson: Yeah, great.

The doctor continues to lead the group down the corridors. He stops at the doorway of a room with a few people in it. Most of them are watching a large television in the center of the room, while others play air hockey and foosball

Dr. Reeves: This is actually the recreation room, which Im sure you could tell. This is where the patients relax and enjoy themselves, its also where its most populated when FMW is on the screen.

Dr. Reeves turns and looks at Bryson, who is on his phone sending a text. The doctor is clearly frustrated.

Dr. Reeves: Uh, look, I'm sorry, but when we contacted the home office they said they would be excited and thrilled to have you here, clearly you are not, is there something wrong?

Bryson: Yeah, something's wrong, I'm standing here when I could be doing other things. Look, doc, I've done this before, I'm not keen on it. Just get along with this and we'll try to end this amicably and quickly. Deal?

The doctor stares for a few moments. He then turns to continue his tour.

Nurse: Did you really just update your twitter as "I'm super bored"?

Bryson: Yeah, nice to know you follow me though. Whats it like having no life?

As they walk down the halls and corridors of the facility, which by all means is state of the art. Bryson glances in various rooms, which look more like large bedrooms and other smaller therapy rooms, until they stop at a set of large steel double doors.

Dr. Reeves: This is the last stop of our tour. This room is the largest and most expensive in our facility. Its also the one nobody likes.

The doctor opens the doors to reveal a long room with screens, beds, and large pieces of medical equipment. Bryson looks around as the nursing staff are checking on charts, machines, and patients. Some of them have damaged bodies, with bruises, cuts, and obvious abuse. Other patients struggle against restraints, some even scream out in pain as theyre forced to be wained off their fix. Others sit silently as IV fluids drip through tubes and into their veins.

The group walks slowly in this room, the doctor saying little, but letting Bryson soak in the horrors and visions of addicition.

They stop at a patient who reaches out and grabs hold of Bryson's wrist. The champion looks down to the man in the bed.

Addict: Hey man, I wanted to say that its so awesome you're here. Your career has been one I've followed and you've provided a much needed release. Your stuff lets me forget about the bad choices Ive made in my life, even if only for a little.

Bryson stares at the man as another man and woman sit up in their beds.

Addict #2: He's right, Champ.

Female Addict: Thank you Bryson!

A few more thank you's are spoken as Bryson remains silent. The doctor looks pleased as he separates the patient from Bryson and leads him past another set of steel doors.

Dr. Reeves: Well, Nick. Here is your destination, the atrium. Theres already a crowd in there waiting for you. I think you're ready.

Bryson stares at the doctor for a moment before the man opens a wooden door. Bryson walks past a curtain and onto a small stage with a single podium placed in the center of it. There is a roar and applause for the champion as he steps out from the curtain, with Bryson looking out over the small crowd. He stands for a moment staring back at them before proceeding to the podium. When the noise dies down, Bryson adjusts the microphone.

Bryson: When I originally came here today, I didn't really know what to say. I mean I showed up at this facility and I got this tour and everything and man, I really didn't know what to say.

The crowd applauds for a bit.

Bryson: I mean, I'm looking at all of you here, all of you in front of me, all of those people in the beds and in the building and I realized that I didnt know what to say because I didnt have anything to say.

Bryson overlooks the crowd as they sit silent paying attention to his words.

Bryson: I mean, what would someone like me, a winner, a champion, a multimillionaire, a cultural icon, and social god have anything to do with a bunch of good for nothing, drug riddled, substance addicted, failures of human beings, much less give you leeches a speach? I mean, my god, how can you people live with yourselves? Don't answer, that question is rhetorical, I know that you all struggle with that reality daily. What with the copious ammounts of artificial solutions they pump into your bodies to confuse your brain into thinking youre not a drug abuser anymore, I'm surprised you all found your ways here and can actually understand the things I'm saying.

Some of the people in the audience stand up and exit the door. One of them even flips his middle finger to the champion.

Bryson: Yes, leave. Quit on reality, like I'm sure you'll do again. All of you are amazed at my presence because Im better than you and its fact. I'm not a failure, I'm a man who has risen to the occasion time and time again. I'm a true success story. Whats your success story? That you're not paying money to kill yourself anymore? 'Oh, I'm not main lining PCP anymore!' Great, good for you, you dont deserve a special reward for it, you pieces of garbage. Everyone everywhere has responsibilities. You all have just failed to own up to them. God, I fear for any of your unfortunate offspring should someone also be high enough to decide to clumsily reproduce with you.

The crowd rises to their feet, having enough of being insulted. They hurl their own insults and items back at Bryson, who stands apalled at his audience.

Bryson: Fuck you all. I'm out of here.

Bryson exits the stage the way he came. Dr. Reeves tries to stop him, but Bryson refuses to pause or listen as he pulls his phone out, calling his driver to bring the car around. He throws the doors open to a side exit as he leaves the building and getting into his car, the doctor yelling about how he will call FMW head office, among other things. Bryson lifts his phone and presses a button.

Automated Voice: Say a command.

Bryson: Call financial advisor. I'm never doing this bullshit again.

Bryson's driver closes the door and walks around the side of the car and drives away. The scene fades to black.

Even Sharks Have Their Humble Beginnings

~^~ 18 Months Earlier ~^~

I had emerged from the sea and walked upon the sand when the water ended up being as high as my knee. I had nothing with me save for the skimpy speedo trunks I snagged at the coast of Baja California Sur, and the mask I have worn for most of my life. I didn’t know that I ended up in Santa Monica that day, or that I would be meeting the man that would end up being my manager. I was just stranded on land, since I was told that I would better off learning to toughen my skin (so to speak) so bullies wouldn’t get to me.

The Linguist was walking through the hot dry sand on bare feet… From experience, it hurts like the dickens. He was spending a day on the beach wanting to work on a good tan, before going back to his home in Queens. He was in California for something he calls a ‘seminar’ for interpreters and translators; something boring he does to make a better living for himself. I find it funny, since he still has trouble with mastering the English language at times.

The Linguist: Ow! Ow! Ow! I don’t know how locals can tolerate this hot sand… I’m getting second degree burns on my *bleep*-ing soles!

Yeah… I forgot that he swore more often back then. As I was wandering around the beach taking in the sights the land lovers took for granted on a regular basis. Everything seemed so alien to me in my first hour in land.

One thing in particular fired up my need to get involved with the land lovers that day; a bully was pulling a small shark onto the shore by its tail. I could see the suffering of my fellow brethren, despite the fact that we were both different breeds of shark. Intervening in this situation, I ran up to the douchebag, and I told him “Let the shark go!” To my surprise, I wasn’t able to speak above water; an affliction I live with to this day. I shoved the guy back, in hopes he would let go of the struggling shark.

Bully: Whaddya want, fur fag? Get lost and let me have my fun!

He then shoved me back. I hated that he decided to torture a defenseless shark, then have the audacity to pick a fight with me. All I could see was red, and I decided to intervene by force. I kicked him in his unclean hairy beer gut, and then gave him what the Linguist called a facebreaker with both knees. The force of the attack I inflicted, not only caused the guy to let go of the shark, but he fell flat on his back on the unforgiving cold of the wet beach sand.

After ‘kipping up,’ I went to the beached shark. His struggle becoming that of survival on land, breathing the thick air the land lovers take for granted in lieu of the dissolved air particles in the deep sea. To stop his struggle, I rubbed the shark’s snout with my right hand, while helping him towards the sea with my left. The young biter has relaxed in my hands for the stimulation I was giving him. However, I wasn’t able to get him back to the sea while I had him tamed with an interactive trance.

The Linguist ran to my side, and I wondered quizzically why a person like him would want to help out. But help he did. He was able to get his firm hands underneath the distressed aquatic brethren, and we took him into the water, where the Shark swam out from our hands, back to its proper home, where bullies won’t yank him out just to compensate for smaller cajones, as some of my friends in the Indy Circuit called it. The shark was freed from its torment, now.

The Linguist: That was some Codebreaker you gave that jackass.

I looked to the stranger, not knowing that he would end up being my manager and first friend. His words were almost alien to me, and I didn’t understand him. “What’s a ‘Codebreaker?’” I asked, forgetting for a moment that I couldn’t speak above water.

The Linguist: You can’t speak, can you?

I shook my head left and right for my answer. He could understand it.

The Linguist: Okay… I understand that. You’re not from around here, are you?


~^~ Present Day ~^~

It was late in the afternoon after a full day of training. Son of Shark Boy was finishing up the story with the Linguist’s help. StormMaster was present, along with Reggie and Peyton, who came along to listen to the story of SoSB’s origin. While the Deep Sea Sensation’s tag team partner sat inhumanly still, Reggie and Peyton were listening intently at their somewhat bard-like telling of their origin.

The Linguist: Soon after that, I got him some clothes and a tuna sub before I started to introduce this Young Shark to the World of professional wrestling. It was only the first stepping stone into becoming Son of Shark Boy.

Reggie: Bitch, you’re even odder in person!

Peyton smacked Reggie upside the head.

Reggie: OW! What the fuck?!

Peyton: He may be odd, but SoSB is no bitch. If he had the nards to hit the Capsizer on that fucker, then maybe they’d have a chance at defeating… whatstheirnames?

The Linguist: They are Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman, collectively known as The Pack. They are starting to establish themselves as tag team competitors as far as SoSB and I know.

Reggie: We shouldn’t give a fuck about them when StormMaster and SoSB are going to end up making them chum.

SoSB was going up to the sitting StormMaster, whom hasn’t made a single move since before the story. Was he okay? Was he sleeping? What?

The Linguist: SoSB is wondering whether StormMaster is okay. He hasn’t moved in a while.

Peyton: Yeah, StormMaster’s okay. He’s just taking time to absorb the story, that’s all.

SoSB shrugged, and told his manager in his own method about what he wanted to do. The Linguist nodded gently, knowing that his client was eager to watch some TV.

The Linguist: It’s all the same to him. We’ve got to get going, anyways… Shark Week is on, and SoSB goes mental if he doesn’t watch shows about his brethren. We’ll save more of our story for another time.

With some extra pleasantries, SoSB and The Linguist left. Peyton however, was confused about an aspect of their concealing the truth to an ally.

Peyton: Should we have told them that StormMaster is a robot?

Reggie: Fuck no! They would react badly and call this tag team off. Besides, StormMaster and that Shark queer are doing good as a tag team.

As they left StormMaster alone to get the car, StormMaster came to life, and spoke.

StormMaster: Son of Shark Boy’s potential of being a notable ally is great; The Pack will be decimated at the hands of both Son of Shark Boy and StormMaster.

Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance
(Wow... making me choose between a former stablemate and my IRL best friend... you bastard, Bryson)

The scene opens with Stormmaster standing in the middle of a lightly lid room with The Liquist (Son of Shark Boy's manager), Peyton and Reggie (Stormmaster's manager) sitting around a table with bits of paper scattered all over the table. Son of Shark Boy is busy typing away on his laptop presumably blogging towards his fans.

The Liquist: So we are in agreement that the team name shall be known as “Perfect Storm”?

Leaning back while smoking his pipe, Peyton nods in agreement while Reggie is frantically looking for something important.

Reggie: God damn it.

Peyton: What in the blue fuck are you doing Reg?

Son of Shark Boy stops typing and looks up, noticing the carnage happening before his very eyes. Shaking his head, The Liquist gets up and heads towards the 32 inch Plasma television situated on the other side of the room then presses play on the DVD player. Suddenly the scene changes to the recently aired segment from Ultimatum III.

Reggie: I was looking for that.

Peyton: Well then fucking sit down and watch it.

Quote :

Backstage at Ultimatum III, we see Damien Inferno and Nicholas Gray, the Gray Inferno in the locker room preparing for their match in the Tag Team Scramble in which they ultimately win. They finish taping each others wrists and put away their ring gear. As they turn to leave, the team of Slegnadamus and Butters, the Comeback Kids, step into the picture.

The scene cuts back to The Liquist, Peyton, Reggie and Son of Shark Boy who watches the segment very carefully.

Quote :

Slegna: Damien, Nicholas.

Gray: Hey guys.

Slegna: Look, Butters and I have always been the underdogs out there, but tonight we can really do some damage if we work together. Harlequin and Caesar are two of the biggest champions I've ever seen hold the belt and GSW

Inferno: Yeah, we all know personally how GSW likes to play. They like to use their numbers.

Bobino: And they're not very nice either!

Slegna: Exactly. Look, I'm not saying you guys should let us win, the best team needs to walk out as champions tonight, but we're of a mutual understanding that when it comes down to it we're the ones that are going to need to get eachothers backs should something go wrong out there. Agreed?

The four men look at each other for a few moments. Damien is the first man to extend his hand, however.

Inferno: Agreed.

As Slegna shakes his hand there is a sudden loud noise. The group looks behind them as bricks from the wall begin to crumble down and through the dust the large image of STORMMASTER can be seen. Puzzled the group looks at the big man as he examines the room, closely followed by Son of Shark Boy and his interpreter, The Linguist.

Peyton: What the fuck?

Linguist: Roll with it dumbass.

Quote :

A few awkward seconds pass as the Linguist tries to fan the dust out of his face. As it settles he too looks around the room, puzzled.

The Linguist: Hey! This isn't where the snacks are!

Suddenly, the power was cut and darkness engulfed the entire room...and the promo. How bizarre.

Peyton: Reggie you cunt.

Reggie: What?

The Linguist: Who turned out the lights?

All of the sudden, we hear a computer terminal turning itself on somehow. All we see at this point is two dotted eyes looking at you, the reader (or viewer whatever takes your imagination). We then hear a loud thud somewhere inside the room, maybe it was Reggie tripping up over Stormmaster's large foot. Suddenly Stormmaster spoke.

Stormmaster: A Storm is brewing. The Perfect Storm.

The creepy red bright eyes slowly disappear from view as power is finally restored. Instead of standing up, we see Stormmaster sitting down next to Peyton who remained calm and motionless from the power cut earlier. Reggie, who at this point is on the floor, sits up and noticed that Stormmaster has moved. Reggie nervously points towards Stormmaster in which Peyton notices Reggie's unusual behaviour towards his client.

Peyton: Reg what the fuck are you pointing at?

Reggie: Stormmaster just moved.

Peyton looks at Stormmaster then faces Reggie again and shakes his head. Meanwhile, The Linguist dusts himself off from the carnage and pwer cut earlier and grabs a whiteboard.

The Linguist: So we are in agreement that the name “Perfect Storm” shall be used as our tag team name? Yes?

Reggie: Yes.

Peyton: Yes.

And thus, The Perfect Storm was born. Their first match will be against The Pack who consist of Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman. At this point of the meeting, Son of Shark Boy taps The Linguist on the shoulder indicating that he wants to say something pretty important. The Linguist nods in approval then turns towards the ever so impatient Peyton and Reggie who are getting their composure back after the short powercut from earlier.

The Linguist: I think it's best if I should tell you a story of Son of Shark Boy.

We fade out of the promo as The Linguist beings to tell the origins of Son of Shark Boy in the form of drawings...

The Cull.

What is it?

A series of trials that each member of The Pack must take, under the orders of Jack Eastwood, to prove their worth to The Pack’s cause.

How to prove my worth?

Do something that every creature has done since the beginning of time.

Fight.


“Barbaric, definition: Savagely Cruel, Exceedingly Brutal.”

“So tell me, who’s going to be facing The Dream Killer?”

“You’re not going to like this,” Thomas says as he shakes his head.

“Out with it.”

“Michael Knight.”

“Son of a bitch,” I growl.

Michael Knight was a former Boxing Promoter, who once booked me for an exhibition match. If I recall, it was against Barry Anderson, poor little shite, another soul who’s dreams were cut to shreds. Anyway, back to Knight, Knight booked me in an exhibition match, promising a big pay check. After pounding Knight to near death in the first round, Thomas and I waited eagerly for the pay-off. Of course, I found the pay-check was one which didn’t exist, and before I knew, Knight had fled the arena and the country.
I had even bought a new suit with the pay check I should have received. Ah well, time to break his nose.

I walk through the crowd of mutants, oh I have to be politically correct, the poor and diseased, to the Cull Pit, a make shift fight circle, covered in dirt and grime. Low and behold, I saw the man who was going to be spending a night in A&E. The notorious Michael Knight, the bald bugger stood in tracksuit bottoms and battered trainers. I strut up to the bastard, his eyes soon open wide, and he remembers me.

I turn to my side, to see Eastwood, my leader in the crowd; I smirk as he stares at me, with his ragged clothes hanging off his tall frame, while Daniel Prideman stands to his left.

I turn back to Knight.

“So, mate of mine, where the bloody hell is my pay check, it’s a bit late,” I chuckle at him.

I got no reply.

“I haven’t broken your jaw yet, so talk while you can,” I threaten.

“…”

“I’m just going to punch it out then.”

I throw myself at Knight with jabs, with no real venom in them, just trying to put him off. Knight backs himself into a corner, but the watchers throw him back into the fray, straight into a takedown from me. I position myself on top, stopping his ability to hit me; I take advantage of it by aiming elbows to the chest and a few punches to the temple.

I leave off a bit, standing up to stomp on Knight’s legs and knees, followed by a kick to the temple as he sits up. I grab Knight by his big jug ears and lift him up into the air, and then I throw him half-way across the Cull Pit.

Knight crawls on the floor; I cut him off with a running elbow drop. I pull the bastard up to his feet as he struggles to get a fighting stance going.

“Ready to give me the money yet, Knight?” I ask.

“You weren’t good enough to be paid,” as he throws a weak and wild punch at me, I reply with a sweep to his leg.

“If I am not good enough, that must make you a bloody god, so tell my friend, why is a god leeching of The Pack?”

Knight slowly rises to his feet, using me for support.

“I blew all my money on, cars, booze, women, hot air balloon rides over Paris, and you know, ‘personal luxuries’. You would have done the same.”

“Yes, I would have, unfortunately for you, I still don’t have my money to spend on luxuries, but this will make up for it,” I nod happily, as I nail him with a Dream Killer punch.

Knight drops to the floor, and after a quick rummage through his pockets, I find a wallet, it’s at least compensation. A few lackeys drag Knight away, as I turn to Eastwood, in the crowd.

“Mister Eastwood, I think I have proved myself to you,” I shout as I walk into the crowd with Thomas.


I stand next to Daniel Prideman, my fellow Pack member. Prideman is one of the five men I would never like to get on the bad side of. I heard stories of what he did to this one guy who bullied him, yes, it is hard to imagine Prideman being bullied. Long story short, Prideman beat him to within an inch of his life.

“Have you heard the news,” I ask politely.

“No,” Prideman grunts back.

“We’re facing against some clowns in a few days,” I smile.

“Oh, that news. I take it the clowns are Son of Shark Boy and StormMaster? That isn’t a match, it’s pest
control,” Prideman mutters.

“Nice to know you’re fired up then.”

“I cannot believe I’m going to do this.”

“What are you talking about, Dan?”

“I have to fight Vendetta; loser is kicked out of The Pack.”

“Jesus, there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” I mutter at the sound of Vendetta’s name.

“You know what the worst part will be?”

“What?”

“I’m going to decimate him if it means I’m staying in The Pack.”

“We would all do the same, mate.”

As I finish my sentence, Eastwood walks up to us as he both stand to attention.

“Daniel, get down there, you’re up,” Eastwood instructs.


“That was brutal,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, don’t fuck it with Prideman,” I reply.

I watched with Thomas as Blake Vendetta’s unconscious body was carried out on a stretcher, blood running down the side of his face.

I turned to see Prideman sat in the corner, breathing heavily as Eastwood yelled into his face.

“-YOU ARE GOING TO SIT HERE WHILE SETH KEEPS AN EYE ON YOU.”

“Aw shit,” I muttered.

“Great, you get to babysit the nutcase,” Thomas chimed in.

“You want to end up like Vendetta?”

“No champ.”

“Shut up then.”

“Hey,” I say calmly as I walk up to Prideman, as Eastwood wanders off.

“You okay, buddy?” I ask. “You know if you act like this during the match against SOSB and StormMaster, it’ll be like a nuke going off. Plus the fact, I’m a bloody miracle and Dream Kill them.

Prideman stares straight at me.

“Before you know it, you’ll be FMW World Tag Team Champions. I can see it now, Rotunda and Prideman, dismantling people,” Thomas chuckles.

“Come on Dan, we’ve got some dreams to kill,” I announce.

Corruption 14.1
live from Madison Square Garden in New York City, New York


Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance

Quote :

Dear Full Metal Wrestling,

I fucking hate you.

I hate everything you have become and I hate what you have regressed into.

A few years ago, an organization known as Anarchy was formed, which quickly turned itself into Full Metal Wrestling. Our baby was created from the process of coddled egos, anger, and disgust with a system designed to hold those who wanted to achieve and succeed down. You see, long story short, in the Psychotic Wrestling Alliance, a man by the name of Villiano decided that he would get together with then current head writer SoL and change how they did business. Robb Clarke was originally going to be a head writer and booker of his own, third brand for the PWA, but Villiano wanted none of it. So, very abruptly, SoL and Villiano canceled the brand, but really just Robb's involvement, and then proceeded to ban Robb, Jaro, and others for being creative when they were both at the top of the card. Thus, what people call Pyrogate happened and FMW was born.

It’s funny how things work out.

So now the hot button issue is everyone wants to dip their hands in a shoot.

You want a shoot? Here’s your fucking shoot.

You see, here at FMW we’re falling into the same stupid trap as before. The same fucking idiotic, self-loathing cycle of shit we put OURSELVES into, and it all stems from the fact that the people at the top have either forgotten or refuse to remember what it’s like back at the bottom.

It’s funny, really, because the people at the bottom cream themselves over the approval of those at the top, tripping over each other to be first in line to be spat on.

The fact, however, is this. Most of the people who run this place don’t care about you. They don’t care about your efforts; they don’t care about your talents. I doubt most of them even read your work. They don’t really want to make you better; they want you to just search out their word as some sort of ego boost.

And all of you comply. Happily I might add.

The truth is that what you all think is being built for you, isn’t. You think people are going to get shots? No. These people haven’t designed it to be that way. Take a look at DGS. He’s supposed to be the “hottest rookie” around. Yet once again he’s fed someone else who’s not expected to show up. The “undefeated” streak stumbles along, good on you, but when is it high time that you get a shot at something? The fact is clear that this place isn’t made to have talent rise to the top, the people who call the shots have just designed it for appeasement.

That’s all this is. APPEASEMENT. Look at the Celt, he’s been here almost since the gates opened, he puts in how many hours here trying to have a character, trying to build things for himself, and he’s just barely left the midcard after 2 years. It took people getting tired of this place and leaving for him to even be mentioned at having some sort of movement on the card. Congrats, Celt. Better get some shades for that bright future.

Look at Hannibal Frost. Instead of his triumph at winning the abandoned championship, the focus is instead, once again, on the higher ups, when Skyler came out said that the abandoned belt isn’t good enough for him anymore, then proceeded to create his own match, and threw in as much as he wanted to about how great Skyler is, how he held the belt for 300 days, how he parted the seas, etcetera. Oh, and Hannibal won the belt too, but that’s only really a side note. Congrats.

You want more you say? Look at De’Andes. He comes back, again, and changes the graphics because that’s what he thinks makes him important, again. He didn’t have to, he chose to, and in doing so then proceeded to chastise and cajole people for asking him about the job he volunteered for, but his “rise to power” has been excellent, according to people like the Celt, people like you. Why does he deserve anything over anyone else who has been here and put their efforts in when other people would not? No, that’s not the question people ask. Maybe because they don’t want their feelings hurt when he chastises them. I wouldn’t worry about it though; he’ll probably be gone by September, but again. Do you see? The cycle is complete.

However, rises to power are interesting topics to discuss aren’t they? It’s not really his fault for taking what everyone so willingly gives him. They’d rather remain non-confrontational than see what they’ve earned given to them. I suppose you’re all content continuing to wait, hoping to get a shot someday. Am I right? Of course I am. Take a look at the people in charge now. Try to retrace their “rise to power”. Perhaps we shouldn’t worry about the past and its paranoia though, and perhaps we should look to this moment in time. Hell, the future too.

The people here who measure our “competitiveness” have no guideline or bar as to what they give you or why they have to. They grade on opinion, but really more often it’s grading on name value, position on the card, or what other people said about your works.

Want proof? This is a quote from a conversation I had with someone who rates. Actually, it’s what they opened up multiple conversations with:

“Lol, you got raped by Edible. It’s probably because I gave you a really low score lololol”

They tried to implement a “tell me why you gave a number” to the staff and raters, but let’s be honest you can make up any reason for it or really have something sound genuine. Like when someone told me this:

“I gave you a respectable Seven. I gave you that because you really weren’t in your promo.”


Or how about this:

“I think [Wrestler A] had a better promo than [Wrestler B], but I think it’d be funny to see him lose, so I gave him a lower score. Lol”


But then again, I doubt they even really read the product you all create. Prove it? Look at this:

“[Name withheld] really doesn’t rate on how good the promos are, he just gives out numbers based on how high up the card you are lol.”

Or maybe even this:

“They didn’t include [Name Withheld]’s numbers last time because apparently he dropped everyone’s scores by a good half point.”


Open your eyes, people. The people who care the least are the ones pulling the strings. They want to see THEIR egos, THEIR projects, THEIR babies taken care of, and fuck all whoever else happens to be on the same show and it’s blatant.

And now, these same people want to continue pulling strings. They think it’s funny how things happen in the fed. They do things for their own entertainment, while continually trying to find ways to make the roster silent and you all trip over yourselves trying to be the first in line to get spat on by these very people.

Apostasy is a character in FMW who has continually time after time underperformed and underachieved. He gimped his way along the ranks because, let’s be honest, not everyone is going to be main event. So now apparently it’s humorous to have this character make its name off of me. The person who time and time again carried this place through the valley of the shadow of death. The person who never turned his back on this place. Let’s be frank, my name is a good one to try and make someone else’s off of.

However, it all doesn’t make sense to me. Here is Apostasy, someone that literally almost nobody cares about, finally deciding to put in some sort of effort, and immediately he’s applauded. Here’s a pat on the back and an “atta boy” for your trouble Apostasy and, again, everyone followed. It’s happened before, and it’s happened again.

The people in charge here that deem it important enough to decide to sway match “outcomes” how they please strike again, living lavishly on the sweat and backs of everyone else in the roster, and while they chuckle at what they make us do, everyone else willing follows in some hopes to get a scrap from the table. You all are afraid to defy the people up top, when they need us more than we need them. We are the ones that continue to make them ‘popular’. We are the ones that continue to let them run the show how they want, let them do what they want to do, not us, but lo, instead of rising up united in one voice, we continue to wait meekly, the truth being the people can think less of us than we pretend they do.

Well, quite frankly I’m done waiting for something to happen. I’m done letting people decide my fate. I’m done letting people try to copy my gimmick and jock my angle, because they’re not original and creative enough to get it over themselves. Let me drop some knowledge on you, FMW. I hope I’m proven right. Keep a sharp eye out for my match. Let the world see what ‘reward’ Apostasy will get. I’m going to crush him, even if you all won’t let me, because I need to save FMW, but none of you deserve to have it saved for you. FMW was once great. It was a place I put in countless hours of effort. I’ve done more for this place in my time here than anyone could ever come close to claiming they’ll do, and that’s fact.

So I’m going to do whatever it takes to destroy THIS FMW, because this FMW is fake. It’s an illusion. It’s impossible for something I made so great to become so tarnished in such a short period of time, left in the hands of miscreants and under-performers.

I’m going to save FMW, but I’m going to save it for myself.

Because none of you deserve it.

Love,
Nick Bryson.

The scene opens washed in gray scale, the color seeming to have been drained from the world. The first shot is of a bottle of unopened, single malt Irish whiskey was seated on a scrubbed wooden table with knobby legs. The bottle was dusty and relatively undisturbed aside from the finger prints at the neck of the bottle itself and the table was unassuming and unremarkable; the craftsmanship was poor and the care for the piece was neglectful at best. Situated next to it was an ashtray made of muted hued clay – misshapen from haphazard, novice attempts at making “art” yet failing to do so miserably. A pile of cigarette butts and ash fills the bowl of the ash tray to fashion a forlorn mountain of toxin and death. At its summit was a single smoldering cigarette. Waifs of smoke danced in the twilight of the single florescent light that stuttered overhead while its twin beside it only feebly flickered as it clung to its last gasps of precious life.

A scarred black hand reaches across the table to pluck the still lit cigarette from its perch and it threaded the object between its index and middle finger. The butt wedged between the skin of the two digits as it rested comfortably in its new home as though it were a familiar friend. The knuckles of this hand had a very distinct set of self-inflicted scars with the word T Y R A N T evenly spaced along the line of its fist. It was faint and hard to read but an ever-present reminder of the hardship it had incurred from years of self-abusiveness. As the hand raises and leads to the face of Dante “RAMPAGE!” Jones, it can be seen that the hands are not the only derelict portion of this edifice. Stubble around the stout jaw line and dark circles around the eyes show fatigue while wrinkles formed at the brow, smile lines, and crow’s feet show age. The worn and exhausted features stretch as the cigarette pressed against his lips and the faint glow of the cigarette expanded to a dull furnace as it bathed RAMPAGE!’s face in the only splash of color seen thus far – slowly dimming as he removed it from his face and exhaled smoke. RAMPAGE! opened his mouth in an attempt to speak but his eyes wandered almost lustfully over the unopened whiskey bottle while his face contorted into a half grimace of disgust. He dropped the cigarette back onto its pile of ash and his eyes flashed towards the camera.

R!: Without sacrifice, faith is for naught. Without penance, contrition is facetious. Without hope, religion is non-existent. Since I’ve returned, I’ve begun to lose hope in this addiction…this religion. And perhaps it starts with the dilution of the product or the lack of meaning behind the sermons.

R!: This is our church. Our home. Our temple. For all intents and purposes, this is our God. Like mass, we line up and accept our daily bread of bumps and bruises; broken bones and shattered egos. On days when we can hear His voice, we are filled with the glory of spiritual and literal victory. We celebrate with loving scripture and tender hymns. And when things turn to ruination, we condemn Him or question why He allowed for it to happen. Our gospel then turns to darkness as we search aimlessly in the heavens for guidance. Or perhaps we turn away completely, convinced as we all are that we are masters of our own domains. As parishioners of this Broken religion, we are both its priests and its congregation. We are the rock in which His house was built. We are His fellowship; united in the commonality of our faith yet separated by the differences of creed or color or experience or even level of piety.

R!: As time wanes on, the level of influence our religion has begins to falter. Humanity in its insatiable need to control erodes the foundations of the church. Scandal drives a wedge between the fellowship and bond of the once united voice and when it was once boisterous, commanding, and reverent, it is now barely more than a whisper that whimpers over the deafening ether of political subtext and ego-maniacal posturing.

RAMPAGE! pauses as he seems to search for the words or the strength to continue on with this monologue. His hand gropes blindly for his cigarette once more and he finds solace in its fiery embrace, dimming the gray umbrage from the simple color pallet. He smokes it down to the filter and extinguishes it on the ash pile which adds to its already momentous size. His hardened eyes continue to avoid the bottle that sits before him so closely and yet taunts him from afar with mockery reflected by the shame written in Dante’s face. Instead, he reaches beneath the table to procure a Bible; the tome ragged and beaten by the expanses of time with the spine of the volume jutted queerly from the torn and frayed pages. The once sterling golden embossed cross atop the book had now become faded and abandoned over the passages of time. Once gifted with adoration and love, it had since been forgotten - its passages no longer relevant in a fast changing time or at least in the eyes of its once devout following. The words from the sprawled pages are faded; a representation of how resolute its adherents had evolved.

R!: To stretch the analogy no further, I’m speaking specifically of the power structure in Full Metal Wrestling. There was a time that seems like so long ago where men fought to preserve the precious and precarious balance of this place. We struggled to both entertain and educate the public on the beauty of professional wrestling and tried to reward them for their dedication to our cause. The truth behind Pyrogate…the real truth and not what any one man likes to say about it was simply about control. It was about the minority in power’s vision against the wishes and dreams of the fans. Lo’ and behold, the fans suffered for it. They were robbed from the best quality performance they should be entitled to see for their tithes and concessions. With this in mind, FMW was formed to bring back the serious edge that the Psychotic Wrestling Alliance lacked; to reassure faith in the product. In short, it was a miracle virgin birth that was clean from the sins of father’s past. Or so we thought.

R!: Jason Roy harbored a large chip on his shoulder. As did Robb Larsen. And especially Vincent Piccolo. They felt slighted and, justifiably in the eyes of some, felt that they were owed some form of reparations for their struggles to make Pyromania a legitimate force in the professional wrestling industry. We saw how that turned out. Jason Roy was driven insane by the gravity of his own ego. Robb Larsen was gradually pushed out of the power structure of the business portion of FMW. And Vinny? Vinny was relegated to playing mentor to a new generation he had absolutely no faith in to carry on his legacy as both a poignant ring general and visceral mic presence. Thus a new guard has taken charge of Full Metal Wrestling; one who hides behind faceless anonymity and puppets whose strings are ever visible. They are easily influenced much like the temple leaders of Biblical times to allow for tax collectors and shysters to run things as they see fit for the benefit of their own devices. They are lied to by supposed friends and acquaintances who have all of their own agendas of pushing personal triumphs and glories. Long gone are the days where FMW was a selfless tightly knit community built on friendship and the spirit of competition. Truthfully, it has become what the forward of this promo had asserted;

R!: A house divided of cliques, politicians, power mongers, and tyrants.

R!: ‘But wait’, you query, ‘wasn’t this initially why you fought against the oppression of Original Sin?’ The answer is yes. But at that time, we were more concerned about beating them as opposed to rectifying their past mistakes. And the ‘Full Metal War’ as it became known neither fixed the inherent flaws exploited by Original Sin nor did they really solve the underlying issue of fragile egos becoming more strained and cracked beneath the magnifying glass of scrutiny and critique. All it really did was open the gap wider for a new slew of misers and despots to take their shot at the throne.

R!: Perhaps…perhaps we were too selfish in our pursuits. Perhaps I was too selfish. Too selfish. Too inconsistent. I’ve been told by others that people look up to me and I’ve never quite understood why exactly. I’m no different from you, the audience or them, my peers. I pull my boots on and lace them just the same as anyone else. And specifically, when I let people down on these lofty expectations of my person, I cringe. I medicate myself to numb the disappointment. I distance myself from the product. I turn my back on my faith in both FMW and in myself. And that makes me a hypocrite as has been alluded to by Chris Austin on numerous occasions. The folly of the teacher is that often, he is less inclined to follow that of his own advice. Who am I to tell a man go visit his ailing father when I am not man enough to confront my estranged relationship with my daughter? Who am I to be giving advice to Seth Omega on the perils of addiction when he can conquer my thirst no better than I? Who am I to judge the absurdity of what Full Metal Wrestling has become when I am personally an absurd shell of my former self?


R!: And a small voice in the back of my head reminds me that I'm the nigga that cares too much. That houses too much pride and too much animosity to simply let things lay on the table as they stand. To never allow compromise to ever even cross my mind. To never allow mediocrity to flood what I've come to view as my second child.

R!: With this in mind, I have but a simple message on the behalf of all of Full Metal Wrestling, fans and performers alike:


With slow and measured poise, Dante opens the torn and tatted Bible, its contents sprawled on the table before him. He reached into his pocket to claim a new cigarette and a Zippo lighter as he placed it delicately in his mouth. With a flick of his wrist, the lighter ignites at the wick. RAMPAGE! savored the moment as the thin paper lit while it caught the tobacco. A drag ensued while smoke unfurled from widened nostrils as Dante took a prolonged gaze at the still untouched Irish whiskey. With his free hand, he would reach for it and open the container while he slowly poured out the contents onto the opened Bible innards. He retrieved his lighter once more, sparked it, and threw it onto the accelerant as it set the Bible ablaze while he calmly continued to smoke his cigarette.

R!: Your blasphemy…your transgressions have almost Broken my faith in the betterment of this company. Your allegations and silver tongued lies to con, connive, and deceive people into believing you have its best interests at heart have personally offended me. So yes. Fuck you.

R!: You make claims that Full Metal Wrestling transformed into a pit of self-loathing and elitism less than a year ago, pontificating about how you ‘hate what it’s become’ and how it has all become something of a show based on appeasement and placation. Yet you and your base of supporters…rather these ass-kissers whom you fashion around yourself in some pseudo cult of personality to insulate and protect yourselves with bullshit match-ups, poorly put together cards, shows with just as shitty production values if not worse so than some of our darker moments and quite literally drain the fun that this business is supposed to be. You claim to have no say as to how the shows are put together yet strangely, they seem to always work towards your benefit as of late. And this was prior to you winning the ever coveted Full Metal Wrestling Championship; our Holy Grail and most sacred relic that you sully with your dirty fucking fingers that smudge the name of FMW slowly off of it and replace it with an effigy of your own self-deluded image.

R!: You bleated feebly about how it took people getting tired of and leaving this place in order for guys like Aidan to finally win the title they have so sought after when one could argue the very same for you. How it took sporadic appearances from Harlequin, an ousted Jaro, a distracted Drew Michaels, an unlucky Alex O’Rion, a retiring Hostyle and a retiring TyranT, whom, might I add, your glorious regime pushed on the way out and told him “see ya when I see ya” without so much as a second glance before you actually won the big one again so that you can shout from the roof tops that you’ve main evented back to back Ultimatums – which were in no way as impressive or as engaging as the very first Ultimatum, the second Ultimatum that was your main event debut being the biggest disappointment of all time with a sub-par card rife with shenanigans. And that wasn't due to the fact that the show itself wasn't well wrestled. Lord knows that you are one of the most talented FMW Superstars I've ever had the pleasure of working with. No. It had to do with the inept, clumsy fucking care of those same assholes that you put in place to promote you and what I've termed as your favorites; the same guys who get boosted profiles for doing just a little more than their regular corpulence. Guys like Craig Ryans whom you insisted to book on the primary card of the biggest show of the year albeit the fact that they shirked off responsibility and duty to go do fuck all because they couldn't compete with the standard that FMW has set in this industry.

R!: You bitch about how Hannibal Frost was never given a proper set of applause for winning the Abandoned Championship but fail to show the consistency when you detract him for being a poor Full Metal Wrestling Champion and never really giving him his due for unseating the dominant TyranT who, by the way, is a far better champion, man, and contributor to this community than you will ever be from this point forward.

R!: The hilarity continues when you go on to say that no one will challenge the authority. So long as the authority isn’t you, right jackass? Whenever someone critiques you or says the God’s honest truth about you, you censor them. Belittle them. Question their motives and their contributions while being so quick to list your’s without even the remotest bit of humility in your rhetoric. The worst part about it is how emotionally distraught you get when someone doesn’t like you or like an idea presented by you. Right. As if everyone is supposed to cow tow to your demands and bow as if you are the God incarnate. I remember a time when you used to loathe people like Ethan Black, Jaro, Villaino, and Robb. About how you raged with a fiery passion that got my attention and made me respect you as a man who had the balls to call out the authority when you knew they were in the wrong and merely looking out for their own interests. News flash, Nicky. You've systematically replaced them with yourself as the new tyrant in a long line of assholes. The only difference is that each of those guys accepted that they weren't going to be well-liked for their decisions. You, on the other hand, put on this front backstage like your some kind of nice guy fighting for the equal distribution of wealth to all when really, it's a crock of shit. You want to reward people who agree with your way of thinking. And when someone questions that thinking...when someone calls you stubborn, in fact, you stubbornly and adamantly rebuke this ideal ology and say that it rumor mongering that is both base-less and conjecture from a bitter, old, cranky, angry man.

R!: You’re fucking right I’m angry, Nick. You’re fucking right. And I have every inclination to be that angry when guys I work with every day get shafted because you have an ego the size of a swollen, cancerous prostate that's as fragile as a Fabergé egg. That our paying customers miss out on match-ups due to your same council of 'wisemen' making decisions like "push so and so...won't that combination be lawlzy" for either your own sick, twisted amusement instead of advocating that they do their best to succeed. As a locker room leader and as a veteran of this business, you should be setting a better example for these guys and giving them the honest truth about how Full Metal Wrestling works. That jokes and comedy make you popular but only until the novelty wears off and they find some other jovial jester to throw oranges at and mock. And then you have the audacity to say that you giving Trey Spruance a world title shot is based on his performance at Ultimatum III. You mean the very same performance that couldn't even open a pre-show, Nicholas? Why didn't you select Chris Austin? Drew Michaels? Give Frost his rematch shot before he fucked himself up (read: probably took his ball and went home because he's a quitting, whiny bitch who can't take a loss well)? TyranT who never got his rematch for the World Title? Or perhaps David GS who didn't win at Ultimatum but still had an amazing showing and truthfully changed my opinion of him? Do you have answers to these questions, you smug prick? Or are you just going to accuse me of being a shitty friend because I'm exposing how insipid and flimsy your logic really is?

R!: You then go on to bring people like De’Andes up; a guy who has been here as long as you or I have. Guy’s a close personal friend of mine since I’ve been here. And yeah, I understand your criticisms of him. He’s loud. He’s obnoxious. And he tells you when something isn’t up to the standard that we should be holding ourselves at. He forces you to look in the mirror during the production meetings and reflect on how this affects the whole as opposed to the few. He takes an active interest in this company of ours when time and resources and patience for your stupidity allots it. Yet you sought to crush his spirits and diminish his input. For what exactly? The answer is simple: tyrants oppress those that they feel threatened by. Like the Catholic Church or the Roman Empire, if there was an idea out there that was against the grain, those in power break the spirit and will of the people. They isolate. They control the stream of information. Is this sounding familiar to anyone else?

R!: And I know. People are going to ask ‘Page…why aren’t you focusing on the match-up at hand? Aren’t you diminishing the debut of a brand new rookie opponent?’ This is my match. My fight. My war. I don’t know much about this Starchild cat aside from the fact that he’s part of an air-guitar band and loves to wrestle. Look kid. This isn’t personal and I have no qualms…no beefs with you. You aren’t my target and really, it’s just the luck of the draw that you unfortunately had to face me when I have a lot on my mind including a goal in place. I’m sure your coming here, you’re going to want to do well. You’re going to want to compete for competition’s sake and have a blast doing it without having to deal with the backstage politics, ego stroking, and general bullshit that is a rampant problem not just in Full Metal Wrestling but major promotions as a whole. And I really hope this impending loss doesn’t affect your want or your desire to remain here in this company. Maintain that innocence as much as you possibly can. Cherish it. Reveal in it. And make sure you don’t let cynical assholes like myself break your faith in the system. As when its balanced, it works. My goal, however, is to beat you. Plain and simple. And then beat the next guy after you. And continue beating the fuck out of people until I’ve beaten every single person this sham of a company…this impostor that is masquerading in Full Metal Wrestling’s place. I don’t want to do this for personal glory or to burn Full Metal Wrestling down to the ground. I want to do it so that one day, I’ve earned the opportunity to take from Nick Bryson everything that he has taken away from this company. His championship. His ass-kissing personal staff. His dignity as a man. His bullshit title as a knight. Everything. He made this personal. He fired the first salvo. He started this fight.

Corruption 14.1
live from Madison Square Garden in New York City, New York


Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Sometimes underdogs need love to

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance

This may never happen again for Trey. Someone should vote for the guy.

Corruption 14.1
live from Madison Square Garden in New York City, New York


Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance

Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance

V.O.: The Beatles. The Rolling Stones. Led Zeppelin. Queen. Van Halen. Metallica. All legends of rock, with their specific places, immortal in rock history. Many other rock bands today have tried to rock out and take their place in history alongside these greats, but they have failed. Now, one new band emerges from the pack to try and take the world by storm. Ladies and gentlemen, VH1: Behind the Music proudly gives to you…


The show’s opening credits roll, soundtracked by the band’s music from their first album, which sounds something like this…


Starchild: My name is Starchild, and I’m the lead vocalist, rhythm guitarist, and songwriter for Totally Rockstar.

Bruce: And I’m Bruce Hälford, lead guitarist for Totally Rockstar.

Starchild: …and we’re TOTALLY ROCKSTAR!

Bruce: …I think we’ve already made that clear, Starch.

Starchild: One can never be too clear, Bruce. And find me another nickname, man. Starch? Really?


V.O.: And their journey to rock stardom begins with their debut album, the certified-gold Sexed Her In Church.


Starchild: We didn’t wanna tell the record label this at first because we were afraid they might not greenlight it in the end, but now that it’s already been certified gold, hell, we can say it. Sexed Her In Church is totally a concept album.

Bruce: We heard this funny story about someone who did the nasty inside a church, and we thought… damn, that’s –

Starchild: – that’s a funny story!

Bruce: Yes, Starch, I already said it was. And we thought that was absolutely crazy.

Starchild: Then our gears started turning. Then words just came to us, like… words. Popping up in our heads.

Bruce: …Yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.

Starchild: Then the music just started coming, man! It was all AWEEEEWEEEWEEEWOOWOOBLOOBLOOBLOOBLOO-

Bruce: Hold on just a second, man! …You don’t want to spoil the whole album!

Starchild: Oh, right, right. You’re right.

Bruce: So, yeah. We were pretty inspired. And to think it was just because of one silly story.

Starchild: You know, Bruce, I’d like to do it in a church one time.

Bruce: …Okay. Why are you telling me this?

Starchild: Because you’re my best friend.


V.O.: The strength of the upcoming album lies not only in the strength of its music and virtuosity, but also in the poignancy in most of the song’s lyrics. Totally Rockstar is not just awesome rock, it’s also awesome rock for the intelligent.


Starchild: You know, we’ve tried our hardest to be accessible to everyone, without sounding too much like sellouts.

Bruce: That’s true.

Starchild: I mean, we definitely know all about our music. We know all about the musical, the technical stuff. You know, tremolos, virtuosos, arpeggios…

Bruce: Damn straight. We’re great musicians.

Starchild: And our lyrics are great too. They’re deep, very deep. I think that in the future, years from now when people look back at Totally Rockstar’s career rocking the socks out of the world, they’re gonna say, “Man… that Starchild. He’s like the Kurt Cobain of their generation.”

Bruce: …Hey, I wrote lyrics too.

Starchild: Yeah, but I’m the frontman. Kurt Cobain was the frontman. You can be Dave Grohl.

Bruce: I’m not the drummer.

Starchild: Novoselic?

Bruce: Not the bassist either. You took the only guy in the band who can play guitar!

Starchild: Bruce, it’s not my fault Nirvana was a three-piece! But anyway, yeah. Our lyrics are really deep. In fact, I’m gonna sing part of our song called “The Second Comming.” That’s with two M’s. Bruce, set up the slow jam, man.

Bruce: Gladly. Two, three, four! WHEEEEEEEOOWEEEEOOWEEEEEE… WEEDLWEEDLWEEDLWEEOWEEEEE…

Starchild:

(As Starchild sings, the lyrics pop up on the screen in dramatic fashion)


And then this is the part where Bruce goes absolutely nuts on the air guitar, take it away dude!

Bruce: AH-WHEEEEEEEWWWW!!! WHEEEEW-WHEEW-WHEEEW-WIKI-WHEEEEW! DOOPDOOLOOLOOPDOOPDOOLOOLOOPDOOPDOOLOOLOOP WHEOOWEEOOWEEOOWEEOO WHEEW WHEEW WHEEW WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Starchild: Yeah! Totally rockin’, man! Totally rockin’! TOTALLY ROCKSTAR!


V.O.: It has not been an easy journey for Starchild and Bruce in the music industry. Being originally from the professional wrestling industry, they have faced many doubters as to their musical ability. However, they’ve never let any of that get in the way of their dreams.


Starchild: People were telling us, you guys aren’t real musicians – you’re wrestlers! And I tell them right back, yeah, what about Chris Jericho? Jeff Hardy? R-Truth? Edge? They were wrestlers AND musicians! I mean, we’re okay wrestlers, but this is our dream, man! We wanna be rock stars too! Nobody can tell us we can’t do this!

Bruce: It was a total crock of *bleep*. People were all up in our face, telling us we won’t go anywhere and we’ll be eating out of trash cans while we beg for a job pulling curtains at the local CZW show.

Starchild: Yeah, man, that was harsh! And then they were asking us, “Do you guys even play any instruments?” And I said, “Totally!” Then I sicced Bruce and his mad guitar skills on them while I was backing him up on rhythm!

Bruce: And they still didn’t believe us! Can you believe that?

Starchild: Yeah, they were all like, “Pfft, screw you, you’re playing air guitars! Those aren’t real instruments!” And I told them right back, “Screw you, man! Edge played a kazoo! We’re as much musicians as he was!”

Bruce: Really, the nerve of some people.

Starchild: And THEN we went and got ourselves a record deal! That totally showed them!

Bruce: Totally shut them up.

Starchild: And NOW we’re getting paid gigs to compose and play new entrance themes for the guys at Full Metal Wrestling! If that’s not going legit, then I don’t know what is, man!

Bruce: And we’ve already got a ton of ideas for them. Starting with those guys who have those silly rap songs. We’ll totally make them over and then they’ll be truly badass.

Starchild: Oh, you said it, bro! We’re totally going to rock their socks off!

Bruce: …Come on, man, that phrase is so cliché.

Starchild: But it’s true!


V.O.: And there you have it. Two young punks ready to take over and reshape the rock scene forever. Will they make their impact on history, or will they be a punchline of a future fondly looking back at the past? Only time will tell.


Starchild: My name is Starchild –

Bruce: – and my name is Bruce, and we are TOTALLY ROCK-

Starchild: – and WE ARE TOTALLY ROCKSTAR!

Bruce: Come on, man, I was already saying that!

Starchild: ROCK ON!!!

How Many Chances.

Quote :

Stone: How did Marky manage to kick out of that?

Foxx: That kids got a heart, come on Marky only got to hold out for another 45 seconds.

[9:00]

Leon quickly looks up to the Full Metal tron… 40 seconds, he hurriedly raises Marky up and lifts him up in a cross above his head.

Stone: And this must be it… the TIMEWARP!!!

Leon plants Marky into the canvas and quickly goes for the pin

1 [9:13]

2 [9:14]

…3!![9:15]

Shelia Blige: And Here is your winner and the NEW C-4 Sprint leader at a time of 9:15…. LEEEOOOOONNNNN CAAAAPPPPRRRRIIICCCEEEEE!!!

One of the first of many marks in the loss column and not the only one which involved Leon Caprice pinning me. A feat that I have failed to do on many occasions, with my singular win over Caprice being in a debut match. That match I’d rather regret, trying to break into the business I was talked into coming out in a low rider rapping with the Notorious B.U.G.

Quote :

Stone: Mark runs to the ropes, and tries to go for the chop block but Pearson sidesteps and Mark skids on the floor! Crashed and burned!

Foxx: Ah, dammit!

Stone: Mark picks himself up but Pearson is ready and waiting for him! Robert hooks up Mark in the half-nelson and he hits the Prison Break!

Foxx: Leon senses danger and tries to go in to help but that bastard James is on it too! He clotheslined both of them to the floor!

Stone: Distractions aside, Pearson makes the cover and the ref goes to count! One, two, three! The Pistols have done it again!

Shelia Blige: And here are your winners, and STILL TELEVISION TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS, THE SILVEEERRR PISTOLS!!!

The second chance… A now defunk championship, this was the last match before the Silver Pistols lost the unification match and sent the tag division into turmoil. You may even consider it a dark omen that neither careers of the Silver Pistols continued much longer after this match.

Quote :

Boice: Johansson chop blocks Jaro’s legs with the steel fist and I think this might be over for real, because he’s going to make Jaro talk!

Morpheus: For the record, that’s the stupidest finisher name ever.

Boice: Johansson rebounds and he leaps – but Jaro rolls away from the low dropkick, and snatches the banhammer just in time to swing it over Johansson’s stomach! Damn!

Morpheus: He’s wide open!

Boice: Jaro picks up Johansson and NAILS THE MARTYR SAUCE ONTO THE KITCHEN SINK! That’s going to put Mark Johansson out of commission!

Morpheus: Not to mention out of contention! Jaro makes the cover! The ref counts! It’s all formalities now! One, two, three, suck it, losers!

Boice: Jaro retains, by hook and by crook!

Shelia Blige: And here is your winner, with 7 STYLE POINTS AND STILL FMW ULTRAVIOLENT CHAMPION... JARO!!!

I couldn’t win this match. Vegas had never seen longer odds for a Ultraviolent Title match, but I gave it my all and came up short by a matter of inches. Also… where has the career of Jaro gone?

Quote :

Stone: Celt and Mark don’t know what’s happening... no, the Masked Man turned Celt around and gave him a hard roundhouse kick to the head!

Foxx: Finally someone had the presence of mind to show up and even the odds!

Stone: And now he’s got Johansson!

The Masked Man hits a stiff side kick to Johansson’s head, and takes a step back... to hit a spinning roundhouse kick to Johansson’s face, sending him flying to the sound fixture him and Celt were going to throw Jaro to! The fixture explodes and causes a loudspeaker to fall down from its tower!

Stone: OH MY GOD, THE MASKED MAN JUST SENT MARK JOHANSSON CRASHING AND THAT SPEAKER EXPLODING! THAT MAN HAS NO BUSINESS HERE! JOHANSSON MAY BE DEAD FROM THAT WRECKAGE!

Foxx: YES HE DOES! WHAT GOES AROUND, COMES AROUND! I LOVE IT!

Stone: HE HAS NO BUSINESS BEING INVOLVED IN THIS MATCH! THE MASKED MAN HAS ALSO JUST DESTROYED A VERY EXPENSIVE PIECE OF EQUIPMENT!

Foxx: BUT I’M SO GLAD HE’S HERE!

The Masked Man then follows Johansson’s body to the floor, finding his body, and putting him in a sleeper hold, and then dragging Johansson into the shadows and out of the match.

Stone: JARO MAKES THE COVER! THE REF COUNTS! ONE, TWO, THREE! THE CHAMPION RETAINS HIS TITLE!

Sheila Blige: And here is your winner, AND STILL FMW ULTRAVIOLENT CHAMPION… JAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

The beginning of the end of my own career, this started the beatings. The concussions. The sewing of lips. It was also the moment that I realised that the Ultraviolent Title was out of my reach.


Mark Johansson is standing on his balcony looking down over the morning rush of Philadelphia’s business district. Looking back into his new apartment there are boxes stacked everywhere, delaying the inevitable job of furnishing his new place with a simple moment of peace. The moment is quickly ended when the intercom buzzes. Mark lumbers over to answer it and let the movers in.

There once was a time when Mark wouldn’t of needed movers but that time has long gone, the Broken Saints had lived up to their name, they were no longer held in the address book. Mark only ever spoke to Seth Omega when at a show, same goes for Apostasy. As for Drew Michaels… they never talked.

The movers arrive moments later carrying a large thin box.

Mark: Just over here.

Mark leads them to place the box in front of the low table leaning against the wall in front of new leather couches.

It may seem ridiculous that after only two pay checks Mark has reverted back to his old way of life but he missed the material life. When you live in a tiny apartment constantly being awoken by passing trains, only able to watch TV on a tiny television that still had a VHS player, you tend to want what you once had. Mark could afford it at the moment.

Mover: That’s everything.

The mover walks over with a receipt which Mark promptly pays, as well as the gratuity at the end. They did a good, efficient job so it doesn’t bother Mark paying a little extra.

Mark Johansson is back on the winners list. All the boxes are ticked in order to get his life back to the last time he was truly happy.

Well… at least in a materialistic sense.


The happiness was short lived and was killed with the piercing ring of the telephone. Even though the ring tone never changes there is always a chilling tone when the person on the other end has horrible news.

Mark: Hello…

Lawyer: Is this Mark Johansson?

Mark: Yes.

Lawyer: My name Jason Moran, I am Matthew Gregan’s attorney.

Mark: … He passed away didn’t he?

Lawyer: Unfortuantly, yes he passed away three nights ago.

Mark takes a seat and runs his hand through his hair speechless.

Lawyer: He will be having a state funeral this Friday held in Boston.

Mark: Which church?

Lawyer: Church of St. Paul. At midday.

Mark: Thankyou.

Lawyer: Also… Mr. Johansson you will be required for the reading of the will.

The dial tone deafens Mark, as he lets the phone fall from his hand to allow him to bury is face in his hands. Trying to be stoic he fights off tears but as he clenches his brow a single tear dribbles down his cheek.


I feel like a crook sitting in this church. A convicted criminal sitting at the back, while the top men in the Boston Police Department make up the first few pews. Regardless of my thoughts, at least Gregan never thought of me as a criminal as I was, he wanted me to be here.

Pastor: Today we say goodbye to a true American hero. One of the many that go unsung, he was never given credit for his work but all of us here today know what a great man Matthew Gregan was.

Many of the congregation hang their head low in silent agreement.

Pastor: Matthew Gregan was a Bostonian, he lived and died for this city and dedicated his life in keeping our streets clean.

The pastor continues on with a short biography of the life that Sgt. Gregan lived and Mark saw many parralels with his life. The hardship growing up, the blood sweat and tears that got him into and through the academy and finally finishing with his battle with cancer. Being that their was a large amount of police in attendence the reactions were very solemn and stoic with the occasional sob from his wife breaking the silence.

The words of the pastor almost make Mark ashamed of the path he took, almost as if he had taken the easier route by going undercover where as Gregan fought to become the officer he was.

After the Pastor had finished it was time for Daniel Linskey, the chief of police to speak.

Linskey: What can I say about Sgt. Gregan… He was a believer. He was almost the angel on your shoulder telling you about the good in someone’s heart.

The chief pauses, smiling as if trying to shrug off a deeper emotion.

Linskey: Being the head of our undercover department he always held his men in high regard, he believed in them. I can’t tell you the amount of arguments we had over the integrity of his men. But the thing was he was always right, they came through. He taught me the patience that is required of me.

Thinking back Mark remembers the times that he almost quit and the way Gregan had always brought him back in.

Linskey: I whole heartily believe that he had a harder job than I, I dealt with officers where as he dealt with civilians. Somehow he made it worth their time, he made sure that they didn’t have a tragic ending like many Hollywood movies depict.

A few people chuckle, with the clear reference to “The Departed” being mention.

Linskey: He was a true man. I often went into his office, especially in his later years and he had this quote from Albert Einstein on his wall “Try not to be a man of successes but rather try to become a man of value.” This was Sgt. Gregan and for that he was a success.

The funeral continues on, with many past and present police officers speaking of their experiences of the dead man they so admired. The pastor eventually returns to the lectern and thanks every one in attendance.

Pastor: Matthew would be humbled by the sheer size of our congregation.

Linskey and five other senior officals pick up the casket to take it to the hearse, as it passes Mark he takes one last glance at the last remaining part of his past life. A regretful relief overcomes him, almost as if the dark times are being buried along with his father figure.

Many people follow the casket out, but Mark stays. Sitting in church reminds him of the catholic values that he grew up on but it also makes him think about redemption. To rebuild his life to what it once was and be forgiven for all his sins. Was it possible? Did Mark have the heart require to do it?

Mark’s thoughts are eventually interrupted as a man with thinning hair and an Armani suit takes a seat next to him.

Moran: Exucse me sir but by any chance are you Mark Johnasson

Mark is stunned by the correct accusation.

Mark: Yes…

Moran: It was merely a guess, I knew you would come alone. I also knew you wouldn’t want to be sitting near any man with a badge.

Mark: I’m not a criminal!

Moran: I know -

Mark: You know a lot.

Moran: I’m not trying to offend, I was given a quick brief on your past and came to a few assumptions.

Mark: You know what they say about assumptions.

Moran: Makes an ass out of you an me, I know.

Mark: No, it’s the mother of all fuck ups.

The stranger laughs.

Mark: Now I’m guessing -

Moran: I am Mr. Gregan’s attorney.

Mark forces a small chuckle.

Mark: It’s weird to hear him call a Mr.

Moran: I guess you won’t be attending the wake?

Mark: I have a flight -

Moran: Back to Philadelphia, I know. Well shall we discuss the outcome of the deceased will?

Mark: Sure.

Jason Moran takes out a small package from his jacket as well as a single piece of paper.

Moran: To Mark Johansson I leave something he deserved long ago.

Folding up the piece of paper, Jason hands over the small package, no bigger than your average smart phone.

Mark: That’s it?!

That’s all he wanted to say to me!?

Moran: Yes, have a safe flight.

The man of law leaves Mark in now an empty church pondering the contents of the package.


Mark has returned to Philadelphia but instead of going home he decides to stop off his the local bar.

Mark: Scotch.

The bartender knows Mark well and quickly pours Mark’s drink, not saying a work and leaving him alone with his thoughts. No exchange of money takes place as this is no time for such materialistic things for a man with a tab.

Taking a sip of his drink, Mark’s eyes dart up to the television to catch a glimpse of a Captain America ad.

???: You like superheros don’t you Mark.

I know that voice.

Mark: What do you want?

???: A martini, tanq 10, dry with a twist.

Ignoring the man, Mark turns his attention back to the TV.

???: Captain America always confused me, just a scrawny kid who then uses drugs to become a superhero. Bit of an oxymoron.

Not now…

???: Don’t want to talk?

Mark: After what you did to me I realised that the ability to speak is something that no one should take for granted.

???: Incredibly deep Marky Mark. I did that for your own good.

Mark: MY OWN GOOD!?

Mark slams down his drink is a single gulp before aggressively turning to his drinking partner.

Mark: I retired! How is that my OWN GOOD!

???: Caprice is now a main eventer, Celt is the UV champ. My influence makes boys into great things.

Muttering under his breath Mark turns away once again.

???: You know you’re a hero.

Not now!

???: Captain America had nothing but was given everything. Nothing heroic about that -

Mark: He had character, he had heart -

???: Let me finish -

Mark: Stitching me up again.

???: But you… you gave your everything, for a cause that wasn’t your own but for the greater good of your people. Not only that you succeeded. With no credit given nor asked for. Pretty heroic.

Mark pushes his chair out abruptly leaving the man alone to finish his martini.

???: You deserve more Mark. Much more.

Mark slams the door behind him before any more bull can be spoon fed to him.


It was a long day, two domestic flights and an awkward drowning of sorrows. The couch seemed like heaven for Mark but as he sits down he feels and lump in his back pocket. Reaching in Mark finds the package given to him earlier by Jason Moran, after staring at it for a couple of minutes Mark unwraps it carefully.

Inside is Sgt. Gregan’s police badge, the words Boston Police glisten from the light above. With his last effort Gregan had managed to once again go against bureaucratic policy and with a small, personal chuckle Mark remembers his parting words.

“Something he deserved long ago”

The light filtered through the windows above. A weak light, from a rising sun, cast its rays across the horizon, fighting the darkness with each passing second. In a cycle as old as time the light rose only to fall again to the darkness before rallying for another run. Round and round they battled, light versus dark.

Except for today.

For today, Darkness strode freely across stained concrete floors, his skin bathing in the weak light.

Wakey, wakey.

The steel head of the fire axe skipped across the concrete floor behind him.

Ceeesshinnnnggkkk schtunk schtunk schtunk ceeesshinnnnggkkk

Each time it would hit a chip or divot in the old floor and spiral before falling back into rhythm.


You’re not going to want to miss this.

The wooden handle of the fire axe dropped into the man’s gloved hand. Stepping from the perfectly placed shadows and into clear view, the man spun the axe in his hands, the pick and blade gleaming respectively off the dim lighting above.

We could have been friends. Or at the very least, enemies with a grudging respect for each other. I’m a big fond of that category. Man my list of grudging respect is at least two hands long. But no. You had to break the rules. The rules I CLEARLY wrote on a tiny piece of paper for you. I’m a pretty big breaker of rules myself, but even I know that the size of the paper they are written on and the severity of repercussions for breaking rules are intrinsically linked. Here I was thinking you were smarter than you are. They’ll just give anyone their shields nowadays hey?

No, you’re not going to want to miss this one, one bit.


37 hours earlier

The paperwork slid across the table, the delicate female hand pulling away as the paper was pulled in front of the man opposite.

“We’ve indicated everywhere necessary to sign Mr. Phos—“

Please, it’s Dr. Phospher. I didn’t spend a hundred thousand on an education to go by “Mr.”

The man smiled. The type of smile that caused children to giggle, men to fume with jealousy and in this case, women to swoon.

“Yes, Dr. Phosper.”

The meek female voice responded, oozing with the not so subtle hints of flirtation.

“We’ve highlighted all the part necessary for you to sign and we’ll have your offsite facility up and running as soon as possible.”

Perfect, but that isn’t needed. I’ve got a team that will help me get everything prepared, just a few last minutes touches and I’m sure we’ll be ready. Just the funding is all I need.

He shot her a second smile, disarming her completely while her heart skipped the beat needed for infatuation to occur.

I’ve already scoped out the building and ran some...preliminary tests...myself, everything will workout perfectly. Thank you for your time Ms. Hillard.

The Good Doctor rose from his chair, brushing the wavy brown hair away from his eyes and glasses, before flashes another smile accompanied with a wink to the seduced Ms. Hillard.

I think I’ll have to try to milk the University for grant money more often, don’t you think Ms. Hill—

“It’s Becky, and yeah, you should stop by a little more often Dr. Phosper.”

The Doctor walked out the financial services office with a final wave before turning to face forward. Instantly the joyful smile faded from his lips, replaced by a smile all too familiar to the recently deceased of The City.

There are few things better than beaurocracy


29 hours, 45 minutes earlier

The heavy footsteps cracked across the linoleum floor. Each step echoed through the old hallways, marking your entrance long before you were remotely visible. For Detective Joseph Brixton, the heavyset footstep slowly making their way to him meant one of two things, neither of them good.

“Another note for you.” The larger woman, made up like a real life version of Miss Piggy handed Brixton the note, who merely looked up with annoyance.

“Is it from him?”

“It has his name on the envelope Detective.” Cathy, the rotund assistant to Chief Vasquez rolled her eyes at Brixton signifying he should have looked at the envelope before asking the question.

“I can clearly see it is from him Cathy, next time, wear gloves before handling it. Your greasy little ham hands do weeks of damages every time they paw these letters uncovered.”

The large woman huffed away in typical fashion, ensuring Detective Brixton that the next time she returned it would be for the other reason he dreaded. Placing the letter on his desk, Brixton popped it open, allowing his eyes to spread wide, soaking in each letter.

It’s simple really.
Hyde Park. 3 AM. (Isn’t it weird that every city has one of these?)
Usual Bad Guy vs. Good Guy stipulations apply:
Alone. No Guns. No Knives. Bring your Transformers.
Tootley Doo –
H

23 Hours, 15 Minutes earlier

The wind had picked up, tossing the heavy overcoat of Detective Brixton. The summer had been unseasonably cold, especially at night. Some, those easily swayed by public opinion and given to worry, were convinced it was an omen, a sign of things to come.

Brixton knew the weather had nothing to do with it. Hell had returned, the freezing over was purely coincidence.

He waited at the tiny ornate bridge near the center of the city park. A small pavilion waited across the bridge, but Brixton wasn’t ready to make that step forward without seeing who he was meeting first. His eyes darted around nervously, moving from tree to tree and glancing occasionally at the buildings that dotted the perimeter of the park.

This is going to be a little more difficult than I had initially planned.

The voice from beside him caused his heart to race. Why hadn’t he been warned? Why hadn’t there been any communication? Why hadn’t he heard him approach?

Y’know, I asked in pretty plain language for you to come alone. Alone generally implies just you.

“It is just me. I’m the only one in the park aside from you. “

Brixton knew his only chance was to argue semantic, to try, in whatever futility to make it appear as though he had played by the rules.

While this may technically be true, placing cameras throughout the park is like having multiple sets of eyes. Especially for all those men placed on the buildings around here.

“How could you possibly know I have men on the buildings?”

DAMMIT! The thought shot through Brixton’s head. How could he be such an idiot, how could he give that crucial detail away in surprise.

It’s easy really.

The Harlequin held a gloved finger in the air before tapping Brixton’s forehead, a smile tearing across his face as he leapt at the opportunity to explain his momentary victory.

I have in my employ a man of freakishly large proportions. A cumbersome oaf most of the time, except when it comes to his love of mathematics and his ability to fly nautical vessels. The latter is an extremely convenient feat, but the former the more impressive task. In a matter of hours he made calculations that movies pretend takes days with teams of experts.

The Harlequin had spun on his heels to face Brixton now, leaning on the opposite ledge of the ornate bridge.

I gathered you were a man of great caution. Not intelligence mind you, but caution. You are a bit of a dummy, I can say that with confidence now that we have met, but you walked into my trap of caution perfectly. Using this intelligence young Chuckles plotted every possible angle and point of visibility. The exact places you had your men.

The Harlequin’s left wrist flicked backwards. The necessary pressure points clicked and whirred as Dirrty Harry shot forward into his hands. His gloved fingers wrapping lovingly around the grip and trigger.

See what I did there ole’ Detective Brixton.

The pointed gun at Brixton’s chest triggered his reflexes, as he drew his gun, drawing a bead on the heart of the Harlequin.

Tsk, tsk. Still missing the point aren’t we. Where you HAD your men Detective. You see, now all that remains is Chuckles.

On cue the giant of a man stepped from the shadows of the pavilion. A sniper’s rifle and bead drawn against the stomach of Detective Brixton.

“Breaking your own rules Harlequin? You said come alone.”

Precisely. I said for you to come alone. I on the other hand was dictating terms.

The hammer of the Colt 0.357 clicked back.

I said nothing about me being alone.

The bullet tore free from the chamber of Dirty Harry, spiralling ahead of the burst of flame and smoke, toward Detective Brixton. With eyes wide in terror, the bullet tore through the man’s shoulder, perfectly placed beside the strap of the Kevlar body armour.

The pain coursed through his body, as each passing second became a fight against unconsciousness. Each passing second, a losing battle. With a final surge of pain, the nocturnal embrace of unawareness swept over Detective Brixton.


Present

The pick of the fire axe dug into the still fresh wound in the shoulder of Detective Brixton.

Can you imagine how much easier this would have been if you would have just played by the rules? If you would have just listened? Then again, that would have been too easy. And I don’t particularly care for that.

The pick struggled free from the man’s shoulder, before the blade rose and lay flush against Brixton’s face.

But I like you. Your caution makes you dangerous. Your intelligence doesn’t factor in too heavily to this equation, but you’ve got gumption.

The Harlequin’s wrist turned, digging the blade of the axe into Brixton’s cheek, a drop of blood forming against the blade’s pressure.

The Detective’s screams filled the empty warehouse room while the Harlequin continued to drag the blade further and deeper across the man’s face.

You see Dear Detective, there are rarely survivors. Rarely those that walk away with anything, but you will be the lucky one. And I’ve even given you a little present to remember me by.


Quint stepped away from Brixton, his eyes darting to the man’s hands as he watched them clench and unclench, fighting his body trying to send him into shock. The Harlequin’s eyes followed his own hand as he wiped away the blood from Brixton’s cheek, revealing the large “H” engraved sideways into the man’s face.

CHUCKLES! Blindfold and dump the Detective by the old Asylum. We’ve got some friends there that would be interested to see our handy work. That and I’d like to give them a little present. They are creations of my own handiwork after all, consider it gifts from the Father.

With my belt on my shoulder, I step through the curtain and thankfully leave the drone of the crowd behind me. They’re happy now; I saw their sickening smiles when I climbed to my feet still Television Champion. At that moment, my stomach dropped.

The despised “revolutionaries” of Gold Standard Wrestling have failed, which means Full Metal Wrestling must have triumphed... right? That’s what their all thinking – go FMW. With their chants and cheers, they attempt to latch on to something far greater than themselves. Typical.

As I walk through the corridors of the arena, stage crew members and backstage officials flash cheesy grins, give me the thumbs up or worst of all, clap their filthy hands to my back as though I have done it for their approval. No. Never.

“Nicely done – you really showed ‘em!” I hear someone exclaim.

“But you got Marky Mark next, champ!” another faggot tells me as I pass by swiftly.

They repulse me. Damn near all of them repulse me. The fans, the wrestlers, the clowns backstage. I don’t wish for a better world for any of them. In fact, I revel in the pain and misery of others. Full Metal Wrestling is merely an outlet to inflict punishment, to see the desperate straining eyes and hear the helpless cries of agony that I crave for.

Without FMW, I wonder how much bloodshed there would be and what atrocities I would have committed. Would I have indulged the most socially-abhorrent fantasies from the darkest recesses of my psyche? Despite the self-righteous pontificating, this bloated population is hollow; weak, flat, lifeless characters in a most tedious play.

A group of nobodies – wrestlers, I can tell by their attire – are chatting away, cracking jokes even. Their faces are familiar but I am incapable of recalling names prior encounters. When I approach, a few acknowledge me with I can only assume is a nod of approval or respect. My response is to stare blankly and keep moving. This is neither the time nor place to lose control.

Leaving the vermin to converse, I smile inwardly and can’t help but chuckle to myself. It amuses me how utterly unaware they are of how truly vacant I am. There is no real Matt Ashburn, just an illusion or an idea; a perversion of a product that has met and exceeded demand, a caricature of this society at its moral worst.

This life... it's like an isolation ward that serves only to expose my own severely impaired capacity to feel anything other than revulsion and hatred. I am at its center and no one ever asks me for any identification. They all happily accept what I pretend I am, a persona barely held together through pill consumption and yet one that reflects the drabness and ‘normalcy’ of themselves.

I suddenly imagine Mark Johansson’s rotting skeleton, twisted and crumbling, and this fills me with glee. I despise would-be heroes. They claim their actions are for the good of others when really, its for the ego trip of praise from others. Human beings are inherently selfish and greedy. Mark Johansson is no different.

The sad thing is that Mark cannot even succeed at being a would-be hero. Every single time he’s had an opportunity to make something of himself, to elevate his reputation beyond a perceived no-hoper, he’s failed. In simple terms, he's a loser. He tries hard but it’s for nothing in the end because he just doesn’t have what it takes.

Mark can play the hero if he wants to but in this world, a happy ending is rarely untainted. More often than not, the heroes achieve little and die martyrs for meaningless causes. I will play the antagonist and show society its true reflection.

________________________

“Matt, are you listening to me?”

I wasn’t listening to anything. All sound – traffic, voices, foot-steps – blurred together while I was lost in my own maze, thinking of more interesting things than her: my favorite flavor of ice cream, The Rolling Stones, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the U.S. military defence budget for 2011, Obama’s greying hair, fucking an Asian girl, gore porn, choosing a new watch, Satanism, rape ‘victims’, Megan Fox, how I would commit suicide if I felt like doing so, red wine, female ejaculation...

“Matt?!” she barks again.

“Of course I’m listening,” I respond warmly with a little smile to assure her. She kinda laughs in a stupid way which makes me envision using the steak knife on the table to carve open her supple neck and watch the thick red blood ooze out down onto her breasts.

“Well, I told Jenny what Kate said and she thought it was totally out of order as well so-”

“Darling, how about we talk about something else?” I suggest casually.

She looks taken aback, perhaps even upset at the very suggestion of discussing something other than herself. This response – complete with a melancholy little “oh” – pleases me greatly.

“What do you want to talk about then?” she asks innocently.

With my hand on my chin, I take a few seconds before deciding upon, “Nazi Germany.”

She narrows her eyes and cocks her head to the side so I smile again, this time with a nod.

“I think Hitler was a great man,” I declare unashamedly. She starts laughing but my straight face quickly confirms I’m not joking and replaces her irritating giggles with a concerned silence.

“Think about it,” I tell her firmly.

“Well... I... I don’t think there’s much to think about, Matt.”

“Have you ever heard of Friedrich Nietzsche?”

“No, I-”

“I didn’t think you would have. He had a philosophical concept called the Übermensch, which translates from German to mean ‘beyond man’ or ‘superhuman’. The Übermensch is essentially an aim that humanity should set for itself. All human life can be given meaning by how it advanced a new generation of human beings. Now-”

“What has that got to do with Hitler?” she interrupts me, her brow furrowed in pure ignorance. For some reason, I can barely contain my contempt for this bitch and as I stare at her perfect face, I lose all inhibitions to maintain my public persona – at least to her – and lean in towards her ear.

“Look, you stupid fucking whore,” I start to whisper as her eyes widen in a satisfying mixture of shock and horror, “if you don’t shut the fuck up, I will saw through your limbs and stitch up that big mouth of yours.”

“B-b-b,” she stammers before stopping when I put one finger to her lips.

“I will do things to you that will make the Holocaust look like child’s play.”

Breathing quickly with her eyes fixed on the floor, she immediately gets up out of her seat and disappears into the mass of sheep on the sidewalk. Relaxing back into my chair, I return to my coffee while mentally rating women’s looks out of ten as they walk past the cafe.

________________________

There is nothing that separates them from each other. I would get to know one, but the problem is, I’ve met them too many times before. Not only this city, but this world, has become filled with far too many carbon copies of the same flawed archetype.

This product’s worth is minimal. Practically each and every one of these drones is disposable, because each time one dies, another two take its place.

I pass them and see nothing more than wasted flesh. I yearn to commit the most barbaric and despicable atrocities just to feel something real in this decaying synthetic world.

________________________

It’s 3:04 AM and I’m walking down a dark alleyway in the heart of The Bronx, brushing specks of coke off my nose and whistling some shit I heard on the radio this morning. I’m disappointed to find not a single tramp attempting to sleep amidst the garbage in the alley.

It’s too warm; I can feel sticky beads of sweat trickling down my arms, so I shed my leather jacket and sling it over my shoulder. A cooling light breeze brushes the front page of a dirt-covered newspaper under my feet. I just catch the article’s headline, something about a dismembered body of a child being found.

I stop for a moment and try to feel something... anything. I even look down at the accompanying picture of the kid in the paper and stare deeply into her big blue eyes. As I expected, it only makes me more eager for bloodshed.

No, it’s much more than that, much worse. I don’t sleep at night, only in bursts of twenty minutes before waking in a hot sweat to devour Xanax like a rabid dog. I don’t know why this is happening but I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy.

As I venture out of the alley in search of my victim, I see a cluster of dickless punks on the street corner, loitering with cheap beer and cigarettes. I can’t help but cringe at their sagged pants and oversized shirts. Fucking faggots. If I could get away with it, I would make each and every one of them bite the curb.

A patrolling cop– some old bastard with a laughable hairpiece – storms up to them demanding to see some ID. The punks scatter in multiple directions like rats in this sewer of a city. The cop’s head jerks back and forth between them quickly, trying to determine which to chase. Heh. As if he could catch any of them.

One of them sprints past me up the alley with the cop in pursuit, but it doesn’t last long. While the kid darts away into the night, the old bastard is soon leant against the graffiti-covered brick walls, hands on his ageing knees, panting away like he’s having an asthma attack.

I stroll back up the alley, hands in my pockets, one clasped around a switchblade. My foot-steps catch the cop’s attention and he turns to me and mutters in between sharp breaths, “you know... I’m getting too... old for this shit!”

I force out a weak laugh and take a few steps even closer, a wicked grin across my face...

When you're in a fight is when you feel most alive. The rush of adrenaline protecting you from the damage you are taking. Mother Nature's very own painkiller. When you stare across at another human being, their eyes locking with your own we revert back to the animal we are, have always had the potential to be, and have always wanted to become.

I've been in many fights during my few years on this Earth. It took me a long while to have my first but after that you find it becomes easier each time. Don't get this confused, they don't get easier to win, they just get easier to have. Ever since the first time I punched another person in the face and they hit me back, I always craved more. A deep burning inside that we all try to pass off as insignificant. That we try to ignore in order to continue our mundane lives. Those guys in suits sat in offices sweating on the nape of their neck when their tie is too tight and the air conditioning isn't working properly no matter how many times that Polish guy is sent in to mend it whilst continuing awkward conversations in broken English. They all look t him, at each other and think, “My God I wanna punch that guy in the face.” And yet we never do. Why is this? Because we have been told by society that fighting is wrong. It's brutal, it's violent, it's thuggish. Is that what was thought when Kings used to ride in to battle to slay their enemies. Do we look down on great warriors like Achilles? No, they were glorified. And we can all become glorious. When we battle it out with our bodies on the line we are glorious. WE are Kings. We are great warriors. David versus Goliath, two men fighting, IN THE BIBLE. And David as a winner become glorified.

Which brings me to The Cull. Jack Eastwood is a complex man. I had come to notice this in the months following my first chance meeting with the man. This is where I would try to describe him, but it's impossible. I can say one thing though, he is an enigma. He tells us something and we follow. I don't know why I do, curiosity possibly. And we all know where that got the cat. So I had been riding with Jack for around 8 months as part of The Pack. Travelling the world and visiting the Asylum where he had been recruiting. There were hundreds of men that had also been attracted by his aura and wanted to be a part of The Pack. I'd thought I was safe. I was in FMW now, leading the way with Jack but even I wasn't part of the furniture. “So I'm doing this thing called The Cull,” he grunted at me. “All the guys are fighting. Consider it a tournament. The best stay.” I looked at him, it didn't even cross my mind that a usual reply would be one of perplexion and questioning. Instead I replied, “Cool.” I continued wanting to know more, “So all these guys here, the ones you've recruited are fighting now? Should be a fun watch.”
“Watch? Jack replied. “Don't be so fucking stupid!” That told me. “You're fighting as well.”
“Fine by me,” I snapped back. Inside I did feel a sense of rejection. I thought I was Jack's right hand. I was always going to be there. “So which of these wasters is mine?” The answer surprised me.
“Blake Vendetta.” Blake Vendetta. A guy who was also on the FMW roster. Why would Jack want two of his most prominent members fighting each other? Is what I should have thought. And yet I didn't. It's a funny world.

I spent a few days away from the asylum. Wandering the wilderness and the snow. One animal I've always liked is the wolf. Just your simple dog but with vicious, untamed, naturalness to them. The caveman of the canine world. Not knowing it's right from wrong and become glorious with each victory. You know when it's time to run from a wolf. When their eyes narrow and their pupils dilate, that's pure rage building inside. Time to get away.

On returning to the Asylum I knew it was fight day. I trudged through the snow up to the large doors in front of me. I was miles from England but it still felt like home. I knew where I was going. The Cull Pit. Walking down the steps I could feel the sweat hit me, the stench of blood, sweat and tears burnt my nostrils as I gazed upon the two guys slugging at each other. It was barbaric but my God were they glorious right now. As one fell to the floor the other leapt on him, wailing away s if his life depended on it. With the same desperation a Heroin addict ties that belt round his arm when he needed a fix. The guy went limp. It was over. I was next. My life in The Pack all dependant on a first round fight against a brother. I had to win.

Walking into the middle of the pit I ripped my shirt off over my head and removed my boots. I stared across at Blake, mirroring the desperation of every other man in that room. God knows how I looked. The Pack had become my life. This was my fix. I looked towards Jack. He gave me a nod. It was on. I walked to Blake, my hands up, ready to strike. We were warriors. I swung a right. He dodged. A swung a left. He dodged. Another right, another left, yet Blake remained elusive. He ducked behind me and caught me with a punch, smashing into my temple. Here comes the adrenaline. Swinging like a madman I tried in desperation to knock this guy out. My blood began to boil as he dodged my for 3 minutes, which in a fight feels like a lifetime. “JUST FUCKING HIT ME!” I screamed at him. He obliged smashing me as hard as he could right in my mouth. I felt a tooth loosen and my lip swell up as it began to gush blood. Then I could almost feel as my eyes narrowed and my pupils dilated. I was violent and untamed. I charged at him tackling him against the wall splitting the watching men like the Red Sea.. A logical battle had gone out the window. This was war. Grabbing his hair I slammed against the wall. Again, and again and again. I felt his knees weaken. And again, and again, and again. His skull was disintigrating in my hands. I am a warrior. All of a sudden I felt hands grab me. My muscles were bulging, my head hazy, I may have even blacked out here as I heard a thud as a body hit the floor.

The next thing I remember is the four eyes staring at me. I was no longer in the Pit. And the eyes, they had a look of, well maybe fear. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! WE ARE BROTHERS DANIEL. HE WAS UNCONSCOUS AFTER ONE!” Jack had never screamed at me like this. I hoped it would never happen again. He punched me. The pot was on the stove but the heat wasn't on. It wasn't boiling. “I'm sorry. I didn...”
“YOU NEED TO CALM THE FUCK DOWN!” He grabbed me up from the armchair I was in. “ You won. You're still in. But get outta here. Seth, keep an eye on him for me.”

And here we are in the now. Seth and I had bonded. We travelled the road for a few days. We discussed the Pack and what it meant. “Daniel. I just got a message from Jack. We have a match.”
Why wasn't I getting the message. It's us teaming up.”
“Cool.” I replied. “Let's get it done.”

Inside myself a wolf laid resting. Who knew when he's wake up next.

Corruption 14.1
live from Madison Square Garden in New York City, New York


Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance

Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance

???: Funny thing about blood on walls, all you need is some refreshing Coca Cola and it all disappears, like a magic trick!

The voice cuts through the monologue that had been running in the darkened locker room. With Leon Caprice sitting in the furthest corner of the room he would swiftly look up to see the energetic face of his intruder. Upon laying his eyes upon the intrusive figure resting against the frame of the doorway that lead into the endless backstage hallways of Ultimatum, Leon would give a bemused expression as he tried to reason why the man stood before him. Trying to figure what business he had with Leon, and with this bizarre topic going through his thought pattern, was it simply coincidence that it was this man.

Leon: What do you want?

Leon would lash those words out with a slight annoyance in his tone, further expressing his current desires to be left alone, however the man did not budge, rather he took a few steps forward and continued to speak.

Harlequin: Oh come’on Leon, there’s no need to be such a square.

Leon would give a slight pause before replying, as he exhaled with a generous annoyance tainted in it.

Leon: Oh here I was just thinking that there was no need for you to be here.

Harlequin: Now that’s no way to greet good ol’ Uncle Harley.

Leon: So sorry, where were my matters, GET OUT!

The mixture of sarcasm and annoyance from both men began to heat up the conversation as it obviously turned to the point of Harley’s reasoning to stay, something he seemed determined to hold to.

Harlequin: And let you miss out on the wonderous words of wisdom I simply came to pass on.

Leon: Oh, well now that has me sooo intrigued.

Finally Harley would diverge into his reasoning to continue to pester Leon, as not only did he now seek to spill his words, but he would move further towards Leon and eventually seek the second chair close to Leon as he kept his sight fixed on the recently losing abandoned title challenger. Yet as The Harlequin would take his seat his complexion would suddenly switch from the humorous devil, to the grand master of havoc.

Harlequin: Did you ever wonder why HavOc worked so well in FMW, hmmm? Why compared to every stable since it, none have surpassed it either power or achievements?

Leon: So?

Harlequin: SO, did you ever see the strings held behind each stable as they pondered around FMW like the puppets they truly are?

Leon: You mean each man’s ties to his relevant actions?

Harlequin: Yes, the plans they schemed and plotted, and how it never really seemed unorthodox or irrelevant.

Leon: Your point being?

Harlequin: There is always a grand schemer behind their actions Leon. II had one, The Broken Saints had one, GSW has one, even The Pack has one.

Leon: What about SoA then?

The conversation would continue to deepen as both men began to click on each others points, with the obvious sense of sarcasm and stale humor removed from their words, the conversation moved quicker and quicker.

Harlequin: SoA hasn’t yet, but it wont be long. I did find it amusing though that good ol’ Hanny stepped up and into it, must have been feeling all warm and goody inside when we brought back HavOc.

Harley would let out a slight giggle at that thought as he continued on.

Harlequin: Oh how that was proof of the effects of alcohol. A good Havoc, now there is a paradox.

Leon: So what’s your point then?

Harley continues to giggle through Leon’s words as he obviously teeters to respond sarcastically.

Harlequin: My point?! Gosh you aren’t following too well are you?

A slight wash of anger flooded Leon’s face as he tried to grasp Harley’s words through his constant over-emphasis and sarcasm.

Leon: So FMW is full of schemers, well that’s not new.

Harlequin: No no no, that’s not the right angle… FMW is filled with puppeteers with their puppets. Moving them left and right and attacking when it’s reasonable, but it’s not exciting.

Leon: It’s meant to be exciting?

Harlequin: Come’on Leon, I thought you had eaten enough Smarties in your lifetime… The point is this, why not cut a few strings and see what happens when the plans don’t come off like they were meant to. What happens when the puppeteer has to show his face to fix the problem?

Leon: It creates a point of weakness.

Harlequin: Exactly! And in those moments you use all that you have and you cut the remaining strings before swiftly slicing the puppeteer’s throat.

Harley would continue to over-emphasis his points, yet with the hand gestures also accompanying his words the murderous words of Harlequin just sank that much deeper. Still though, Leon was grasping a better sense of what Harley was saying, slowing finding himself agreeing with his points and scarily seeing himself respond positively back.

Leon: So how do you stop the schemers then?

Harlequin: You introduce a little Havoc into their plans. Everyone will begin to PANIC! and become fearful of what will happen next.

Harlequin would begin to raise his voice as he continued his streaming thoughts, clearly still over-emphasizing with his hand gestures and facial expressions.

Harlequin: But remember not to become what you fight against, you have to go with the flow and see what happens.

Leon: So take a chance…

Harlequin: Oh that’s a nice spin on it, whatever keeps your conscious clear at the end of the day.

Leon: Let’s just say you caught me in a moment of liberation, so you’re not coming across as the usual crazed maniac.

Harlequin: Well welcome to society, where that God you continued to splatter everywhere has disappeared from. Where all the schemers and power hungry maniacs reside. And that’s where we fit in, to upset the order, to be the ones who don’t just say yes.

Leon: We?


Harlequin: You didn’t just think I was talking to myself did you. I heard what you were saying before, and now I’m just equipping you to act on it.

Leon: To act on what you’ve just told me? Havoc, fear, panic…You do realize who you’re speaking to?

Harlequin: Oh yes I know, I’m talking to the person who almost killed Skyler Striker, the person who tortured his work colleague, the person who takes so much crap every day and doesn’t give a thing back. You know you can’t be the good guy forever, eventually people will see you for what you really are.

Leon: And what is that?

Harley would continue to giggle once more as he built the suspense on his following words.

Harlequin: Their worst nightmare.

With that chilling point Harlequin would gradually lift himself from his steel chair and move closer to Leon, swiftly grabbing Leon’s left hand in the palm of his gloved hands, looking to deliver his final point.

Harlequin: The only thing you need to ask yourself is are you the guy who will take an eye for an eye, or wait til you can’t take anymore and just take the entire torso.


With his parting words, Harlequin would gently slap the hand of Leon in agreement to his points as he would sporadically leap from his position and make his way swiftly back to the doorway, yet before he could madly rush into the hallway, he was stopped by the echoing words behind him.

Leon: If I decide to take your advice, where can I find you again?

Harlequin: You won’t…But I’ll find you.

And with that the Agent of HavOc would flow into the darkness that engulfed the hallway. Almost seeming to dematerialize in front of Leon as the shadows provided him a mode of transport through the backstage area. Yet as the conversation was now clearly over, the after thoughts had only just begun, as Leon, still fixed in his seat would bow his head and remain still. With only the darkness moving within the room, to engulf the man as the scene faded to black.


Here lies the sixth entry of Phillip Barthers Journal.

I went to see a psychologist today, to ask if these visions could just be a wacky part of my imagination, but if only that could be true. He seemed to discount what these visions were about, but said that he had seen incidents where people would have these visions and they would come true. Overall he never gave a definite answer either way

11/11/11 11:11. I told him everything, and all he could give me was a “mmhmm” if I wanted that I would have gone down to the local homeless man and asked away.

But the visions still aren’t going away. Every night, no, every time I shut my eyes I can see it. The two men standing tall and the pale white body below them, pouring its crimson blood out onto the white tiles of the probable bathroom floor. It’s disgusting, it’s disturbing. Why do I continue to have these visions.

I hope they aren’t of anyone I know.


Sarah: Leon!! LEON!!!

Leon: What’s wrong!?

Sarah: It’s…its Joy.

Leon: Is she ok?! Do I need to fly home?

The highly tensioned scene would open to Leon sitting on the edge of his black leather chair within his darkened study located inside The Mansion. With his wife clearly in shock of what she was about to speak of, she couldn’t contain herself, as her words were tainted with the sound of an emotional wreck, with the croaky sound of her skipping breath.

Sarah: SHE’S MISSING!!

Leon jumps up in the surprise of her shaky words, leaving his seat to slide backwards he would only find comfort in the fact that the desk in front of him would support his upper body weight as he rested heavily on it after those horrific words.

Leon: WHERE IS SHE?!?!

Leon was quickly getting consumed in the rush of it all, barely thinking clearly he would continue to ask the relevant questions.

Leon: WAS IT PHIL?!?

Silence is all that responded to him for the coming seconds as eventually he heard the word he wished never existed, the answer that would now lead to a path of anger and chaos…

Sarah: Yes

Sarah almost seemed humbled in her answer simply by what had previously transpired between Phil and Leon, yet beyond that simple point, she still cried out in anguish for her new born baby.

Leon: Have you called the police yet?

Sarah: No…not yet.

With a strange sense of direction in his voice, Leon would respond in a way that simply gave an answer to his recent thoughts of embracing the Havoc around him.

Leon: Don’t! Let me take care of this. Go stay with Leah, and I’ll get back to you.

The words simply rolled off Leon’s tongue as he seemed to take on a mood of darkness and evil. Nothing pure could be seen in him, it almost seemed like the Godly man of last week had been possessed, but obviously that wasn’t it. Simply the man had reached his breaking point, and with a push from the Agent of HavOc, he was now consumed in devilish thoughts of how he would track down his daughter’s kidnapper and even beyond that, what he would do to him.

***To be an Agent of HavOc***

Consumed in Anger

Acting on Chaos

Thinking of Affliction

Seemingly a different man from the calm-headed Godly man

Formerly Consumed in Hope

Acting out in Faith

And thinking of Love.

His morality was changing as every second went by. From what started as another loss, to now the restructure of his existence. The realignment of his purpose, and the restocking of his opportunities, he wouldn’t let this man take part of his life and walk away, he would find him and unleash the devil within himself.


A knock on the door of The Mansion would break Leon from his conclusive thoughts, as he would gradually make his way through the richly adorn hallways of The Mansion and eventually grasp the cold silver handle of the front door. With a moment to exhale and attempt to recollect himself, Leon would gradually open the door to see the middle-aged figure of a postal employee. There in the hands of the bright yellow suited Postie was a black leather coated chest. Its width and length would be similar to that of an A-4 piece of paper, yet with a moderate depth to it. The sudden appearance of it would bring multiple questions to Leon’s mind, however the man who hesitantly stood before him would gradually outstretch a receivement docket for Leon to sign. And with a quick signature and the chest being transferred to Leon, the Postie would gesture farewell and allow Leon to close the large jarrah door and begin to unravel the questions he now had as he hurriedly looked for a place to drop the chest and open it.

With a few moment to take in the possession that now laid in front of him he would gently open the hinges of the chest and look instantaneously inside for any harmful surprises, however what did reside within the chest was something more horrific than what he could have ever presumed.

There within the confinements of the leather box was a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda handgun. Simply seeing it brought a weighted feeling into Leon’s stomach as he also noticed a note beside it. With a slight moment of hesitation, he would grasp the note and with a slight quiver in his fingers he would open the note and reveal the words to hopefully give reasoning to the sudden appearance of the magnum.

Dear Leon,

I heard all the commotion and I knew I needed to help out.

Enjoy the prezzie and use it to embrace the Corruption you’re surrounded by.

Hope you can have some JOYess fun with it.

From
Uncle Harley

Now the Havoc truly begins.

Christian Parkes stood in the middle of the locker room, staring at himself in the mirror. The makeup and the hair, the biker jacket and the tight jeans. These were the major components of Christian’s appearance. But, this wasn’t the Christian Parkes that he knows.

The Christian Parkes he knew didn’t despise the world.

The Christian Parkes he knew didn’t look for the all the negatives in life

The Christian Parkes he knew wore hoodies, not biker jackets.

The Christian Parkes he knew wore baggy pants, not tight jeans.

The Christian Parkes he knew wore tattoos, not makeup.

Christian took of his biker jacket, and threw it down on the floor. Sweat dripped from his baggy black singlet onto the floor, creating a puddle of his own juices. Christian was expecting to see tattoos covering both arms. But, no. They were covered by sleeves given to him by FMW management.

He had turned into his worst nightmare.

Christian Parkes: They will pay for this. They will pay for making me this.

Before long, Christian wasn’t alone. The debuting Ryder Strong strolled into the room, with his laptop propped in his right hand.

Ryder Strong: Hey hey hey!

Christian Parkes: For God’s sake.

Ryder Strong: What, man?

Christian Parkes: People like you shouldn’t be in Full Metal Wrestling, but, no no, you’re hired anyway. How’d you get this job? Sleep with the management?

Ryder Strong: Dude, what the hell are you talking about?

Christian Parkes: Another wrestler who’s logic is awful.

Ryder Strong: I’m actually pretty smart, dude. I write a blog.

Christian Parkes: Oh, so that’s how you got the job! Full Metal Wrestling brings in someone from reality to give the outside world a taste of this horrid business. You’re practically Mike Mizanin.

Ryder Strong: Mike Mizanin? Awesome.

Christian Parkes: No, not “awesome”. Ryder, tell me. You give yourself into a business that promotes exactly what is wrong with the world. But why?

Ryder Strong: Because it pays good money?

Christian Parkes: Because it pays good money. Typical.

Ryder Strong: You should quit while you’re ahead, dude.

Christian Parkes: Ah, good work. You’ve admitted that that Christian is ahead.

Ryder Strong: Christian?

Christian Parkes: Yes, Christian. You must have had your head in the clouds. I am Christian Parkes. I am here to highlight what is wrong with the professional wrestling world.

Ryder Strong: Let me stop you right there.

Christian Parkes: Of course, Christian knows what he’s talking about.

Ryder Strong: Okay, I’m going to leave, before you stab me or something, you emo prick.

Christian Parkes: We all feel sadness, anger, happiness. Some more than others.

Ryder Strong: You’re feaking me out now, dude. I’m out of here.

Once again, Christian’s appearance and attitude has intimidated another human being. Christian directs his attention back to his reflection in the mirror. Before long, he is interrupted by a FMW mainstay.

War Machine: Who the fuck are you?

Christian Parkes: Obviously, you haven’t been paying very close attention to Full Metal Wrestling lately, have you?

War Machine: Tonight will be my first match here in a while. So-

Christian Parkes: Ah, yes. Jason Cash.

War Machine: It’s War Machine to you.

Christian Parkes: No, problem, Jason. See, I’ve studied you. You came into this company on someone else’s back, much like many wrestlers do today. But, you went down a darker path than-

War Machine: I don’t need your bullshit.

Christian Parkes: Oh, no, Jason, this isn’t bullshit, at all.

War Machine: I told you not to call me Jas-

Christian Parkes: Unfortunatly, you have no control over me.

War Machine: That’s enough. I’m leaving. Fucking rookies…

Christian smiled as War Machine left the room.

Christian Parkes: Ah, Corruption is a wonderful place.

Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance


Promo ONLY until Friday, August 5th at 11:59pm. Voting AND Promo until Sunday August 7th at 11:59pm

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Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes
Ryder Strong: A smooth flowing promo, good pilot promo, just needs to get slowly deeper now, but you know your way already.
Christian: You’ve got a good foundation with your dialogue and you really play to your strengths with it, however when it comes to character portrayals you need to be spot on and you were a bit lacking. Maybe it could be beneficial to introduce another character into your own promos to build up the platform to try that again.

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman
SoSB: You have a great setup already, definitely something to keep pushing off, but two points to focus on. Use descriptive words, don’t have “This action followed by this action” it can be well used in small portions, but if you used more description on the actions to describe how it looks, feels, smells, sound and tastes like then that should help a lot.
STORM: Again the same with SoSB, both of you guys have the groundwork to go far in FMW, just keep looking to improve and take any feedback you get. Personally for you I felt like we still need to know more about the character. In this promo it read a lot like a piece of TTing, simply because it was all match centered. What would help a lot would be to use some time and develop the character with a solid history so people can get further into your character.
Seth: I’m loving reading all the promos from this match, you’ve all got great things to build off of. For you personally though, you need to work on the dialogue, it’s coming off as too cheesy and structured. Remember that these guys are having a conversation so slow it down and write it like you are physically speaking it.
Daniel: Calling this match the future of FMW, seriously great work guys. Daniel you have some great metaphors in there, and I encourage you guys to go deeper with “The Pack” metaphor, you touched on it, but definitely something to really leap onto. Now a point to improve on is the flow of your words. A couple of grammatical errors mixed with a lot of short sentances meant it took a bit to get use to, but simply by reading it back to yourself and putting/removing the full stops and commas in/out it would help you drastically.

Overall I’m going to pick my vote based on who needs it more when the votes tally up, seriously should be a close match


Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild
De: Contraversal again, yet you make it readable. Now I don’t know how long you can keep this up, but I would be interested to read more. Good inclusion of historical events too.
Starchild: You know what works in FMW and this definitely works. It was light, funny and read so quickly that you should have had more. Glad to have you back writing.

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson
Mark: Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You played the right intro and you kept it. It was a light read but with a lot of past events that I remembered of yours it was nostalgic. You deserve the spotlight that this promo asks for.
Ashburn: Ok your ending is mean. Just when you position it all up nicely, you end it. The promo reads very much as a subdued text which could be a negative point in this match, especially since Mark wrote a promo that drew attention. My point to you is to bring that character set you have and bring it more into the text. Rather than it being a textual ending, have it as a shocking action ending. Lastly you had to bring up the holocaust didn’t you? Bit of a touchy subject.

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice
in the interest of fairness I wont praise of critique your promo publicly, but I must say if Celt and Caesar remain absent then this is almost a dream match for me. Great to have you back and good luck.

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance
Bryson: Well written, but nothing really standing out. Well below your average, and although the ending was quick and further pushing your heel status, I felt it devalued the promo as it concluded itself and left the readers with nothing to look forward to.

Corruption 14.1
live from Madison Square Garden in New York City, New York


Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance


Promo ONLY until Friday, August 5th at 11:59pm. Voting AND Promo until Sunday August 7th at 11:59pm

Triple Threat Match
Ryder Strong vs War Machine vs Christian Parkes

Tag Match
Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER vs Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
RAMPAGE! (/w Seth Omega) vs Starchild

Television Title Match
Ashburn (c) vs Mark Johannson

Ultraviolent Grudge Match
Harlequin and Mass Caesar vs Celt and Leon Caprice

Main Event
Full Metal Championship Match
Nick Bryson (c) vs Trey Spruance