Death Row 4 Voting and Promo Thread

I am incomplete without you.

I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, and I cannot be without you. Every time I see your face a part of me swoons while another part can only wait for your demise. The constant conflict I feel tears me apart. I can sense my soul being reduced to a pile of trash with each stretch, pull and rip. I can feel my dignity swirling down the drain of extinction. I do not feel the pain that should be associated with this.

I do not feel the shame, the hurt. Anguish does not consume my frayed, dulled, hardened pain receptors. I do not feel.

I only see you.

I see my pain and my pleasure. I see my yin and my yang. I see my creator and my creation. I see it slapping me in the face with a sledgehammer one moment, and the next it is consoling my broken will and cranium with some of the softest, most inviting hands… the hands of an angel. An angel of debauchery, an angel of hatred, an angel of hypocrisy, an angel of everything that afflicts my essence, clouds my judgment and destroys my core. But simultaneously you make me smile. You make me hope, you make me want.

You make me want to be better; you make me want to do your bidding. You make me want to be your servant, your slave… your weapon of tyranny. I will do whatever you want me to do. This much has been established. I am lost without you but maybe better for it.

So as I hear the haunting click-clack of your pumps near me with each step across an unforgiving concrete, as the smell of leather permeates my sensors… I break from the world of enchantment. I recognize where I am as I can feel the goose bumps prickle up, my nervousness easy to read; a form of Braille if you will. I exhale slowly and I realize how racked I am in pain.

How my ribs always feel broken even though they aren’t. How it hurts to raise my head from time to time. But this is the sort of pain I have made peace with. This is the sort of pain that walks side by side with me as I inch closer and closer to the end of my crimson mile, where death awaits to hold me close as her sickle slashes me asunder.

I am ready for this, and I am ready for you. I look behind me as my wrists are bound, my hands held high. The gentle rustle of the chain-links that expose my back to, you calm me because while I can’t see you, I know you exist. I can smell your perfume as you brush my hair to the side in order to whisper in my ear.

Yes, the safe word.

I understand it, mistress. I understand you, mistress. I am yours to own, mistress.

Make me yours, mistress.





I once heard in a song that every broken man comes to understand that he’ll never find paradise when all that he wants was there all along. Such is the case with what resides at my mercy. I would pity him but he seems to enjoy the pain I inflict upon him. It is a twisted idea of acceptance, an ugly reassurance that someone, somewhere truly cares.

They care about what you do. They care about what you are.

I won’t stand here and say that I do not enjoy his submission to me. I refuse to outright lie about how his willingness to be my bitch well, quite frankly gets me off. Therefore I will continue to flog him. I will continue to dominate him because he enjoys it, and moreover I enjoy it. Although, I’ve never taken a fancy to people who allow me to dictate their actions. I’ve never double taken at what some would term, a hero. I’ve never liked them. Sure, they’re good for a few things, a thrill here or there…

But most heroes cannot even save themselves from their own demons.

I appreciate this most about Christopher. The fact that with everything he has going for him, he still chooses to bend, twist, rip, and build himself up only to try and please me; to do what I want him to do. He’s what most would misunderstand as a woman’s wildest dream, at least for those in my profession. He lives for me while I use him up. I throw him some here or there, just to keep him on the leash.

Chris Austin is so easy.

He’s quite gullible, really. Knows everything about every thing inside this ring, but truly doesn’t know a damn thing about himself. But most of all I think deep down that he knows it. And that’s how I know that I’ve truly broken him. When he can step outside of his body, see it go against everything he once stood for, all of the values, the ethics, the morals, the virtues… and to see himself spit on what makes him who he is all for me…

Mmmm, let’s not get too riled up now. After all, I still have plenty to take.And I will take it because he’ll let me.

Tragic.

Watch me take it, Austin. Beg me to take everything from you. It’s music to my ears, baby.

I command your flesh to sing for me.

Sing for your master.





This last session was rough. I enjoyed it. But I find that she enjoyed it too. That’s fine. But the problem is simply that until this last encounter, I have not enjoyed any of the degradation that she has subject me to. Pain is temporary. It is merely weakness leaving the body. But with each sting of the whip, each labored breath with the choker around my neck… I realize that I’m tired.

I’m tired of being the bitch here. This was not how it was supposed to go.

But I cannot break free. The chains and rope literally and figuratively hold me down. I’ve done this to myself and somewhere within I want to believe that this is what I truly want. Then I hit the cold, unforgiving concrete. I hear those pumps walking my way.

“Having fun? Hmm… tell me that you like it.”

I try to will my mind to say yes, anything to keep her near me. Anything to keep her focus on me but all I can say is “no...”

She looks at me confused. I look towards the ground despondent. I am not sure what is happening to me.

“How dare you tell me no, bitch? Don’t you realize who I am? Don’t you understand that you are just like the others that I have brought to their knees? You’re a toy to me; for my amusement and I’m not done amusing myself with you yet. Now turn around.”

“No…”

This time, I mean it. I thought I was different. I thought I was the one that would change her. I thought I was the one that was special. I see now that just studying and poring over the information given doesn’t work alone.

I am nobody’s bitch, nobody’s whipping boy, no one makes an example out of me, no one is allowed to try and pass off my own hard work as their own. It’s not only plagiarism but a CARDINAL sin.

“You will be punished dearly for this.”

“NO.”

“You really think that this will end? You know the drill, safe word or I keep going.”

“NO.”

She rushes over to me and grabs me by the hair and yanks me back. I stare into her alluring, purple eyes. The way she stares at me makes my blood run cold. It strengthens my defiance.

“Let me explain something to you, slave…”

I immediately grab her around the throat and ram her against the wall that I was once chained to. Her eyes now burn with shock, fear perhaps. I hold her jaw firmly and look into her face.

“NO.”

I cannot expect to just learn the answers anymore if people are going to be smart enough to just attempt and take them from me. It is time I took matters into my own hands. She’s going to give me the answers I search for. I will take them from her flesh. I will take them from her mind.

We are joined forever in an unholy matrimony…‘till championship do us part.





Drew Michaels. Nick Bryson. Alex O’Rion. Dante Jones.

These are four names that you ruined, that you soiled. You took, you took and you took. Drew Michaels damn near died for you. Nick Bryson was broken, chewed, swallowed and digested before you shat him out for Hollywood to make something of him. Alex O’Rion lost his mind, his family and his will to fight because you beat it out of him. Dante Jones’ child lost her innocence because of you.

I could go on and on. But I will be damned if my name remains on this list for you. I fucking loved you. I fucking bled for you. But I went farther than any of these other people did… I changed who I was. I changed what made me who I am. I changed for you. I called myself smartening up and this was how you repaid me.

You constantly threw cannon fodder my way and I kept running it over. You distracted me with your essence and I could not see how despite my performance, my diligence, my discipline, my passion and my emotion for you.

I was nothing to you.

The best you’ve ever seen, the best you’ll ever have… you fucking took me for granted and I have LEARNED that NO ONE TAKES ME FOR GRANTED.

No one can hold me, no one can control me. Not even you. You hear this all of the time, if knowledge is power then know that this is tyranny.

Tyranny doesn’t even begin to describe what I possess.

Because now, I will possess you. I will rule, punish and subject you to my will. I submitted to you, just like everyone else did. Bryson was smart enough to break free and do his own thing and you fucked around and allowed him to get what I work for, what I humiliated myself for but there’s a marked difference between me and everyone else you’ve corrupted.

I am a vengeful bastard, and moreover, I’m the jealous type.

You can see it emitting from every pore of my being as I walked towards your restrained person. I can see it in your eyes that this sight confuses you, intrigues you, arouses you yet… it endangers you.

“Listen to me, bitch… I call the shots now. Do you understand?”

I remove the ball and gag from your mouth, I lean close to your trembling form and I wait. You nod.

“You will give me what I want, do you understand?”

You nod. I kiss you deeply. You bite my bottom lip as a last grasp of control. But I like it.

“You will submit to me.”

You nod; I can smell your anticipation. Your dreams have manifested themselves. I hold up the same whip that you annihilated me with; that you used to puppeteer me with. Your eyes widen in realization and you smile.

“I submit to you, you submit to me.”

“You submit to me, I submit to you.”

I’m glad we understand each other, baby.





I’ve been too passive. I’ve been too lenient. I’ve been too… lackadaisical.

For over an entire cycle I have had things get taken from me. I had allowed David GS to take the easy way out and fall into a state of syncope when I should have taken his pride. Before that, I allowed Christian G. Smitten to take the C-4 Heavyweight Championship from my person when I allowed him to make me submit.

Then the chance to once and for all prove that Drew Michaels doesn’t belong in the same conversation as me when it comes to who deserves a main event slot was taken from me. Then God saw to it that my father was taken from me when I wasn’t there to try and fight it.

But Ammunition 14.3 was the last straw. I’m tired of being the giving one. It is nonsensical for me to constantly try and give you knowledge when you choose to take embarrassment from me. It was useless to allow Harlequin to take away a true, untarnished victory over Christian G. Smitten.

A Christian G. Smitten that was being dissected by yours truly. A Christian G. Smitten who quite frankly does not belong in this match but NEEDS to be in this match because this Christian G. Smitten is still the same Christian G. Smitten I have yet to beat on my own merit.

How many times can you continually get bailed out by some sort of happening, Christian? How many times must your stupidity, or another’s ill-advised interference or what have you remain as your saving grace against me?

Look, Christian. I respect you but I have all but proven that I am better than you. I have all but proven that it apparently takes acts of God Himself to keep you from coming face to face with the grim truth that you cannot and will never be better than me, not on your own.

I can’t blame you for the chips falling the way they have but in all sincerity, deep down you know it is tiring. You’ve become a charity case. Some random factor allows you the second chance to defeat me, or various incidents keep your pride and dignity intact.

I do wonder how you sleep at night knowing that every time you face me, I always find myself standing over a beaten man, waiting for the killing blow to finally put you out of this miserable farce of a career renaissance.

The first time, I landed the killing blow because you held yourself in place.

The second time, you were good enough to take advantage of extra time to escape the hands of fate that were entombing your false hope.

The third time, a literal clown showed up and saved you.

Don’t you get it, Smitten? These people comically believe that I am not be able to defeat you on my own merit, but I have proven that at the very least, I can have you at my feet, wishing to beg for mercy. You have proven no such thing. This is a fact.

Another fact is this. I will land the killing blow at Death Row 4, like I did at Death Row 3. And if you thought I became a force to be reckoned with after putting you to sleep JUST WAIT until you see what I am capable of with this victory as my springboard.

Speaking of springboards, this brings me to Harlequin seemingly trying to hotshot his way into my time.

Why he did it? Merely because he could, yes? After all, Chaos and Havoc are his calling cards yes? No.

Harlequin attacked me because he is an ignorant imbecile whose own personal plans have clouded his better judgment. I can't blame him after all, I mean if I wasn't too busy annihilating people and padding my contendership resume I would have jumped someone in my position too. Still...

You’ve angered someone who isn’t the lovesick punk that you annihilated a year and a half ago, and Romeo isn’t here to save you from being embarrassed by the same lovesick punk that had you dead to rights at Catalyst for your Ultraviolent Championship.

You stuck your nose into the business of a man who has been making examples out of people for the last two years, a man that has evolved, gotten better, tougher, more vicious and MUCH more intelligent.

Meanwhile, your cunning and such has not changed. You have not evolved.

Don’t you know that the evolution of yours truly has passed you by? Don’t you realize that you've never been confronted with an enemy that has changed, adapted? You’ve never confronted adaptation and I applaud you as sharks like you don’t necessarily have to evolve to remain great predators.

But eventually, someone comes along and he’s bigger, smarter, faster and stronger. Your old tricks don’t work on him like they do on everyone else. Your chaos no longer confuses him. He knows what you will do before you even think of it.

So what will you do when your chaos doesn’t work? What happens when you throw yourself at me and find out that I won’t stay down but rather drill you into the goddamn mat repeatedly? What do you do when you discover that I’m willing to actually stoop to levels that you’re familiar with in order to win? What do you do when you’re forced to adapt?

You fail. You lose.

You get destroyed. Trust me.

Harlequin, your attempt at cutting the line shows that you are a savvy individual but your hallmark in the ring is frankly, your endurance for punishment and an ability to dish it out.

Nowadays, it takes more to defeat me and I’ve since developed the killer instinct needed to keep hitting Harlequin until he stops moving. So, when all things are equal, you don’t stand a chance.

It’s time you found out where you stand. Then, you can be better and when you want another shot I’ll be here, waiting for your broken arm and dislocated shoulder, among other injuries you will suffer at my hands, to heal. Heads up, I’ll be much better than the Chris Austin that’s about to wipe the floor with you.

You’ve broken your own rule in doing what you did. You have fucked with the Harlequin by endangering his own wellbeing. As punishment I will fuck up the Harlequin and leaving him a broken, beaten and bloodied example of what happens to pissants who think they can take things from me.

Smitten, Harlequin… you both will be destroyed. I will take the fight and the will to compete from your persons. I will break Harlequin and I will break Christian G. Smitten. This match will end with Smitten knocked unconscious and Harlequin screaming in pain.

And then nothing will stand in the way of me and the Full Metal Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship.

You should all feel sorry for Smitten, Harlequin and the FMW Champion, if one exists after this show because when I am done with them, Jesus Christ will have quite the mess to clean up, as committed by the hand of God himself.

FMW, you will testify of my greatness after Death Row 4. You will vouch for my brutality, precision and justification of my teachings.

Whether any of you want to or not.

Class Dismissed.

Randal sat at the head of the table, as his advisors droned on about their days. Their stories were all of days gone by, and he had grown weary of hearing of days gone by. They were better days, days that Randal was beginning to suspect would never return. He stared longingly through the window, to the constant sea outside of them. The sea hemmed them to the shore, keeping them safe but restrained.

At first, Randal had liked it here. The sea smelled of salt and freedom. The forest around them provided a sense of security. Out here, he and his men were free to be themselves, and could safely scheme the downfall of tyrants. The only thing contact they had with the outside world was a radio, constantly switched on and ready to receive their next orders. Perhaps the rebels would regroup and take back some portion of their fallen empire. Perhaps that day would never come. It had been several months in isolation for Randal and his 6 advisors.

He had tuned out the conversation, but his men had either failed to notice or failed to care. They had immersed themselves in their stories of better days. There were no stories worth re-telling from this cabin. They were all known intimately, as the group scarcely experienced anything resembling solitude. They all hated this place, Randal thought. He couldn’t blame them. They were human beings in rats cages, penned in and waiting for their masters to set them on their way.

Randal saw a glimmer of unfamiliar light on the reflection of the sea. It was new, and it was foreign. It immediately set him on edge, and inside his mind he began to plot his scurrying away. It was too late, though. The floodlights of several boats began to shine on their enclosure. The tyrant’s flag fluttered in the salty wind. Muscled men in black outfits carried guns, staring daggers into Randal’s fragile peace. Randal’s men encircled him, staring towards the front door. The door was drummed with something heavy, threatening to give way and let in the evil that oppressed it.

A dark streak came through the window, easily puncturing the thin glass. A flash filled the room, and a horrible noise overwhelmed their senses. The men succumbed to their senses, as their cabin door swung open. Randal saw two of them charge at the door, shards of glass in hand. They fell to the floor as Randal’s ears rang further with the sound of punishment. The rest seemed to have learned to lay docile, but Randal rose to his feet. He was greeted with a needle to the neck, sweetly releasing him from his struggles.

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Randal’s lean body was tossed inside a helicopter. He struggled in his bonds, knowing that his strength had left him. In his time in the holding cells, he had been deprived of most meals and had become very ill. The drugs they had used to keep him complacent had changed him, he thought. He had become addicted, a feeling he had experienced before. He had learned how to get the drugs, by simply screaming and tearing at the walls like a rabid rodent. After a few months, they stopped indulging him. He was forced to suffer through withdrawal, alone in his cell. When he had finally shaken this demon, he had also found that he had shed so much of his body. His fat, his muscle and his hair had vanished from him. On the day of his exit, he examined himself in a mirror with horror and disgust.

Randal offered no resistance to them on this day. He felt that he had no strength for it. Looking around the cabin, he saw several of his former comrades from that night. They looked to be no better off than him. He looked at them expecting that their presence would be like medicine to his ailing being. He swallowed them in, and waited patiently for relief. After awhile, Randal noticed that they were all gagged, just as he was. They all looked dejected and defeated, and he imagined that he likely looked just the same. And soon, he put his head down and resigned himself to isolation, just as they all had.

The flight seemed to take days. Randal thought to himself that he only had three comrades here from the cabin. The other four were all missing. Randal wondered what had happened to them. The two that were shot were probably dead. The other two were perhaps dead as well. Perhaps worse. The idea sickened Randal, and he forced himself to think of John and Eric. Those two had charged their intruders without fear. They died honorable deaths, he thought. Randal knew of no heaven, but for just a minute he hoped that they might have gone to it.

He looked at the three comrades. Curtis was the youngest, at only 15 years old. He might even be 16 by now. He had joined the rebels with his idealistic brother, Kurt. Kurt was one of the missing, which surely distressed Curtis. Damien was the oldest of the group. A homosexual rancher with a fetish for guns and revolution, Damien was probably the best storyteller of the group. His partner was also one of the missing. Then there was Chaz. The man who had watched his parents die of preventable disease. The sickness that infected them and transmuted them into corpses had changed him as well. Come to think of it, Randal wasn’t sure why Chaz wasn’t charging the oppressors on the day of their capture.

Randal and his three fellow captives were tossed around like unsecured baggage. Finally, they felt themselves stabilize, landing in darkness. Randal began to plot. He was too weak to overpower the guards, and he had no idea where he was. If he was to start a battle with these men, he would have to do it another time, when he knew his surroundings, and could use his intellect to beat them down. When the door flew open, Randal took in his surroundings, committing them to memory. A vast expanse of sand and nothing else could be seen. A tower, painted red on one side, stood on top of the roof of the building they had landed on. Ahead of the prisoners, two guards carried a large cooler into the hatch leading into the building. Two guards grabbed Randal, then slammed the helicopter door behind him. The rest of the prisoners would have to wait.

Randal gingerly stepped down the steep stairs. The two guards from before were moving the cooler behind a locked door. Randal estimated that the wall they disappeared behind divided this building roughly in half. He was steered the other way, past the folded cots and into an empty cell. The guards threw him into the cell quickly, and slammed the barred door shut. The guards grabbed his feet through the slats, and dragged him to the door. Randal clawed and tore at them, gnawing at their restraints like they were wire. It was to no avail, as his arms were quickly tied behind his back, and to the cell door. His rabid bite was subdued by a cloth gag that forced his head against the metal bars. Randal was left to stare at the opposite end of his tiny cage. Just outside of the cage was a giant mirror. Randal recoiled at his hideous form, staring at him with judgment.

One by one his fellow comrades were marched into their cells and restrained. Randal could hear their breathing and muffled cries, but could not see them. The side walls of his cage were opaque cement, suffocating him from their presence. The fifth guard walked in front of the mirror. This man was decorated with medals earned with the blood of innocents. His boots were black and cleaned, though the raced were tinged crimson with the lost innocence of many rebels. He was grayed and fat, clearly not the type of man that Randal would fight alongside. He was the kind of man that would bark out orders and wash his hands of the atrocities he had inflicted on the world.

“Alright gentlemen, I’ll start by telling you that we don’t have much time here. If you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of goddamned nowhere. The Sahara Desert, if you want to be precise. Nobody knows you’re here… or that there’s anything even here… except for us and the Sheik. You’ve been brought here because the people in charge believe that you have certain information that could help us win the war, and put an end to all of this needless violence. The Sheik has ordered you here, and has placed me with very specific instructions.”

Randal felt his mouth run dry, his saliva bleeding into the cotton gag. He began to lust for water, another stupid bodily want that would try to betray him. Not to this man, he resolved.

“I need you to tell me where your leader, James Horace, has holed himself up. The Sheik believes that if Horace is killed, the rebel movement will die and we can finally go back to peace. When you four were captured, we had no idea that you were some of his highest-ranking officers. Now that we know that, we need you to cooperate. But I’m not stupid. I know you don’t want to. The sheik has had us transported out here with one weeks worth of rations. If I have failed, then you will all die out here, and I shall return home and face disciplinary action.”

“Why was this fool telling us this? Surely he knows that he’s given us a goal. Surely he knows we’d love to see him suffer!” Randal thought.

“So I have to use any means necessary. But let me tell you what you earn if you assist me. You will go back, but not to that terrible war criminal’s prison that you were in before. You’ll be in regular prison. You’ll get all the exercise you want, and plenty of food. You’ll build back up your strength, and perhaps someday you’ll even be set free once you’ve served your time. In fact, if you help us… we may no longer need those horrible camps you’ve been exposed to. The war will be over. Lives will be saved, and our country will begin to heal. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“This man is devious. He has been trained well by the best psychologists that tyrant can afford. He hopes to instill in us a trust in him, and trick us into betraying the cause. He underestimates me. I am smart enough to see through this act.”

“My name is Chester. Now, I’m going to ask you all for some cooperation. Starting with you...” Chester motioned to the cell to Randal’s right. The guards worked in silence behind Randal, retrieving their pet from his cage. Chester walked off to the side, and their conversation could be overheard by all.

“Let me out of these damn cuffs” yelled Chaz, almost immediately after his gag was removed.

“I can’t do that, Charles. I have to follow the guidelines set by the Sheik himself” Chester said warmly, as if he were actually sad to tell Chaz this news.

“Bullshit. This is torture, you asshole. I see what you’ve got on that wall. What will you use on me? The prod? The rack? That’s a lovely set of brass knuckles…”

“I hope to use none of them. And you have my word that I won’t for at least these next three days. After that, though, well… I have to get results. By any means necessary. I really don’t want to do that though. I would take no joy in it.”

“Sure you wouldn’t. Just as I’m sure you take no joy in making us sit up uncomfortably in these cells. I saw those damn cots. They clearly would fit in these cells! You just removed them because you like seeing us suffer!”

“No, I can’t put those in because those are the rules. I can’t give you those cots unless you star cooperating. Everything I do here is videotaped, and sent to the Sheik’s palace. I can’t be breaking the rules around here.”

There was a silence. Randal looked up in his cell, searching for any cameras. He spotted one beyond the giant mirror, pivoting to the right and left. It was monitoring the prisoners, though Randal thought the feed must be very boring to watch.

Chaz spoke up, a palpable rage simmering in his voice. “Just another reason I’ll never… EVER… give into that asshole. You can fry me, you can beat me and you can make me cry. But I will never rat on my comrades.”

Randal could hear a fumbling, and then a muffled yell. The guards were putting their disobedient pet back in his cage. Chester walked back in front of the mirror, wandering in front of every cell.

“I’m not here to talk politics. I don’t care what you think of the Sheik, just as I’m sure you don’t give a damn what I think of that asshole. I am here because I am trying to do what is right for my countrymen. You can hate the Sheik all you want. It is of no concern to me, and I’m not here to convince you otherwise. My purpose is to put a stop to all of this. So next up we will have… Curtis.” Chester motioned to the guards, and the familiar shuffling resumed as Chester walked back to the interrogation area.

“FUCK YOU!” screamed Curtis. Randal tried to smile through his gag. The spite his comrades showed this evil deceiver warmed his heart.

“Curtis Barrett, right? You’ll be happy to know that your brother Kurt is doing just fine.”

“What did you monsters do to him?”

“Nothing, really. He told one of the guards the story of how you and he joined the rebellion. The information he gave was what brings you all here today. He’s in civilian prison right now.”

“LIAR!”

“I understand that you have no reason to believe me, so understand that I have no reason to say it other than the fact that it’s true. And from what I understand, if I can bring you back… you’ll be placed in the same cell as him in that nice prison. You’ll both be in for a few years for being part of the rebellion, but you’ll be out and in the free world in no time. At least, that’s what the Sheik has promised.”

“You lie… and the Sheik… always lies.” Randal could tell that there was almost no resolve in Curtis’ voice. They had found their weak link, and Randal could only pray that Curtis would not break. Except that Randal could not even find that solace, thinking that there was no god to rescue him.

“Listen… it’s late. I shall finish interviewing you all tomorrow. For now, I’m going to turn in.” Chester proclaimed, rising from his seat. The shuffling commenced again, as Randal knew that Curtis was being returned to his cage.

Randal slept uneasily that night, the pain in his shoulders flaring up occasionally to bring him back to reality. He hated his body, and all the suffering it caused him. His mind would float away into dreams of lab rats pressing levers for food.

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Randal’s muzzle was removed without ceremony. The gruel that he had hungrily devoured was pasted all over his chin and face. This was the last day that Randal would ever be forced to eat like some tamed horse. His body ached for the nourishment, but he hated accepting anything from these deceivers. He just knew that they would attempt to use it against him.

The gag was still moist from the last time he wore it. Behind him, the familiar shuffling of prisoners resumed. This time it was Curtis being brought to the table. The past few days had been mostly silent. Ever since Randal had declared that Chester and his goons were not worthy of his words, the rest of his men had fallen completely silent. Chester begged them to talk, pleading with them in pathetic tones. He would leave in distress, and his unnamed men would pummel the prisoners. They didn’t ask questions, they just stuck them with clubs and fists and black boots.

Chester sighed and began. “Will you at least talk to me today? I’ve been told that I have to put you on the rack if I don’t start getting anything out of you.”

“Please don’t,” replied Curtis, with a note of desperation.

Randal seethed. He looked at his wild eyes in the mirror. He thought that he resembled a crazed animal. The thought disgusted him and gave him strength. He had formulated a plan.

“That’s a good sign. I know it doesn’t sound fun. To be honest, I don’t even think it’s that effective. But the Sheik is growing angry. Apparently, the rebels recently took one of the smaller villages hostage, and killed the Sheik’s mother.”

“LIES” Randal screamed into his gag. The words were lost on the outside world.

“I just need you to tell me something about James Horace. Where he is, where he might be… anything.”

“I never met him. I don’t know him, just of him”

“That’s fine. I believe you, Curtis. Your brother said he didn’t know him, either. Do you know anyone that does know James Horace?”

Curtis began to cry. Randal imagined that Chester must be smiling at his handiwork. Then he thought that Chester was too smooth to let his sadistic streak be revealed so easily. If anything, Chester was probably running his hands over Curtis, pretending to comfort him. The thought made Randal ill.

“If you tell me, I’ll let you and all of your buddies go. This whole nightmare will all be over. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Ra… Randal. He’s one of Horace’s right hand men. He’s our leader. Please don’t hurt him…”

“I won’t. You have my word. Listen, I’m going to let you and your friends out. We’re going to the roof, and we’re having a nice picnic up there, with really nice food. Hot pockets and canned fruit… much better than that sticky gruel you’ve been eating, right?”

“Yeah”

“Let’s go, then.”

Randal heard them shuffling onto the roof. The place was silent, save for the two guards who returned for him. They led him back to the familiar metal table, walking him like their obedient pet. They leashed his arms to the cold steel chair. Chester walked from behind him to his usual seat across the table. He stared at his pet.

“Randal, I imagine you are as tough as they come. But understand that you don’t have to like me. This seems very clear to me. Tomorrow is our last day. If I don’t have my answers by noon, I have no choice but to kill you and your friends.”

“Then we shall die”

“Will you feel comfortable answering to god, knowing that your actions will have killed 3 very fine men who would have otherwise lived? Knowing that your stubbornness will have continued this pointless war?”

“There is no god to answer to. I would rather die tomorrow in the sand than live with the shame of selling out the greatest idealist our country has ever seen.”

“Horace? He is a dead man walking. With or without your help, he will perish. He’s too stubborn to retreat, and he’s too outmanned to win. His fate is already sealed, Randal. You only control the fates of your men, and the fates of the citizens.”

“I see through your deceptions. I know better than to make friends with snakes like you.”

Chester rose, and silently moved to Randal’s rear. Him and the other guard dragged him to his cell, and locked him in place once more.

“You will be awoken early in the morning. Think it over. Please do not disappoint your comrades.”

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


Randal awoke as his shoulder blades screamed in agony. He shifted violently against the sturdy wall to gain some temporary relief. After awhile, he rested again. He felt the touch of feathers on his weathered and dirty skin. He looked up at the porcelain face of a muscle-bound angel. He looked in the mirror, and saw only his lowly self.

“I must be losing my mind” Randal thought.

“Perhaps. But I am here.” The angel’s voice boomed, the strength of it infected Randal’s week frame with power.

“I… who are you”

“I am Raphael”

“You’re… an angel”

“Yes.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I come to give you strength. Tomorrow is the most important day of your life, Randal.”

“I know that. But what can I do?”

“You are a soldier. You know how to fight. Tomorrow you will be granted an opportunity to strike. You must recognize it and be ready.”

“What about my friends?”

“They are already dead. Chester had them shot as soon as he took them to the roof.”

“Then my choice is clear…”

Randal raised his head. The Angel was gone. Instead, he heard the boots of the guards. They undid his restraints and unlocked the door. They made no effort to put him back into the restraints. Merely, they motioned him towards the table. Chester stole a look towards the dividing wall, where the cots were now missing. Had the others been allowed to stay with the guards? Or was this a ruse? Randal plodded towards the table. Chester was already waiting. The electric prod sat on the desk, hissing with its threats of violence.

“Since this is your last chance, there’s no need for the cuffs. Either we take you back and you live happily ever after, or… we have to kill you. That’s… pretty much all there is to it. So just tell me… where is James Horace?”

“I… I can’t live with the shame.”

Randal dropped to his knees and sobbed. The plan went racing through his brain. “This will get them to think that I am just as pathetic as they want me to be. Let them think it. I am their pet. Let them think that they have broken me, that they are training me. They do not understand that I am training them. I am getting exactly what I want… their trust. Then… I will betray it.”

Chester spoke up to be heard over Randal’s crying. “You can do it, Randy. For them.”

“I… I’ll tell you. On one condition… you have to kill me.”

Randal raised his head. A smirk crossed the face of Chester, confirming everything that Randal thought about him. Randal saw the gun attached to his leg. Randal crawled towards them, like the dog they thought he was.

“If that’s your wish, I’m in no position to deny it. Just tell me where Horace is…”

Randal sobbed once more, inhaling deep with resolve. He quickly snatched the gun, loose in its holster. He fired into Chester’s heart, and rolled under the table as the guards fumbled for their weapons. He fired a round into both of their left ankles. They both doubled over in reflex, allowing Randal to pop off a killing round into their torsos.

Randal had never been more proud of his accursed body. The training he underwent had not been forgotten. Randal spun to his feet, looking around the compound. The only sound he heard was the hatch slamming shut. Two guards remained, and he needed to get to the helicopter before they did.

Randal ascended the stairs but found the hatch had been barricaded by something heavy. He heard the loud whirring of the helicopter blades as he struggled to lift the hatch. He had raised it slightly, before being able to poke out his skinny arm. A metal ladder had been thrown over the hatch. He grabbed a rung of it, and tossed it aside. The hatch flung open to reveal the clear blue sky. In the distance, the black helicopter sped away. Randal looked out into the expanse, and went back inside.

Randal opened the door to the other side of the compound. The cots were strewn about, 9 of them in total. Four of them were littered with blankets and pillows, but the other five remained folded and unused. The bastards had moved them in just to fool Randal. Randal looked to the coolers. Four of them hung open, almost completely empty. They didn’t even contain ice. There were only 2 bottles of water and a half-empty bag of potato chips.

He took one of the blankets and wrapped himself. He would need this in the desert. He tucked one of the water bottles into his blanket, and hastily drank down the other bottle. He devoured the chips as well. There was nothing else in this prison, save for a map. The map had a single red dot that indicated the prison’s location. It was hundreds of miles from any civilization. The closest one was approximately 200 miles due north. A sense of dread overcame Randal. The hike would be a long one for a man with only 12 ounces of water, and was probably impossible.

But he could not stay here. He could not wait for them to return to kill him. If he was sentenced to die, then he would die on his own terms. Perhaps some good would come of that.

Randall stepped outside that night and watched the stars. He watched them all move slowly, before spotting the single star that stayed still. Polaris would guide him by night. In the evening he would keep the setting sun on his left shoulder. In the morning, the sun would have to stay to his right. When the sun got too high, he would bury himself in the sand and rest. He lied to himself, convincing himself that it would only last a few days. That perhaps the rebels would meet him halfway.

He jumped off of the roof. He landed on the corpses of his three former comrades. They were dried and rotting skeletons now, and of no use to him. He buried his digust and set forth, heading North into the unknown.

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


Randal knew that men would simply begin to travel in circles without direction. But he was confident that he was heading due North. The doubt couldn’t help but creep in, though. How could he know that he was still on course? Where was he even running to? The city he encountered would likely be under the control of that tyrant. Horace couldn’t mount a good enough offensive the first time… why would he suddenly succeed?

His lust for water consumed his thoughts occasionally. He checked his water bottle, knowing it was empty, but hoping that he had been mistaken. He fantasized about rain. It would soak his body and his blanket-robe. He would wring the sweet moisture from his cloth into the bottle, and drink for hours. He would drink until he wanted to vomit from it. But Randal knew that no rain would come for him here.

He thought about the city to the north. Perhaps it would fly Horace’s flag. Perhaps it would fly the tyrant’s flag. Randal didn’t care anymore. He would steal himself into safety. His appearance was likely so altered that nobody would recognize him. He would claim that the rebels left him in the desert to die, and would be nursed back to health by an unwitting loyalist. Perhaps after his strength returned, he would consider returning to revolutionary matters.

If Horace had won, Randal thought he might be a war hero. He fought tooth and nail, taking out the Sheik’s secret torture facility. The Sheik’s men probably were scared shitless of Randal. To them, he must have disappeared, like a ghost that would come back to haunt them. The video of his assault on the guards would probably seem like a nightmare to them. Perhaps Randal was something of a boogeyman, or a legend.

The sun was high, too high to tell which way was East. Randal spotted a hole, and crawled into the darkness. Sleep would come, but Randal thought that perhaps he would not last this day. Perhaps he would not wake from this, and the last of his strength would give out.

The angel appeared again, pressed to his face, glowing in the darkness.

“You have done well”

“Are you… real?”

“Indeed.”

“Am I… dying?”

“Yes”

“Will I meet god?”

“I cannot say. I cannot tell you your fate.”

“My fate is already made, I think.”

“I abide by the rules that god has set. I cannot tell you anything of your future.”

“What is god like?”

“A curious question. I shall answer. God works in reverse. God has built this universe from its end, towards its beginning.”

“Could you… explain?”

“He started quite abstract, and then he made you. Old at first, wrinkled and fat and full of details. Slowly, he would take away from them to create new ones. He would smooth their skin and make them skinnier. Eventually, he would shrink them until they were small enough to combine with a newer human.”

“That’s… odd”

“He did this for millennia. Then he grew bored, and made more exotic animals. He made dinosaurs to spike his enthusiasm. Then he grew bored again, allowing the planet to just sit there in a stew. He then would explode this world in a spectacular show of fire, before crumpling the universe up and discarding it.”

“That’s just so… unsatisfying.”

The angel looked out, and Randal blinked. When he awoke, the angel was gone again.

Randal was still weary, so he thought it shouldn’t be time to travel again. That, or he was starting to die. He felt his pulse, his blood was racing through his veins. This, Randal knew to be a sign of advanced dehydration. As was his lethargic manner. The angel, he thought, was a hallucination brought on from starvation.

It had only been 3 days, but Randal knew he could travel no longer. He knew that most men could walk about 35 miles per day at most. He had traveled at most 100 miles he figured, and didn’t have the strength left to travel another 100. He would die here, and there was no changing that. The desert would devour this escaped rat, and perhaps one day his remains would be discovered. Randal wished he had something to write on, to tell his story, so that some day an archaeologist could better understand the remains he or she came across.

Overhead, he could hear the familiar sounds of a helicopter. Perhaps the tyrant’s men were searching for him, or perhaps they were trying to reclaim their prison. Perhaps Horace had sent them. It did not matter now. Randal didn’t have the strength to pull himself out of the hole. Randal was happy here. He had lived without compromise, and had escaped the Skinner boxes that governed his life for too long. He had created his own happiness, by his own will. He would die here happy, and that was all that he ever wanted in life. He would waste away here, the atheist in the foxhole.

How does one hit “Rock Bottom”? Well you could hire The People’s Champ have him Electrify the Millions… (AND MILLIONS)

Monroe looks around wondering where the chant came from)

Raise the People’s Eyebrow, drop the People’s Elbow and plant you with the Rock Bottom.

But….

After that he will claim to be back in wrestling for the fans, that he has returned to the sport he loves and promises to never leave again. Only to phone in the same bread and butter vignette he has been giving for the last 6 years.

The question is how I hit my rock bottom. How did I go from a World title match against Sheep at LPW to being homeless and out of work. How did I go from riches to rags? This tragic chain of events start back in January with the loss of my daughter Lily, then it continued with the loss of my wife in February.
Some people said I lost my “smile”, that wasn’t the case. At that point I realized there were more important things than E-Wrestling. Let’s go back in time to when snow was abundant, the wind had a chill, and I still had that sparkle in my eye.

Janurary 25th…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Becca: Honey, my stomach is hurting again.

God Damn again! What is it this time?

Monroe: What is it this time?

Becca: I am having really bad cramps.

Monroe: You can’t go to the doctor over every little thing. You need to tough it out, you’re pregnant it isn’t
supposed to be easy.

Becca: I think I am in labor.

Monroe: Look, you’re not in labor. I just got off work; let me relax a little bit.

Becca: I have been talking to my doctor; she thinks we should go to the E.R just to be safe.

Fuck, every week it is something different I am getting fucking sick of this shit.

Monroe: You know what fine let’s go then. I just got off work; sure why not spend the entire evening in the
E.R. I have nothing better to do anyways.

Becca: You’re such a dick, you know I am a high risk pregnancy. This is different I know it is.

Monroe: Fine then you know everything let’s go.

Monroe and his wife Becca get in the car and head to Wesley Medical Center. After checking in they send her to the pre natal ward and check her into a room.

Present………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I was a bit of a dick about the situation looking back on it. But every day it something new with her, It was her back, hips, feet, or her stomach. Freaking hypochondriacs, they are so hard to deal with. If I had been better to her back then would it have saved her or our marriage? I can’t really say with any certainty it would have, but back then things were generally great between us.

Janurary 25th………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Monroe: Look, I am sorry for losing it back at the house. You are just so hard to read with a different ache or pain every day.

Becca: I am sorry too; I should listen to you a little more when it comes to taking it easy around the house while you are working. I Love you

Monroe: I love you too.

3 hours later………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Nurse: Ma’am, your examine looks good you’re not dilating or anything. You are losing some amniotic fluid, and you’re uterine wall is thin but well within limits.

Becca: Well, why am I having contractions?

Nurse: When you are pregnant you have Braxton-Hicks contractions.

Monroe: What are those and what are you going to do for my wife?

Nurse: They are just a woman’s body preparing her for birth. As for your second question, we will give her
some vikodin to help with the pain and monitor her over night.

The nurse leaves as Monroe closes his eyes to try to sleep and Becca starts to feel good as the pain relievers kick in.


Two Hours later………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Monroe opens his and Becca is still awake looking at him.

Becca: It is 4 A.M, why don’t you run home really quick get something to eat and take a quick shower?

Monroe: You don’t mind? I could use a quick nap and some food.

Becca: You smell like foot and ass too. It wouldn’t hurt, I don’t think the doctor is going to come until 8 so you should have plenty of time.

Monroe: Well I will go freshen up a little then I will be back after I run by work and let them know exactly what is going on. Do you need anything?

Becca: No but I will call you if anything comes up.

Monroe walks out of the room and heads back to his house.

Present………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

In retrospect nothing could have prepared to what I faced in a few hours, nothing can you just act. You do anything you can for your loved, you can lash out at whomever you see, call a family member ask them what you are supposed to do or you act in haste trying to fix everything that is wrong just so you can pretend it didn’t happen. Becca wanted everything done and figured out, she wanted the room cleaned, the baby gifts taken back, and the funeral arrangements made, so she wouldn’t have to think or talk about it. That responsibility fell to me, it made me her rock to lean on. I had to be strong for her but in the end I couldn’t deal with my own feelings and resentment began to sneak into our relationship.


Janurary 26th 7:10 am………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Monroe gets back to the hospital, he is sitting in a chair with his eyes closed listening to Mike and Mike on ESPN2. Becca starts to wake up.

Becca: Can you help me? I really have to pee.

Little did I know then what really happened, I remember her peeing a lot, even given the situation I thought it near impossible for it to be her water breaking, Becca came back to bed and that is when our nightmare began.


Present………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………




Lily Monroe was born at 21 weeks, 5” long and weighing 11 ounces. The doctors told us she was too premature. I took one look at her and I know I will love and miss her the rest of my life.
I guess the next question would be how do I go from that event to being homeless and Becca committing suicide? She bore a lot of hate for me because I didn’t exactly believe her when she told me something was wrong. I could deal with my own grief so I did what anyone else would have done and began to drink heavily. Things were rocky at first but we truly loved each other. I was trying to compete in LPW at the time but my heart wasn’t in wrestling anymore. I just didn’t care, it wasn’t important, I had plenty of money and I wanted to focus on us.

I walked in the door from my last LPW match and I found her hanging in the shower with her wrists slit to the elbow.There was a bottle of anti-depressants on the counter and a pool of blood coming from the bathroom. I opened the door and too my horror Becca slit her wrists from wrist to elbow before hanging herself with a belt.

Once again I could help to wonder if this was a bad dream or if this was real. So I slapped myself really hard to see if I was awake. Well that proved to be a huge mistake, because when the police arrived and saw a bruise begin to show on my face they took it as signs that I may have committed a murder.

That led to me blowing all my money on lawyer retainers, until 6 weeks later they determined the time of death and that I was not at the house at that time. With everyone in my family not talking to me and LPW not returning my calls in regards to a new contact I ended up on the streets broke and homeless.
I don’t blame LPW for bringing me back I left them high and dry. But with no work came the hard life on the streets eating at soup kitchens. If it wasn’t for Dirty Mike and the Boys helping me out initially I may never have survived.

I was evenually found and told FMW may have something for me. My old agent fronted me the money for a plane ticket and here I am.

The payphone next to Monroe rings

Monroe: Yea?

Silence as the person on the phone is talking.

Monroe: Do they want to do this with me at the studio, I can’t pay for that flight.

More silence and Monroe nodding his head.

Monroe: Ok, I can handle going over there and doing the interview. I need to hit on the ppv and FMW then?

..........

Monroe: When am I going to get paid?

……………………….

Monroe: By appearance, until I can prove I still belong in the ring. That is fair I guess. Who am I facing?

……………..

Monroe: No, I know their names I just haven’t heard of them. I assume they are all fine wrestlers.

…………..

Monroe: Well, no not compared to me anyways. Alright be looking for me on ESPN Monday.. PEACE.


Monday 31 Oct 2011…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Cutting back from commercial is Pardon the Interruption……

BAAAA BABABA BAAAA BAAAA BAAAAA………

Tony: Up next is 5 good minutes with Full Metal Wrestling’s new signee Steve Monroe… Coming up on for FMW is the PPV Death Row.

Mike: Steve, we are glad to have you on the show. We don’t normally talk to wrestlers but given your recent story it fascinated us and we had to have you.

Steve: Thanks Mike, and Tony this is actually my first TV interview so don’t mind me shamelessly plugging FMW’s next PPV event Death Row.

Mike and Tony chuckle in the background.

Tony: Plug all you want big fella, Steve tells us how the mean streets of St Louis treated you while you were homeless.

Monroe: Well Tony, believe it or not there are some really good people who live down there and band together. It is unfortunate that they have fallen on hard times given the current economic situation.

Mike: It must have been hard not knowing when or what you were going to eat next.

Steve: It wasn’t that bad I hung out a lot by the stadium during the World Series. So the fans who knew me and knew what I had been through recently made sure I had a little to eat.

Tony: St. Louis is a great baseball town. Were you pulling for the Cardinals.

Steve: All the way, I have been a lifelong fan. Pujols is one of my favorite players, and Freese was a beast in the series.

Mike: Steve tell us about the upcoming PPV.

Monroe: Well Mike the show will be held at the Toyota center in Houston, Texas. I am in a over the top rope Battle Royal involving Jonathan King , Christian Parkes , Ripper, Sean Jensen, Callum Pullin, Starchild , Adam Smith, and Paper Bag Man.

Tony: Those are some great names. My money is on Star Child.

Monroe: (Laughing) Thanks for the support Tony.

Tony: Steve that is a magnificent Beard and you were a fantastic interview.

Mike: Good luck this weekend.

Monroe: Thanks guys,

MikeNext up is Over/Under.

Mike: I got Steve throwing more than 4 guys over the rope.
....................................................................................................................................................................................

Who is Matt P. Dunn, some of you may be asking.
'Oh, he's that FMW washup who signed with GSW to get back into the company after he got fired due to the folding of the Distortion brand of FMW.'

Some of you may go on to ask what Distortion was. Which entirely proves the point. Wrestling fans of todays generation tend to possess short attention spans. It's one of the reason for the change up to the televised scheduel of FMW, the shorter feuds, so on and so forth.

It's also the reason for some of the scripting of todays 'promos.' Wrestlers nowerdays can say something next week, and the other they're saying the complete opposite. This viewer is constantly frustrated with the lack of consistency with todays talent, and I can only hope that this is down to the writers aiming to appease the goldfish like viewers of today.

Which leads me to Matt P. Dunn;

Few seem to remember that Matt P. Dunn has been one of the most creative (and dare I say it,) talented superstars FMW has ever seen. And when I say talented, I don't mean in the W/L column, (though, MPD has wracked up a fairly impressive wins within the FMW Universe, including the now absorbed Vendetta Championship Wrestling, where he reigned as the first crowned, and solely televised Sanguine Champion (undisputed on the VCW website, even to this date, a fact that no doubt irritates Chris Austin.))

When I say talented, I mean a genuinely entertaining man, who plays whichever role he is with complete conviction.

Coming from the same school of thought as 'RAMPAGE!,' Matt has always been more focused on the story telling than his own success, evident by the lack of Abandoned Title shots he, (Mortus) received during his tenure as general manager of Anxiety.

That being said; Matt P. Dunn has got in trouble with the Powers that Be of FMW quite recently; partially down to going 'off script' on more than a few occastions.*

* (Strictly speaking, MPD cannot go 'off script.' He boasts a 100% creative control clause in his contract.)

It occured once in the passed causing unrest between himself and superstar Andrew O'Rion, as well as more recently with several references of an event that almost occured backstage which he refered to as 'AIRGate.'

It can be assumed that Matt grew irritated with FMW; and their scripting tendancies, (Darby Sound, for those who don't remember, was a great fan of Matts work back in the day, but if you believe what he says now, you'd think that Mr. Sound thought Matt a waste of time.) Some of these feelings grew to be the catalyst for the entire GSW invasion angle, which, through scripting, has obviously been shown in a negative light; despite, if one were to look at the views of both factions 'objectively,' one would assume GSW would be more popular due to their 'take care of the talent' stance.

Only in FMW can the guys fighting for better talent conditions be the bad guys, right?

The thing is, Matt is a great heel; and he doesn't need FMW to script out show after show to paint him in a negative light; he draws heat just by the first couple of bars of his music going off.

But innocence proves nothing; he could win at Death Row, (and probably will; Matt is the tag team wrestler that is used as a measure for other teams; depending on the script for the week, people like Chris Austin will admit to this, or completely downplay it, but we who can actually remember what happens from week to week know it to be true,) but despite a win at Death Row over his mentor and the Come Back Kids, he'll still be that FMW washup who signed with GSW to get back into the company.

And I'm not sure what's more sad; that the current generation of wrestling fans buy into Matt being downplayed, or that the company that Matt has drawn huge amounts of fans to, (see 'the British Lions,') pumps out this shit for the Call of Duty generation in the first place.

The screen is filled with a close-up of a radio, and a radio show host's voice plays.

Raz: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the the Saturday morning edition of NPR's All Things Considered. I'm your host, Guy Raz. Joining me in the studio for the first time, professional wrestler, infamous playboy and People.com's 2011 Sexiest Man Alive, Jonathon King!

King: Hang on, repeat that last accolade again?

Raz: Didn't you hear? People.com just named you the sexiest man alive.

King: No, I hadn't, although that would explain the substantial increase in marriage requests over the past few days.

Raz: Increase? Are marriage requests a common thing in your life?

King: Unsurprisingly yes. I'm rich, my face is broadcast weekly around the world and I'm damn good looking. I get at least 3 letters a week asking for me to marry some random girl.

Raz: Thats.... uhm...

King: Not important. I'm here with a purpose, and I'm letting you steer me off-topic.

Raz: Oh. Right. You managed to score yourself a spot on my show, so I'm assuming you have something planned. What is it? Hype for the upcoming PPV?

King: Surprisingly enough, no.
.
Raz: You aren't going to hype the show?

King: Not at all. In fact, I'm going to do the opposite. Don't order the show, don't watch the show, don't even acknowledge that the show exists.

Raz: Wait, aren't you employed by the company?

King: Yes.

Raz: Then why would you not want people to order the show? Isn't that hurting your paycheck?

King: Not at all. I have a Pay-Per-Appearance contract. I get a set amount of money just for showing up, no matter how well the show goes.

Raz: But won't this get you in trouble with the company?

King: What else can they do? They've already set loyalists to interfere in my matches, put me in multi-man clusterfucks to hide my true talents and they've tried, and failed, to quiet me.

Raz: Sounds like you've got a bit of a conspiracy theory going on there...

King: Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. And I have every reason to believe that they are out to get me.

Raz: Ok, I'll play along. Why would they be out to get you?

King: because I'm dangerous, and I'm different. FMW likes their stars to be FMW-trained, FMW-built and FMW-famous. Me? I'm GSW-trained, self built and I was world-famous long before I signed here. I'm living, breathing proof that you can be successful without FMW, and they hate it.

Raz: If you could be successful without FMW, why do you have a contract?

King: Because an old friend asked for help. I'm as loyal to GSW as anyone, so when Williams, Crusoe and Leviticus asked me to come help out my company in FMW, I bought myself a contract and headed on over.

Raz: To lose.

King: Don't start that again. As any viewer of the show will realize, I have been held down.

Raz: I'm going to pretend to believe you.

King: Give it time, and eventually even you will see the truth of my words.

Raz: Sure..... Alas, we digress. Why don't you want people to tune into Death Row?

King: Well, normally I would tell you to, since GSW will turn it's fortunes around when I win the #1 Contenders Battle Royal, and my stablemates win the 6 man tag, but when you tune into the PPV's, you put additional money into the pockets of the company. Additional money that does NOT find it's way to the workers. Every person that pays for the broadcast is simply pouring money into the pockets of the greedy corporate masters who are the basis of everything that is wrong with the company.

Raz: Well, even if that were true, don't you want people to see you and your stablemates earn your victories?

King: Normally yes, which is why I encourage everyone to tune into FMW's free TV broadcasts, but when you want to see your favorite GSW stars on and FMW PPV, just stream or youtube it.

Raz: That's an... interesting perspective to say the least. I'm almost certain that you're insane, but you did manage to get on my show, so let's talk about your match for a moment.

King: Gladly.

Raz: How does it feel to know that you're in a #1 contender's match despite being winless in FMW so far?

King: I'd feel better, but I know that this is just management's way of trying to keep my mouth shut. They know that from now on, whenever I start to spread the word, some asshole will stand up and say “but what about your #1 Contenders Match!”. They're being very clever in trying to undermine my credibility, but let me ask you this. If I were bring given this match because someone felt I deserved it, why would it be a battle royal?

Raz: Ok, technically, you've got a few minutes left, but I'm overdosing on conspiracy here, you're done.

King: You can't-

Raz: Oh yes I can.

The camera pans away from the radio to show the interior of a studio, and one very angry man. Jonathon King is screaming bloody murder inside his interview booth, but the soundproof walls prevent us from making out any of his obscenities. Realizing this, he kicks open the door and starts harassing a passing worker.

King: -MY MICROPHONE! YOU DO NOT GET TO CUT MY MICROPHONE!

The worker jumps and scrambles to get away from the man yelling at her, all the while protesting her innocence.

Secretary: I'm just a secretary! I didn't do it! Oh please god don't hurt me!

King: WHERE'S THE ASSHOLE WHO CUT MY MIC!

Secretary: Ah! Oh, um, production is that way!

The lady points down a nearby hallway and King goes tearing down it, startling random passersby. As soon as he's out of sight, the secretary runs over an intercom and presses the emergency button.

Secretary: Yeah, security? We're gonna need you, a lot of you.

* * * * * * *

Inside of the production booth, a few technicians are cowering under their desks as King waves around a piece of very heavy, very expensive equipment.

King: WHICH ONE OF YOU CUT MY MIC! NO ONE CUTS MY MICROPHONE! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

Technician: Oh please, I have a family!

As King draws breath to yell again, a security officer enters the booth behind him, grabbing his arms and dragging him into the hall.

King: Who the fuck are you?

Security: You're outta line, punk. We're throwing you out!

King: Oh? You think that?

Security: I know-

The officer is cut off mid-stream by a superkick from King. Other security personnel try to swarm him, but King holds them off with a series of strikes. It isn't long before the police arrive, and with the help of a tazer, they subdue King and drag him away.

* * * * * * * *

Inside a dank jail cell, King comes to with a throbbing headache.

King: Owww......

???: You're lucky you just have a headache, a few of the cops wanted to break your arms.

Slowly, King gets back to his feet and hunts for the source of the voice. In front of the door to his cell, he sees Leviticus.

King: Cops have always wanted to, but for some reason, they never have.

Leviticus: You have a lot of experience with cops?

King: Ha, when Dad first disowned me, I'd spend my rent money on booze and just live in a jail cell for a while. It was actually pretty nice. Warm, comfortable beds, 3 meals a day. Sure beat living on the streets.

Leviticus: You realize you're insane, yeah?

King: Yup! But the best part about being a King is that all the charges just kinda slid off. I was out and about whenever I wanted to be.

Leviticus: You've led a charmed life, haven't you?

King: You have no idea.

Leviticus: Well, it's time for you to get out of here.

King: Actually, I think I'll stick around for a while. Something about jails really focuses me, and this room is basically a gymnasium in and of itself.

Leviticus: Oh lord, you really are a nutter.

King: You know it! Besides, don't you have a match to prepare for? Something about a cage, and one very angry black man?

Leviticus: Yeah, yeah, yeah, but you've got one too. Are you sure you can prepare adequately in here?

King: As well as I can anywhere. Now get out of here, go get ready.

Leviticus: Fine...

King: By the way, US Bank, Pin Number 3816.

Leviticus: What?

King: That's one of my bank accounts. It should have more than enough to bail me out on Saturday, and to get you something nice for yourself.

Leviticus: Yeah, yeah, I'll be back later. Have fun.

Leviticus turns and walks away as King falls back onto his cot.

* * * * * * * *

What do I have to lose?

King is shirtless, standing in the middle of his cell. He rubs his hands together before leaping into the air, grabbing one of the ceiling bars. His arms flex as he pulls himself up, touching his chin to the top of the bar.

One.

It's strange, knowing that you have nothing to lose.

Two.

I've done nothing but lose since I got here, I have no reputation, no history, no pull.

Three.

I'm at the absolute lowest point in my career, but you know what they say.

Four.

There's nowhere to go but up.

Five.

This battle royal is the perfect place for me to turn it all around.

Six.

Nine men, one ring. Winner gets a match for the Television Championship.

Seven.

The best part? That championship gets me on every single television broadcast.

Eight.

I'd get a match, television time every single week. Imagine what that can do for my reputation.

Nine.

I can't afford to lose this match. This match is too important, it's too big a turning point for me to fail.

Ten.

I must win. I WILL win. And god help whoever tries to stop me. This match is filled with the dregs of FMW, rookies and losers alike. None of them matter enough to warrant their own match, but all of us able to take one step closer to immortality. I'd wish them luck, but this is my moment, my moment of glory. There's only one thing left to say, stay the fuck out of my way.

History will remember me as one of the greats.

I wish there was a more humble way of saying this, without sounding presumptuous, pompous or self centered, but cold hard fact can’t lie. I really am one of the greats in professional wrestling, and indeed, one of the top echelon of society. A man whom people should be admiring. Not because of what I do, or how I got there, but because of what I have achieved, and the legacy I now leave behind.

I am a man whom people strive to be like. To be mentioned in the same sentence as. Unfortunately for the now more than seven billion people who dream of this happening, the number of people who will be thought of when Christian G. Smitten is thought of is diminishing, quickly. Spots are being taken, and there’s really nothing that can be done to change that.

A few men have already staked their names along side mine. Jason Roy, for one, is always going to go hand in hand with Christian G. Smitten. Not for our escapades in the ring. Those were few and far between. No, rather the way we handled the business of Full Metal Wrestling, while controversial, was extremely memorable. Sir Michael Dreamkiller is another, for exactly the same reason. More recently, Thurston P. Deveraux will be another that goes hand in hand with Christian G. Smitten. And of course, who can forget, Kelsey Ellise Smitten, the most adorable child Full Metal Wrestling has ever seen.

In looking back over my career though, only one name stands out as an outstanding opponent to face. This man is perhaps the only one who will be remembered for his duals with me. Chris Austin. Currently, our ledger is wedged in his favour, but none the less, each of our battles have been ones to look forward to. Form has never been a factor in the matches we have had. Prior form seems to be an inaccurate judge, as every time we have battled, the man with the worse form heading into the match has been victorious.

This would seem to stem from our competitive nature. As manly men, with testosterone rushing through our bodies, we have grown accustomed to winning. But what is it that excites me about facing him? Could it be the challenge that he presents? Nobody has ever pushed my harder, or tested my patience and will more than Chris Austin. This is high praise, as I have faced John Derrick, Drew Michaels, Eric Scorpio and Dr. David Diabolical. Could it be the fact that I just... don’t like him? Sure, I respect him, but I’ve never taken the time to step back and go “hey, do I like the guy as a person?”

Truth is, I probably don’t like him, although I can’t be sure of that. Until one of us retires, I will never be able to truly understand how I truly feel about a person I call “colleague”. In 10 years, how will I feel about him? Honestly, that’s too hard to predict. One thing I can say is that I will be proud to have my name forever associated with Chris Austin.

Then, there’s a man who has had next to nothing to do with me. Harlequin. This attack, this completely unwarranted and unprovoked attack. It’s certainly not out of character for Harlequin, but it’s also not out of character for him to have motive to his actions. For the life of me, I’m unable to see anything that would constitute motive here. All I see is a wave of madness. Yes, I know, I should look at his history. But in reality, what history do we have?

We had an extremely loose and thin association thanks to Jaro. We have never faced each other in a match, and the only time we were in a match together, we were paired and victorious in a multi-man tag match. I can honestly say I don’t know what I could have done to provoke this attack.

Perhaps this is just me being self centered thinking this is all about me. But that’s my history. It is all about me. I need to look at myself and ask myself the question.

Why me?

There’s no time quite like the present to start preparing. With Halloween almost on our doorstep, and the various neighbourhood children that it brings, it was apparent that something very important needed to be done, and quickly.

Kelsey: What about this one?

C.G. Smitten: Put it in the basket.

Candy needed to be bought. Normally, I hated Halloween. I’m a big believer in the idea of “leave me alone, I don’t like you”. However, Kelsey loved it, and every year she would get so excited by the idea of it, that she would become an erupting volcano of excitement. A few years ago I decided that Halloween was no longer about me ignoring the doorbell, but about my daughter.

I’d dragged her out of boarding school for the festivities. I might not enjoy Halloween, but I figured I could do it bigger and better than her school ever could. And with the shitstorm at work at the moment, I figured I could use a break. The past few weeks have made me realise that while I miss the gianourmous salary that comes with being in charge, I don’t miss the bullshit that gets pulled. Things like validating why a superstar attacked another in cold blood, as Harlequin did to myself and Chris Austin, or trying to quash an “Anarchy” on the Corrpution brand.

Kelsey: This one Daddy?’

C.G. Smitten: That has to be the last one. Your Dad’s not made of money.

Kelsey: But...

C.G. Smitten: But what?

Kelsey: Can I change my mind on it?

C.G. Smitten: Be quick, I’m going to the check out. You have exactly one minute to decide what the last candy is.

Kelsey: ONE MINUTE!?!?!

C.G. Smitten: Yes, one minute. Go!

I watched her run off into the isle to make her choice before turning and headed to the cashier. There was no cue, so I quickly started loading the contents onto the counter. The cashier paid no attention to who I was. It was nice for a change, not to be recognised as the huge celebrity that I am. I could almost get used to it actually. I smiled as Kelsey came running back with a bag of snickers. She thrust it upon the counter, and ran over to where the cashier was bagging our goods. She picked up our shopping as I paid the cashier, and followed Kelsey out to the car in the pouring rain.

I opened the boot for Kelsey to hastily throw the shopping in. I closed it, and went to get in the car, when I saw Kelsey trying to get in the front passengers seat.

C.G. Smitten: Back seat sweetheart.

Kelsey: But I’m old enough to ride in the front.

C.G. Smitten: No you’re not. You’re still too little. I said when you turn eight, you can sit in the front.

Kelsey: But I’m eight in two weeks...

C.G. Smitten: But are you eight now?

Kelsey: I will...

C.G. Smitten: Right at this moment, are you eight years old, or are you seven?

Kelsey: But...

C.G. Smitten: Answer the question.

Kelsey: ... seven...

Without saying another word, Kelsey opened the back door of the car and got in. I thought about saying something to her, but chose not to. I’d obviously upset her, but rules are there to be followed, and that’s a rule I set. A child needs strict rules and boundaries. Without them, they won’t know where the line is, and what is overstepping their mark. Truth be told, I was happier to just be out of the rain.

I turned the car engine over, and allowed it to roar into life. Putting it into gear, I pulled out of the shops, and onto the main road. Driving down, I could see in the rear view mirror that Kelsey was still sulking in the back. Perhaps I did need to say something.

C.G. Smitten: One day, you’ll thank me fo...

BANG!!!

We were hit! The impact sent the car spinning on the wet roads. I struggled to regain control of the car. It was only when the drivers side of the car ran into the wall of a building did it come to a stop. All of a sudden, a horrible thought came through my mind. I struggled to get words out of my mouth as I tried to put my mind at ease. Luckily, Kelsey did it for me.

Kelsey: DAD!!!

C.G. Smitten: Y... yes... I’m... I’m here... Are you ok Kelsey?

Kelsey: I... I don’t know.

C.G. Smitten: Are... are you hurt?

Kelsey: No...

C.G. Smitten: Good.......

Weakly, I turned my head, trying to make heads or tails of the situation. I ha...

Kelsey: Are you ok Dad?

C.G. Smitten: ...

Kelsey: Daddy?

C.G. Smitten: ...

Kelsey: DAD!!!!!!


And just like that, I opened my eyes.

Immediately, I noticed the throbbing pain in my head. Looking around, trying to ignore what was going on in my brain, I noticed that none of my limbs were in casts or bandages. As far as I was concerned, this was a good sign. The hospital room was almost completely devoid of life. My beating heart was only accompanied by a small fern sitting in the corner.

Pulling back the sheets of the bed, I rolled my legs out of the bed. Surprisingly, there was no pain in them at all. If it wasn’t for my head, I could have sworn that I’d died. Looking up at the IV drips hanging off my bed, I reached up and moved them over to a portable rack, before removing the heart monitor equipment from my chest. Gingerly, I rose to my feet, and started to take a few steps.

At least this is moving normally. I inched closer and closer to the door, not wanting to aggravate an injury I might have done. After all, I do need to extract some revenge on Harlequin and Chris Austin in a few days. As I reached the door, a man dressed in scrubs came to the door. He seemed a bit shocked to see me on my feet. His name tag said “Nurse Brian Gold”. I stared him straight in the eyes, as I tried to formulate words.

C.G. Smitten: May I... see my... doctor please Nurse.

From behind the Nurse came a booming voice, calling out to me.

???: It’s nice to hear you’re awake Mr. Smitten. Please, lie back down, and I’ll be in there in a moment.

C.G. Smitten: I’d prefer to stand thank you.

???: As your doctor, I can’t recommend it. If you will sit down in a chair though, that would be OK.

Fine. I’ll sit instead. I may want to stand, but the man is a doctor after all. He knows what’s best for me. If he says standing’s not a great idea, then I will sit. I inched myself back to the chair. As I began to sit, I heard the footsteps of the doctor approaching from behind.

Dr. Turk: Mr. Smitten, I’m Doctor Turk.

C.G. Smitten: Like the character from Scrubs?

Dr. Turk: Kind of like the character from Scrubs, except I’m a real doctor, and quite clearly, I’m not black.

C.G. Smitten: No, you’re Chinese.

Dr. Turk: I’m American actually. My parents were Vietnamese.

C.G. Smitten: Oh good.

Dr. Turk: So, can you tell me what you remember?

C.G. Smitten: I would, but I clearly remember my daughter Kelsey was also in the car when it was hit. Is she Ok?’

Dr. Turk: Yes, she’s fine. She’s being observed in paediatrics at the moment. We’ve treated her for shock, internal bruising and concussion. She’s actually being discharged in a couple of hours into the care of her school.

C.G. Smitten: Good...

Dr. Turk: And the fact you remember the crash, that’s a good sign too. Can you tell me anything else?

C.G. Smitten: The car lost control... just spun out until it crashed into a wall. I remember we were hit by another driver to begin with. After the crash, I remember checking if Kelsey was alright, but that’s where I blanked out.

Dr. Turk: Can I fill you in on the details, or would you like to wait for those?

C.G. Smitten: Just hit me with them Doctor.

Dr. Turk: You were hit by a drunk driver. You and your daughter are extremely lucky to be alive, and even more so to escape relatively unharmed.

C.G. Smitten: And the drunk driver?

Dr. Turk: Died at the scene.

C.G. Smitten: Excellent.

Dr. Turk: Excellent?

C.G. Smitten: It’s Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection. If you’re stupid enough to driver drunk, your genes should be completely removed from the gene pool.

Dr. Turk: The paramedics who worked on her would beg to differ with your opinion, Mr. Smitten.

C.G. Smitten: Well, they’re entitled to that belief, just as I’m allowed to be glad that the person who tried to kill my daughter and I is now dead themself. What about my injuries.

Dr. Turk: Concussion, bruising of the temple and chest. Minor lascerations from broken glass. All in all, we can have you out of here tomorrow.

C.G. Smitten: Fantastic. And I’ll be cleared to wrestle...

Dr. Turk: I wouldn’t advise you taking on Chris Austin and Harlequin. But, I’m only a doctor. I can’t physically stop you from entering that ring.

C.G. Smitten: Come on, you don’t advise me to? Why, apart from a concussion, what’s possibly stopping me.

Doctor Turk looked over to the foot of my bed. Reaching over, he grabbed a folder, and dragged it back over to his lap. Instantly, he starts flicking through the pages. This wasn’t the reaction I thought I’d get from him.

Dr. Turk: Mr. Smitten, I don’t recommend it, purely because of this.

He pulled out a see through piece of plastic, which looked like an x-ray or an ultrasound. He gets up out of his chair, and walks over to a screen, placing the plastic on the screen. Turning the back-light on, the plastic started to glow, making the image more clear.

Dr. Turk: While you were unconscious, we performed a CAT scan on your brain. This is completely normal for a crash victim who comes to us unconscious. While we didn’t find any injuries from the crash, we did find this.

Taking a pen out of his pocket, he points to something on the screen. It looked like a white dot, and relatively large at that.

C.G. Smitten: I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at Doctor. Am I supposed to be impressed with this?

Dr. Turk: There’s no easy way to say this Mr. Smitten. But, you have a brain tumour. I don’t know how long it’s been sitting there, or how long it’s going to stay there, not doing anything. But, it’s very close to a critical part of your brain.

C.G. Smitten: A Brain Tumour?

Dr. Turk: We want to schedule you in for another CAT scan next month. That will give us an indication of how fast it’s moving or progressing. Who knows, it could be completely benign.

C.G. Smitten: Do you think it’s benign?

Dr. Turk: ...

C.G. Smitten: Don’t give me false hope Doctor. Just tell me.

Dr. Turk: No. I don’t think it’s benign. In fact, my feeling is that unless we treat it in the next month or two, you’ll have six months to live.

C.G. Smitten: ...

Dr. Turk: I know that’s a lot to take in right now. I’ll leave you for a while. I’ll send in a nurse to disconnect you from your tubes, and I’ll check in on you again in about an hour. We’ll discuss possible treatment options.

C.G. Smitten: ...


I sat in one of the chairs in my hospital room. Now was a time for my bravest of faces. This would be one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. Every battle I’ve had with Chris Austin, every time I fought to defend either the C-4 Championship or the Full Metal Championship, every time I’ve had to tangle with Drew Michaels, Alex O’Rion, Dr. Diabolical, Eric Scorpio, the list is endless. Every time I’ve been challenged in my life, every single moment was easier than what I needed to do right now.

Kelsey: Dad?

C.G. Smitten: Hi Sweety. Guess who’s got Candy?

Kelsey: Is it you?

C.G. Smitten: No, it’s you!

Kelsey: For me?

C.G. Smitten: Yes. Look under the chair there.

I missed seeing her reaction on Halloween after trick or treating. Kelsey ran over to the chair, and picked up a pillow case full of candy. It wasn’t easy to organise from a hospital room in a couple of hours, but somehow, I was able to recreate a little of the magic that I missed on Sunday night. Kelsey looked at me with a beaming smile. It was the kind of smile that you couldn’t help but smile back to. Warming, encouraging, loving. I was dreading ruining it.

C.G. Smitten: Sit down Kelsey. Have the doctors and nurses been treating you nice?

Kelsey: Yes they have. They’ve been giving me ice cream, and lots of it.

C.G. Smitten: Someone’s been spoilt then.

Kelsey: I have been very spoilt. Have they been treating you nice?

C.G. Smitten: I think so. I don’t remember a lot of it, to be honest. I was sleeping.

Kelsey: You were unconscious.

C.G. Smitten: Well... yes.

Kelsey: I thought you were dead Dad. I’m glad to see you awake again. I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.

C.G. Smitten: I’m your Dad Kelsey. I’ll always wake up.

Kelsey: Good!

C.G. Smitten: Actually, that’s not what I meant to say.

Kelsey: What? What did you mean to say?

The look of confusion on Kelsey’s face said it all. This just got a whole lot harder for me. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself before I continued.

C.G. Smitten: Kelsey, your Dad...

Kelsey: My real Dad? Scumbag Dad? Yeah, what about him?

C.G. Smitten: No, me. The Dad who loves you.

Kelsey: Is something wrong?

C.G. Smitten: Yes, Kelsey. Your Dad’s very sick. He has something called a tumour in his brain. It’s slowly growing, and your Dad is about to start doing a number of things to stop it.

Kelsey: If it’s in your brain, can’t you stop it yourself? Stop thinking it?

C.G. Smitten: A tumour isn’t thoughts Kelsey. You’ve heard of Cancer, haven’t you?

Kelsey: Yes... Dad, is a tumour a cancer?

C.G. Smitten: In simple terms...

Kelsey: ...

C.G. Smitten: Yes, yes it is.

Kelsey: Does this mean you’re going to die?

C.G. Smitten: I... I don’t know.

The reality of the situation just hit home for Kelsey. The tears started to well up in her eyes. My heart started to break as I saw this. I leant over to her chair and picked her up gently. As I held her in my arms, she openly wept. I tried to stay as stoic as possible. She needed to see my brave face. It would give her hope.

Kelsey: I don’t want you to die Dad...

C.G. Smitten: I don’t want to die either. But I’m a fighter.

Kelsey: What’s going to happen now?

C.G. Smitten: Well...I don’t know to be honest. Your Dad’s got a lot of decisions to make.

Kelsey: Can I help?

C.G. Smitten: Your Dad needs you to be strong, and be brave. That’s how you can help him. He needs you to be a big girl, and smile. It’s not going to be an easy thing for your old Dad to go through, but if you put on a happy face, it will make your Dad smile. And when your Dad smiles, it makes it easy for him to beat anything that comes his way.

Kelsey: But...

C.G. Smitten: But what?

Kelsey: It’s so hard.

The tears continued to fall from the eyes of my young daughter. I sat us down on the edge of the bed, and held her tightly. In the process, a wry tear escaped from the corner of my own eye.

C.G. Smitten: I know it is Kelsey. I know it is...

The fading light gleamed across the horizon, with its dying breath it illuminated three men. Three very different and all too similar men.

The first stood tall, his shoulders back in a position of pride and arrogance. The pistol in his hand adorned with a golden overlay, stressing his elitist points of views. He was a man largely unencumbered by the burdens of the filth around him.

The second stood in a constant struggle against nature. The weight of the world, of being in everyone else’s business pulling down his shoulders, while his confidence, ability and hope pulled him the cold, early grave he was surely destined for. The pistol in his hands was standard issue. Nothing too fancy, but effective enough to get the job done and get it done correctly. His solitary eye darted back and forth between the two men in front of him.

Finally the third man stood, his shoulders and head dipped hiding his true height. A plastered smile stuck to his face. Here was a man forcing the impression unto others of a pure lack of caring. That his entire being was lackadaisical. His sanity was fleeting and his actions were nothing more than emotional responses. Here was a man who thought he had the entire world fooled, but deep down even he knew, it was only himself. The handgun held out in front of him had at one time borne a black handle, now matted and covered with specks of deep red and gray. The pistol did not waver from his grip, aimed carefully at the first man, while his watchful eyes kept track of the second.

Of the three men, the third was the only one to hold his weapon with one hand. His free, right hand was held slightly out in front of him, his thumb up and index finger pointing at the second man, as if mocking a second gun.

Sunday! Well old chap I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. Brixton have you met Sunday? He’s quite the son of a bitch.

The pure glee in third man’s voice undermined the seriousness of the situation he and the two other men found themselves in.

High atop a tower in the core of The City the three men stood. The cool November air whipping through their clothes and biting their skin as each stood, plotting how to appropriately make the first move. The plan, and subsequent chase, had worked out perfectly for each man (so they thought), bringing each of them and their pursuers or targets to the rooftop of the aforementioned tower under construction.

The future home of the Order of Assisi, paid in full through various acts of terror and criminal behaviour, with a general disregard for public safety. A group The Harlequin could have really supported if they hadn’t been constantly trying to kill him, capture him or experiment on him. All three things he firmly believed handicapped their ability to be friends.

“Shut your mouth Harlequin, this isn’t the time for your mouth.”

The Harlequin aimed his free hand and pretend gun toward Mr. Sunday, squeezing his thumb twice and firing two fake bullets.

I’d kill you first Sunday, I swear to Lou I would, if you weren’t so goddamn handsome.

Now gentlemen, all talks of me killing you aside we’re in an awful quandary here. Each of us wants the other two dead. I’m more determined, Sunday is more stubborn and Brixton, well as you can see Sunday, Brixton has a hard time grasping the concept of laying down and dying.

“You’re stalling Harlequin, is that a little fear I see showing through. You’re useless to us if you allow fear to seep into your being.”

“Says the fat man sweating in -5 weather. Give it up “Sunday” you’re just as dead as the clown.”

Ah! The Cyclops finally speaks. While you may be my favourite X-Men, your voice isn’t required for now. And as for you Mr. Huskiest Day of the Week, why don’t you give us a little wee bit of an explanation about why the hell you’re trying to kill me this time.

“For being a genius Quint, sometimes you don’t grasp things very quickly. Which is a shame really, your brilliance is wasting away underneath that ragged suit of holes and bloodstains.”

The mentioned name set off bells in the head of Detective Brixton.

“...Quint...Quint...”

The thoughts mulled over as he struggled to connect the pieces between the trauma and damaged memories.

“Dr. Quint?! Harley Quint?”

DING DING DING! Brixton is in the game! Sunday tell him whhaaaaatt he’s wonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

The hammer of Dirty Harry clicked back as The Harlequin crossed his arms, his finger gun pointing at Sunday, the 0.357 Magnum focused squarely on Detective Brixton.

“How could I not have known that? How could we all have missed it?”

It’s a question I ask every day, and then applaud your ignorance. The human mind is an amazing thing Brixxy baby. You had the answers in front of you the entire time, and you chose to ignore them. We fight our entire lives to believe that monsters don’t exist. Ghosts aren’t real, God and the Devil are make believe friends and there is no monster under your bed. All of these are universal truths, but as soon as mankind begins to commit atrocities we place our faith, our judgement and our hatred in the make believe.

We all fight against our very nature in order to believe that another man, a human being isn’t capable of committing the types of acts that I have. So you make me into a monster. You look passed the obvious answers, the bespectacled university professor in front of you and search through the shadows for a demon. All the while I laugh and carry about my business. Growing bolder with each crime, while you and the rest of this pathetic city close your blinders tighter and tighter.

“It’s not possible. You had to have had help. You worked with us, among us, there’s no way.”

The scarred “H” on Brixton’s cheek began to flare an angry red as he processed the information flowing into his closed off brain.

“It’s entirely possible. The less than savoury characters operate in broad daylight in this world. This isn’t a book or some movie. In the real world we have a strangle hold on society. We don’t have to pay the police to turn a blind eye, you do so willingly in order to keep your barriers of understanding up. You perceive the world to work in a certain way and we make that happen, and in turn your tacitly turn a blind eye to what we do and claim evil is just a product of a child’s over active imagination.”

“No! NO! NO NO NO!”

The anger began to swell within Detective Brixton, who given his last few weeks, was having an understandably hard time controlling it.

“You can’t fucking stand in front of me and tell me I don’t know how the world works. I have seen the black stomach of evil in this city. I have done everything possible to excel in this world, to be the best there is at what I do. I have given everything, personal and professional and bodily to practically right the book on excellence, and now you’re trying to tell me that I’m purely living a life of ignorance, like this is the fucking Matrix.”

Don’t be a fucking idiot Brixton. Remember what Sunday said, this is reality, not a cheap knock off movie. Pay more attention of we’ll have to send you to the remedial class where you can go and pretend to be a teacher.

Now Mr. Sunday, you and I were about to have a chat.

Dirty Harry shifted its focus back toward the large, imposing figure of the man known as Mr. Sunday.
Out with it big man. I got it the first time, but this time just seems so uncoordinated and entirely not you.

“Tip of the iceberg good Doctor. Before I go on, you realize that now you really do have to die correct?”

I get it, typical villain’s code. Reveal secret plan, swear death to the person you revealed it to. Brixton is in the same boat, he knows my identity and that simply won’t do. So yes, I understand, I disagree, but I understand, now, please continue.

“This seems sloppy and misguided because it was a ruse. Granted you slumming it with the pig and finding me is a bit of a kink in the plan, but it is nothing more than a minor hindrance. You’ll still end up dead and out of the way, along with one eye over here and we will move to phase two.”

“You see Quint, we realized last time, when you thought you killed me, that you actually granted us a valuable opportunity. We could now, operate from the shadows and keep a tiny public presence to throw your sniffing nose off the scent. “

Ohh a little bait and switch eh? You know me so well!

“That is precisely the point. We know your every move. So what easier way to manipulate you than begin using your name and dragging it through the proverbial dirt. The Council knew you would bite and from there, we knew we could toy you along while we continued with our plans. And trust in this dear doctor Quint, The Council has been very busy.”

I imagine you’ve been quiet the busy bees, but there is one thing you are overlooking, which I find quite baffling.

“I imagine that is a common occurrence for you and your fading brilliance.”

The biting remark curled Harlequin’s lip. His postured corrected, pulling his body up straight, his eyes tightening, his smile dripping with malice.

Remember last time when I brought you near death?

“I remember creating the illusion yes.”

Well there’s something you may not like about me. I evolve. I get better. I get faster. And despite your attempts at witty repartee, I get smarter. And now. Well, now I plan to kill you.

“Ha! And how do you plan to do that? Pull the trigger and your one eyed police rat puts you down and walks away the victor. Put me down and another from The Council takes my place, your actions have consequences Quint. Your star is fading, you’re missing the intricate details, now how can you possibly expect to get the upper hand with failings like that?”

Simple.

The pretend gun made of The Harelquin’s finger pointed squarely at the left eye of Mr Sunday.


The thumbs of The Harlequin’s right hand squeezed down as the bullet whizzed past his right ear. The sniper’s bullet obliterated the left eye of the former Mr. Sunday, his body collapsing to the rooftop below, spilling out blood and brain matter against the freezing cement roof.

Harlequin could feel the tension rising from the man to his right, the slowly destructing Detective Brixton.

Now now Brixton, I’d be careful. There are two guns trained on you.

The Harlequin tapped the barrel of his 0.357 Magnum against his temple, the smile returning to hsi face.

And people question my intelligence.

Now dear friend, you have outlived your purpose.

The Harlequin retrained his handgun back on the skull of Detective Brixton.

Dear departed Sunday knew his death was impending. Hence his final warning. He saw it with all the bright lights, sirens, horns and trumpets and still went with his pride firmly in hand. All it got him was a bullet through his face. I’d be careful with the words you chose Brixton.

The detective stood stunned the words forming in his brain, his mouth not complying.

“Why?”

Hmm, how very metaphysical of you. It’s unfortunately simple, which I fear won’t help your shattered little psyche. You were a pawn Brixton.

So concerned with being the best. So tenacious in pursuing excellence and so willing to stand up and hold that above the heads of others. You were the ideal candidate. The hardest nut to crack always gives the best results, and I knew as soon as I could break you, as soon as you could look beyond me, you would do exactly what I wanted.

The Harlequin watched as each word seemed to pop off a piece of Brixton’s emotional and mental armour.

With the same desire to be recognized as the best, you pursued Sunday and The Council hoping to bring down two birds with one stone. To prove to everyone, beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were every bit as good as you think you are.

The problem of course is that you are predictable. And your pursuit of excellence and desire to teach others in your ways makes you nothing more than a pawn. Essentially you are the world’s biggest tool.

The “H” carved into Brixton’s cheek began to flare red again. The cold wind rushing against his battered face began to draw blood from the empty eye socket hidden beneath the bandages wrapped around his face.

This is actually kind of fun. Normally I’m a big fan of physical torture, but watching you crumple into a shell of your former self is quite interesting. Once you carried yourself so tall and proud and now you’re weeping blood. You’ve inspired me, I’m going to try this a little more often. But first!

The Harlequin’s free hand shot straight into the air, signalling the release of the silent bullet, sending it tearing through both wrists of Detective Brixton, forcing him to release his pistol and fall hard to his knees.

The Harlequin moved swiftly toward his downed nemesis, kicking the grounded pistol off the edge of the rooftop, leaving him alone with a dead man, a dying man and holding the only gun.

Poor Brixton, another victim of wanting everyone to see your worth.

The first shot fired tore through the palm of Brixton’s left hand. Brixton’s middle finger twitching twice before the hand died.

And all you ended up proving was how easy it is to manipulate you.

The Harlequin’s boot crushed down on Brixton’s right bicep, the burning barrel of Dirty Harry pressing into the fleshy pit of Brixton’s elbow. With no hesitation the bullet fire through the barrel, shattering the joint and rendering Brixton’s second arm useless.

Humanity is a funny thing to tear down.

We hold on to it so tightly, with our everything and yet we are terrible at truly protecting it. We crumble into useless sacs of flesh and tears the moment anyone threatens what we have and what we are. And you Brixton were no different. A man with one person who was so blinded by the pursuit that you failed to see how it was being used against you.

The Harlequin stood over Brixton, one boot on his chest, the other placed against the cold cement roof. The hammer clicked back, and both men knew what was about to unfold.

Through bloody teeth and desperate gulps of air Brixton choked out words.

“You won’t...live through this.”

Wrong again Boyo.


The bullet, as it had a thousand times before, tore through the open left eye of Detective Brixton, as his right eye slowly began to fade. The life gone from his body, another pawn removed from the playing field.

The may call me less than human.

The Harlequins stepped forward, overlooking the entirety of the urban sprawl that is The City.

But at least I don’t waste what my humanity is and truly embrace my potential.

From the rooftops blocks away, The Harlequin saw a man rise, tear down a rifle and fade into the black of the coming night.

Starting tonight, this City burns. Like Chistendom, I shall be it’s Nero...

And HavOc Shall Be Wrought.

Corruption 14.3

Seth Rotunda and Daniel Prideman took a seat. Both were desperate to discuss what had just gone on, and the challenge that had been laid down in front of them.

Seth: So we're looking at a six way. A shot at the title. This is big.

Prideman sat silently. That seemed to be his thing as of late.

Seth: What do we do? Do we work together? What about Eastwood.

Prideman looked at Seth. The bond that The Pack had formed had been strong as of late.

Seth: The Pack. We're going somewhere. Everyone can see it. This is our second main event in a row tonight. That means something, surely?

A fire burned inside of Prideman. Everything in his life had led up to this point. To an opportunity to win a title in FMW. But he was conflicted. Jack Eastwood was not just a mentor but a friend. A man that had helped guide Prideman's fury and his frankly pathless life towards something worthwhile. Now he had to choose between The Pack or fighting hard for a true goal and a title. He rose to his feet.

Seth: So what do we do?

Prideman's reply was short, and definitive.

Prideman: Fuck Eastwood.

Grabbing his back he opened the door, near enough ripping it from the hinges and striding down the corridor.

Prideman: Champ! Hey! Apostasy.

He hadn't quite rehearsed what he wanted to say, but the message was clear.

Prideman: Quite the pep talk in there.

Apostasy: Oh it does speak.

Prideman: Your damn right it does. Whilst your speeches... I mean... You have-

Apostasy: Not very good at this are you.

Prideman boiled over. With the anger that had sent him on rages that left his memory unclear but a trail of destruction in their wake. He smashed his fist into the wall beside Apostasy's head.

Prideman: I am not her to intimidate you. But feel free to be scared. Now listen up. When I speak, you listen. Making this match was a huge mistake for you. But you are (close whisper) a, very, lucky, man. If it was my choice I'd take you one-on-one. You said yourself that you wanted to defeat The Pack, every member. And yet, you're dodging me. Smart move putting four men between us. But rest assured no one, not Quinn, or Strong, or Seth, or even Jack will get in my way of winning the title at Death Row 4.
Prideman stared into Apostasy's eyes which to their credit remained firm.

Prideman: Consider yourself on notice.

The Asylum – 1 day later

After leaving Corruption, Prideman had taken a day back at The Asylum to consider his future, and his past.

Prideman: (To self) Everything in my life has pointed me in this direction. FMW is where I am meant to be. But that isn't a goal. Just to be here is not what I am about. I'm here to be a champion, to be the best.

The same stumbling block always came into play.

Prideman: (Cont'd) But Jack. Jack brought me here. I am a lion. I know where I stand. Jack has nurtured me. Made me a warrior. This is his pack.

He paused, resting his mind to watch the television. Nature programmes. They were always a weak spot.

Presenter: “Lions are predatory carnivores who manifest two types of social organization. Some are residents, living in groups, called prides. The pride usually consists of five or six related females, their cubs of both sexes, and one or two males which are known as a coalition if more than one. Both males and females defend the pride against intruders. Some individual lions consistently lead the defence against intruders, while others lag behind. There is some reward associated with being a leader who fends off intruders and the rank of lionesses in the pride is reflected in these responses. The male or males associated with the pride must defend their relationship to the pride from outside males who attempt to take over their relationship with the pride.”

Prideman pondered the words and thought about the current hierarchy in The Pack. An internal battled raged.

Prideman: Jack IS the leader. But why? He just is. That's the way The Pack works. But what if this isn't a pack. What if it's a Pride. You defend against intruders. You're the true leader here.

Prideman leapt up from his chair and flung the coffee table across the room. Outside a confused Asylum inhabitant rushed past. Prideman put his head in his hands and sighed deeply. Inside a lion roared.

London – 2 days later

With a conflicted mind Prideman headed home. It had been years since he had seen his family. To straighten his thoughts he had to view his life fully and make steps in the right direction for himself. Opening the wooden gate it still creaked with an old familiarity. For the first time since being a pre-pubescent teen infatuated with a girl, his stomach was full of butterflies the size of eagles. He didn't know what to expect. He rang the doorbell, nervous. The door opened and he was met with an embrace.

Michael Jarvis: DANIEL!

This was better than he could have expected. It was his younger brother Michael and his reaction couldn't have made Daniel more at ease.

Prideman: Jesus Mike! You've grown!

Michael: I had to. I had to step up and be the man of the family.

Thinking of the men of the family, Prideman thought of the reason he had left in the first place.

Prideman: Where's Steve?

Michael: Look, Daniel, you better come in.

Prideman stepped into the house, not much had changed. Just a few pictures missing from the wall. Notably his own. He was led into the front room by his younger brother and ushered to take a seat.

Michael: When you left, I was so mad at you. I blamed you for everything that had went wrong in this house. For years I believed it was all your fault. But I started noticing things about my Dad, I could see why you were always so angry at him. I grew disillusioned. I'm a Prideman now.

A dead silence filled the air.

Prideman: And Steve?

Michael: Well I started hearing things about you. About what had happened to you. How you'd started beating people half to death in revenge for the years of torment they put you through. When you had finished with them, they came here.

Prideman took in a breath of air. He didn't want to know what followed.

Michael: They came in looking for revenge. I know that's not fair, they deserved what they got. But shit went down.

Prideman: Where's mum? James? Where are they?

Michael: They're safe. But Steve (fighting back tears), Dad was killed.

Prideman was overwhelmed. His step-father had tormented him just as much as the bullies, but seeing his brother in tears was destroying him inside.

Prideman: I'm sorry. I never wanted it to end like this.

Michael looked at his brother and embraced him. He'd never seen his brother in such turmoil.

Michael: We don't blame you. This was all unfortunate. This wasn't ideal. Mum and James have moved. But I've stayed. This is my home and I will not by forced out.

Another silence. Prideman had too much weighing on his mind. This wasn't helping. His younger brother was now a Prideman and also a man he trusted, almost as much as Eastwood.

Prideman: Look, bro. I need your help. I'm wrestling in the States now. A guy named Jack, he's helped me. But I have a title match this Sunday and he's in it. What do I do? Because I just don't know anymore and I just miss you guys and I'm all o-

Michael: Shut up a second! Calm down. You want my advice?

Michael reaches out and places his hand over his brothers heart.

Michael: We are Prideman. We are warriors. We are lions. We do what we can to get to be the best. To be dominant. To survive. In your heart, you know.

Prideman smiled at his younger brother.

Prideman: Me being away, it’s helped. You're a man now. And wise beyond your years. I need to go.

Getting up he walks to the door. Michael shows him out.

Michael: (Calling after him) You know what to do! I'll see you soon bro!

Fighting talk

At Death Row 4 I face the biggest match of my career. For the Abandoned Championship I face Ryder Strong, Ryu Quinn, Apostasy, Seth Rotunda and Jack Eastwood. These are all men that I respect and a title I respect even more. When it comes to the title I will do the right thing to continue the prestige of the title. Apostasy is the champion and I will take his belt but all you other guys in my way. Well this pay-per-view is very aptly named. You four will become the Death Row 4.

Consider yourself on notice.

The young man had been let in easy enough. The secretary had a soft spot for him, which had likely been deepened by what she heard happened to him that day. He'd be flattered, but she was 29 years his senior, and that was just a bit odd to him. When the chief saw him, his face broke into a grin and he got him in a bear hug. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but having someone who cared enough to embrace you after you were in trouble is a good thing, so he didn't protest.

Chief: Rafael! Oh my boy, it's so good to see you.

Rafael: Thank you sir.

Chief: I know you've been through a lot today, but don't worry. We have all available manpower out hunting for that degenerate Gray.

Rafael: That's what I wanted to speak to you about.

The chief sat at his desk and smiled at the young man.

Chief: Of course! Any information you have that can lead to his capture would be very much appreciated.

Rafael: It's not that, sir.

Chief: Hm?

Rafael: I think you're wrong about Nicholas Gray.

–

Y'know, sleeping in a tree is severely underrated. If you get a nice sturdy branch you can have a really nice nap without having to worry about, say, a police force seeing you. And after the morning I've had, I really really needed this sleep. Sadly, couldn't get new clothes, but the pleasant fall day has dried them well enough.

And of course someone just has to start yelling up at me.

Gray: Go 'way Hippy. I'm trying to get some rest.

Hippy: Nicholas, I finished what you asked so get down here!

I groan and slip off the branch, dropping down in a crouch in front of my ever annoying companion.

Gray: You did EVERYTHING?

Hippy: Yes, I parked my sister's car up the hill the police station rests at the bottom of...though I don't know why.

Gray: Tell you in a second. Did you get my bike?

Hippy: Yeah, the office was deserted by the time I got there. Weird.

Gray: They know I won't go back yet.

Hippy: I guess. Now can you explain what we're doing?

Gray: Simple.

I point behind me. Beyond the trees, there's a house, one story, painted a dull brown color, and with the lights all off. The sheriff's house.

Gray: I'm gonna break in and have a talk with the guy.

Hippy: Won't that be hard? I talked to some people, and it seems he's gotten hardcore paranoid over the last month or so, and hardly leaves the house. Does his job from home now. Wouldn't he have a security system or something?

Gray: Yeah, probably hooked up to alert the station if anything happens. Which is what you're here for.

Hippy: Eh?

Gray: Basically, you're gonna kick the car so it rolls down the hill and into the police station.

Hippy: EH!?

Gray: Hold on, before you start screaming. If you did like I said, you only parked it a bit up the hill not the whole way. If you just let it roll, it won't pick up enough speed to hurt anything. Worse you get is a fender bender and a cracked wall, which works for me. Shift change is in about ten minutes, so no one will be on the road right now. The confusion of a car with two bound cops, plus that, will give me enough time to be in and out before anyone can answer the call.

Hippy: I...I don't know, it sounds risky.

Gray: I've done the math, it'll be five minutes at most with no one on the phones, so nothing will go unanswered except my crime, okay?

Hippy: But you...failed math in school, right?

Gray: Technicalities, just go okay? I'll give you five minutes before I go in.

Hippy: But Nicholas! ...aw here we go!

I sneak up to the front door, and look down at my watch. I am so glad I invested in a waterproof one. I count off the five minutes I gave Hippy, plus an extra 20 seconds before I kick the door open. It slams open, and the alarm starts going off. There's a box next to the door though, with a wire leading to the ground that I assume is the power for it or something to it, so I yank it out, and the alarm stops, and suddenly it's completely quiet. Lovely. Stealth mode is pretty pointless now, but I can't help it.

From what I can see, the house is pretty damned empty. The corridor I'm in leads to two rooms, and I can see the inside of one of them, the bathroom, from where I stand. There's no tables or things hanging off the wall, and it's all a plain white. Like no one's lived in it. I draw the pistol I got from one of the cops, and slowly walk to the opening to what I assume is the living room. I start to step in, and feel something just barely tugging on my ankle. I look down, and see a wire drawn taut across it, and something being moved next to me. Shit! I drop down just before the gunshot goes off.

Gray looks at the new holes in the wall next to him, eyes wide and mouth opened in a large-O. He slowly turns his head to look at the shotgun hanging across from it, and lets out a small, strangled breath, twitching slightly. He then stands back up, and begins to adjust his wrinkled suit back on as if that past moment hadn't just happened.

I'm going to need to get new pants. Holy shit.

I'm very glad I sent Hippy away to act as my distraction now. No one needs to have seen that. I reach up and gingerly remove the shotgun from the wires holding it up. Given how this house is starting out, I'm probably going to need this.

The living room is exactly the same as the corridor. Sparse. There's a bookcase that's been knocked over, the few books it held spilled out onto the ground, and a wooden chair. Creepy. I take extra care as I walk to the only door in the room, which is open just a tad. I peer in and see more of the same nothing, except for the fucking bear trap in the middle of the room. Well, that's kind of obvious. I start to push the door open, but it's oddly heavy, and something rattles above. I take a step back and look up through the crack between the door and the bannister. There's a bucket. A fucking bucket. Wow, I have stepped into an old Hannah-Barbara cartoon, but there's no Velma. What a gyp. Still, have to be safe. I walk back and grab one of the discarded books. I toss it at the door, and it knocks the door open, knocking the bucket over and dropping it's contents onto what would have been my head. The liquid covers the tile and steams heavily. I can feel the heat from here.

Boiling water. Simple, but really effective when dropped onto someone's head.

At least partially certain the room is safe now, I step in and glance around. Again, more of the same. A fridge with it's door wide open, and a knocked over chair. But there is something new here. Drops of blood, leading from the chair to the next door.

This is starting to bother me. Not just because of the booby traps thing, but as a whole. This guy is suppose to have become incredibly paranoid very quickly, right? A clear symptom of being infected by one of Them. But why paranoia? If you're going to enforce a police rule, yeah I can see it, but this is clearly a man with an important position that they needed to guard the stuff in the library. And besides, the kid had told me the guys who were working for him had been getting more aggressive, not more paranoid. If he was infecting others, they'd become paranoid, not a completely different emotion. I'm starting to think it might not just be him. I hope I'm wrong.

–

Chief: Wrong about him? What nonsense is this! He kidnapped you, Rafael!

Rafael: I know that's what it seems like, sir, but...

Chief: Seems like? Then why don't you tell me what the truth is!

Rafael: The truth, sir...is that something is wrong. Here. With a few officers.

Chief: Are you honestly accusing fellow officers of having something “wrong” with them?

Rafael: It's just something I've noticed, sir. Like, Pensington breaking a man's jaw during interrogation?

Chief: That occurred when the suspect lunged at Pensington.

Rafael: He was heavily restrained at the time! How could that have happened?

Chief: I believe what is in the report. Why don't you? Since when is the word of an officer worth more than a kidnapping psychopath?

Rafael: That's what I'm talking about, sir. Something is WRONG. And now, I'm hearing that someone here is kidnapping people! Like, a librarian that works at the library the sheriff was having officers patrol at night!

Chief: And just from whom did you hear this?

Rafael: ...from Nicholas Gray.

The chief slams his fist against the desk, making Rafael jump back, as the chief's face contorts in anger.

Chief: What is wrong with you? You are listening to the words of a delusional man who thinks he is helping people over the people who ARE helping people, putting their lives on the line daily in this dirty city! Where is your pride, Rafael?!

Rafael: ...it's behind my logic, sir, where it should be.

The chief's face turns a shade of red, as he stands up and walks over to Rafael, who stands his ground.

Chief: I am going out for lunch. When I return, I expect you will have come to your senses.

He pushes past Rafael and barks at his secretary to go to lunch as well as he storms out. The woman looks back at Rafael, who shakes his head. She stands up, grabbing a paper bag with her lunch inside and walks out as well. Rafael begins to exit, but stops, looking back inside the office. He looks back at the exiting door one last time, before walking back into the office, shutting it behind him.

–

As I keep going further in, this just keeps reinforcing what I'm worried about. Who spends a large amount of money on a security system that's still susceptible to being ripped off, but then turns around and turns their house into a mini Spencer's Mansion!? It's not someone logical, and not someone you have directing an important mission for you.

Wait, back up, that's unfair. This place doesn't have any stupid fucking keys shaped like random things. Also, less zombie dogs jumping through windows. That's a big plus.

A four-legged shadow suddenly leaps through a doorway ahead of Gray into the corridor, sliding around on the floor until it faces Gray, it's tongue hanging out as it pants for blood.

Oh for fucks sake why can't I shut up?!

Gray jumps back with a yell, almost tripping over a table as he raises the shotgun at the beast. However, as the twisted demon pads forward on it's monstrous legs into the light, Gray slowly lowers the shotgun, realizing what the next trap is.

Oh God, they're using my true weakness against me.

Cute. Animals.

Awwww look at the little Corgi, he looks so confused that is so adorable, it's just so small and cute, aww -WHAT AM I DOING THIS IS NOT HARD BOILED.

Calm face, Nicholas, calm face. Ignore the adorable.

I crouch and pat the dog on the head, trying very hard to avoid another breakout of decidedly un-hardboiled behavior.

Gray: Now, what's a little guy like you doing in a dreary, boobytrapped place like this? This isn't particularly safe for someone like you, you know. I'm going to have to have a talk with your owner about what is and isn't pet safe. Hey, do you know where your owner is? That'd be a big help.

I am talking to a dog. This is neither hard boiled nor normal, what am I expecting him to do....lower his head in what looks like fear and slowly turn his head to a flight of stairs leading down to what I assume is a basement?

….huh. Well then.

Gray: Good dog. Listen, you stay. I'm going to go and have a talk with them, okay? Stay.

I straighten up and start to walk to the stairs. There don't seem to be any more traps now, which is a relief. Perhaps the dog was suppose to stop me? I look back, and he's still sitting where he was, following my stay command. I should take him home with me. Wait, no, the cat would go apeshit, and probably shit on my pillow for a week. Oh well. Can't have everything you want.

I peer down the stairs, and see more of the blood drops on the steps down, and a bigger pool at the door at the bottom of them. I take the stairs slowly, trying for stealth even though I'm sure whoever is here will know I'm here too. But stealth is hard boiled damn it so leave me alone about it.

I slowly push the door open, and I'm greeted with another hallway. The blood drops are larger now, and leading to the end of the corridor, where there's a final door, covered with deep scratches. I don't think the dog caused those. I press my ear against the door and listen for anything. It's faint, but someone is breathing. Faint and ragged. The breathing of someone hurt badly. Damn it. This might be a trap as well, but I can't waste any time with stealth now. I put all my strength into my leg and kick the door open, stepping in with the shotgun up and ready to fire.

What I see inside makes me stumble back out of the room.

–

He sits at the desk, and shakes the computer mouse to wake the computer up. The chief hadn't logged out, leaving it at the desktop. He started clicking around, but only founds schedules, appointments, payrolls, nothing to explain the odd feeling in his gut. Maybe the feeling was wrong. Maybe he was wrong, wrong to listen and believe that man, Gray.

Another click, and he was in a folder that was empty except for an unnamed executable. He blinked in confusion, and clicked it. A box appeared, demanding a password. He thought on the possibilities, thinking back to the conversation he had just had, and what made the odd feeling appear in his gut. He typed it in, and hit enter.

Pride

Password accepted.
Logging in...

–

The room is covered in blood. From the walls to the ceiling, red is splattered everywhere. There's little else in the room, it's just as sparse as the rest of the house with only a TV in the corner and a chair in the middle. The chair is occupied. I step forward to it and the mass in it. It's a person, clearly, but ruined. The torso has been ripped open, like something just reached in and teared it open. Blood and organs run out from the tear onto the floor, creating an ugly mess. But the person is alive, somehow. His body is still moved by the movement of breathing, and is twitching from the shock. Bloodshot eyes slowly move to look at me, begging for help.

Gray: Oh, no...

I try to get close without stepping on the mess on the floor. I don't know if touching any of the organs would cause more pain, and I don't want to find out. I meet his eyes, and I put my hands on his shoulders, trying to think of anything to do. But it's too late.

Gray: I'm so sorry...

But his eyes have already gone vacant. Gone. I reach up and close his eyes for him. The least I can do.

I was too late.

I force myself out of that room and pull my phone out, dialing Hippy's number. He's too chipper when he picks up.

Hippy: Nicholas! You know, it was actually kind of fun! I don't even think the car will have a fender bender when I get it back! And the-

Gray: Hippy...shut up.

Hippy: ….Nicholas, what happened?

Gray: It's not him...

Hippy: What?

Gray: The sheriff is dead.

Hippy: Eh?! Wait, what happened?! Are you okay?!

Gray: ...no. I'm not.

Hippy: But...

Gray: I just...I was wrong, it wasn't him. And he's dead now because I'm wrong. If it wasn't him, it would have had to have been someone higher up than him. And who's higher up than...a...sheriff?

The realization hits me hard. He's in danger.

–

A camera feed pops up onto the screen. It shows a dark room, with the only illumination being from a glass chamber that's the focus of the feed. It looks like it's filled with a glowing green liquid, and a man is floating in it, nude and clearly unconscious.

Rafael: What is this...

He didn't notice the figure behind him.

–

Hippy: Gray! What is it!

I'm running back out of the house, jumping the stairs and over the dog. I have to hurry.

Gray: It's not the sheriff!

Out the door, and down the hill, my bike is waiting. I jump onto it and start it up, Hippy still screaming in my ear for explanations.

Gray: Damn it, it's the chief of police!

–

Chief: Now what is it you think you're doing, Rafael?

He starts to turn, but a large hand hits the back of his skull, and he goes out instantly. The behemoth grabs the young man's arm and begins to drag him off. He'd have time before the fool arrived.

–

I threw my phone behind me as I started riding to where the chief of police's office is. I remember reading it somewhere in the newspaper, at least it came in handy for once.

The kid is in danger, and it's my fault. I shouldn't have let him go off on his own when I should have KNOWN not to trust anyone that could have been involved in this. My god damn nap in the tree cost one man his life, and I won't let my stupid decision kill someone else. Not again.

The moon begins to rise over the horizon.

Someone steps out into the road ahead of me. The uniform I can recognize. The chief of police. I stop the bike and look at him. He's smiling. And suddenly, my palm begins to burn, badly. Worse as it ever has. I let out a grunt of pain as I grasp it. What is this? This doesn't happen with the normal beasts...which means...

No.

Gray: You're...one of Them.

Chief: Heh. That is correct. The fool has come into my world, and now will be crushed beneath my strength.

Suddenly the little man in uniform that was there is gone, replaced by a monster. Had to be over 7 feet, a shade of blue that seemed too light for something like it. A rounded head with two horns, one snapped off, which seemed to match the cracks around one of it's eyes. Spikes lined it's back, with two large ones on it's shoulders. It rippled with power, and every breath was deep and rumbling.

Gray: God damn it...fine...let's go!

The disc bursts from my palm, as I wrap the belt around my waist with the other hand. I have to keep hope that the kid will be alright. Have to keep it in me, and let it flow out as I swipe the disc in front of the belt, and start riding forward.

As the armor covers Gray's body, it is not the only thing that changes. His bike as well, begins to transform. It elongates, forcing him to lean forward more, as the handlebars lower slightly, and the seat widens by a bit. The color changes to match the blue of his armor, and the front of it below the windshield becomes emblazoned with a logo of multiple blue circles inside of each other, matching the buckle of his belt. It's speed increases tremendously, surging forward.

From the looks of him, I don't want to engage in a forward fight with him. I should try and finish him as fast as I can. I leap up, standing on the seat as the bike keeps going straight forward towards it. I focus on the hope I have for the kid's safety, that I can help him when I failed to help the sheriff. I pass the staff in my hand to the other, so the center of it passes over the buckle, letting it absorb my emotion. I have to finish this now.

The behemoth looks on, what passes for a smile still on it's face. As Gray approaches, it lifts a hand. The bike is suddenly stopped by a solid wall of force, flipping it and sending Gray flying. He hits the ground and slides across, stopping in a heap.

Fuck. Of course. Can't think of it...like I think fights with the other things. This is different, it's the real deal...on the same tier as Him...

I start to get to my feet, but suddenly it's in front of me. It slams it's fist into my gut, and suddenly my breath is gone, as I feel my ribs crack all at once. I stumble backwards, trying to regain my breath before I fall, but it's fist connects with my face and I go down. My jaw aches badly, but not broken I think. I start to get back up, but it kicks me in the chest, and I can't stop a small yell from being let out. I'm being beaten, badly, again. Have to get up.

I try to roll away from it, just to get my bearing, but it's foot hits me in the side and sends me flying. I hit the pavement hard, and I cough up blood. Why am I so weak now? Another foot to my side and my thoughts fly out, the pain escalating quickly as it keeps kicking and punching me. Bones crack, organs are moved around, and darkness starts to pull at me. Suddenly it stops. From the one eye that I can keep open, I see it reach down and pull the staff from my hand. A spark goes through it into the staff, and it reverts to the disc, and my armor fades, leaving me broken.

It chuckles, as it starts to walk away. And it's taking the disc with it.

No.

Gray: Stop...give....it....back....

But it's too late, and it all fades....

–

The behemoth stood in front of It's desk, waiting for It to stop skygazing.

Him: I am assuming you finished your task?

Chief Behemoth: I have taken it from him.

It laid the disc onto the desk. It turned around and picked it up, examining it.

Him: And Mr. Gray?

Chief Behemoth: I beat him until he cracked. He will die soon from his injuries.

Him: Hmph. Don't be so certain. End it.

Chief Behemoth: Are you doubting my strength?!

Him: Don't let your Pride get in the way of your reasoning. Finish him off.

The behemoth growls, as if it wanted to rise up against It's order. But it knew it couldn't, not yet at least. But.... perhaps, if it could drain whatever residual bits of power was left inside of Gray...yes, then it could strike It down and claim the rule for itself. It simply nodded, and stomped out of the room. It continued to look out through the window, at It's city. It sighed and looked at the disc in It's hands, rolling it around in It's hand. It looked back up out the window, hoping It's message would carry through the wind to it's target.

Him: Come now Mr. Gray...prove me right.

–

It all hurts. Feels like every bone got cracked, every organ bruised. A hundred thousand ringing bells going off in my head and behind my eyes, trying to force me into the darkness again. Something is missing. I close my hands, but there's nothing in them. Gone? No, can't be gone. Can't be, that's impossible. That's wrong. I try to feel it in my mind, but there's nothing but a haze of bells and pain.

No....

It's gone.

Sounds like a car pulling up. A door being opened, a voice shouting my name, feet rushing towards me. Hands under my back, pushing my upper body up. Hippy's face comes into view. He looks scared. Are those tears? For me? No, they shouldn't be...something far worse than my pain has happened.

Hippy: Don't worry, I'll get you some help, and you'll be fixed up okay?

Gray: No...it's...it's too late...

Hippy: Oh no...don't say that....I'll call the hospital. I know, you don't want that, but they can help you an-

I cough up some blood, and manage to look up at Hippy.

Gray: You're not...listening....it took...it...

I can't hold my head up anymore, my head falling against his hand. Darkness tugging at my vision.

Gray: I can't transform....

Sharks Can Talk, Can’t They?

For the second time, StormMaster and I are going after the tag team titles. Yes, your Deep Sea Sensation is going after the tag team titles once again! I just feel like I can do 20 backflips at a time! Well… maybe not.

Okay, let’s get on with something more interesting. It was only yesterday when the Linguist decided that booze wasn’t the answer to a hard day of training. His hangover, and semi-vivid memories of a stroke-fest was not worth drinking out his brain cells. Although I wasn’t present when he came to that revelation, but Reggie and Peyton were.

The Linguist: Remind me never to drink your potent booze again.

Reggie: Bitch, you’re a lightweight! You may not handle those like Gay Inferno, but you can definitely translate drunk talk quite well.

The Linguist: I just hate that all three of us did… that. But regardless, Damien Inferno and Nick Gray finally get to face us at Death Row.

Peyton: StormMaster can take them on… The Paper Bag Dude took over, and now SMUT will have to show its worth in both a TV Title and a Tag Team Championship match. I hope they have belt extensions for StormMaster’s belt.

The Linguist: It will be better if you don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Reggie.

Reggie and Peyton both were looking at The Linguist with in disbelief, and laughed as comedically as if they were The Miz and Alex Riley, and my manager was John Cena.

Reggie: We need to get a couple beers in you, bitch! You are not making any sense with whatever chicken shit you are speaking.

The Linguist: Have you ever heard of Aesop’s Fables, dipshit?

Peyton: What the fuck is an Aesop?

Reggie: Dude, we don’t read cunt-bitch books like you do.

Then they came into the room where I was checking if StormMaster was still alive by waving my hand over his ‘eyes’ to see if he was still awake.

The Linguist: There you are… trying to disrupt StormMaster’s meditation regime again?

I shook my head in denial, claiming that he wasn’t meditating. I don’t know about the others, but I have a sixth sense about these things. Either that or it is my natural shark instinct. Who knows?

The Linguist: Well, either way, we need the both of you to train harder, anyways. Paper Bag Man left us a message on a spare paper bag saying that we both need to be as ready as he is for a title match.

Reggie: What is the Shark Bitch saying?

The Linguist: He’s saying that StormMaster’s not meditating.

The phone was starting to ring; it was Peyton’s phone. He got on it while Reggie and I argued through the Linguist. Suddenly, Peyton got annoyed by not being able to hear who was on the phone through the bickering.

Peyton: WILL YOU BITCHES BE QUIET AS THE SHARK BITCH FOR JUST ONE MINUTE?!

It was silent; he was able to get what the lady on the other end was saying before he hung up his iPhone.

Peyton: That was the suits. We are needed at the General Manager’s office.

The Linguist: Good. SoSB…

Peyton: Not the wrestlers, cunt face; us… the managers. They say that we need to meet to make more preparations for Death Row 4. There are a few things that need to be agreed upon before SMUT can make appearance on TV.

Reggie: Word! I’m driving… Peyton, you take the rear, nigga!

Peyton: Now why do I have to take the rear?

The Linguist: You seem to like it that way!

Reggie: Oooh… snap!

As the managers left and were out of ear shot range, I kicked the water cooler. Growling in frustration, I did something no one – not even StormMaster – would even expect.

SoSB: The Linguist gets the gist of what I say, but forgets to add the feeling of what I want to say. He may have helped me since I joined the land lovers above water, but he overestimates his prowess in translation. I know StormMaster from my travels, and this is not the normal way he would act. But then again, what is normal if I was hiding the fact that I learned how to talk above water?

I paced back and forth, waving my hand over StormMaster’s face just to make sure he wasn’t listening to what I had to say.

SoSB: Now let me say something about Gray Inferno and SMUT at Death Row. I may have been in this world above the water for less than a couple years, but I know what I talk about when I see wrestlers I can respect. Damien Inferno and Nick Gray has shown a lot of moxy since they won the Tag Team belts from MASSive Caesar Salad and Harley Quinn. What Gray Inferno doesn’t realize is that the perfect storm has brewed strongly since Paper Bag Man joined us and formed the Super Mega Ultra Team.

Now about StormMaster, though he is in a silent state, he and I like to have fun while wrestling; a quality that has been lost in those that fight on the side of good within FMW. Like Storm has said before, we go way back. We know how we work, and we know how to help each other in the ring. Nick Gray and Damien Inferno, we are both not the type to lay down and play dead. We will give you a battle that would be worth putting in the history books. SMUT expects the same from you as well, Gray Inferno. We’ll see who’s worthy of the ownership of the FMW Tag Team Championship.

I started to walk out to get my jug of sea water from the other room, when I realized something, and came back into view.

SoSB: Before I forget, the fact that I can talk is between you and me, Don’t want to give the Linguist the idea that he’s losing his job. He may be thick sometimes, but he’s been a good friend.

Then I left, not seeing StormMaster come to life and stand up from where he was seated. His eyes glowed like rubies under the dancing sunlight coming from beyond the ocean surface.

StormMaster: Those of us with secrets must stick together, Son of Shark Boy. Your secret is safe with StormMaster, and we WILL win the Tag Team Championships.

The camera cuts to a grocery store not far away from the Full Metal Wrestling Corruption arena. An old lady is buying fruit from the store and walks on her way home. She walks past an abandoned building and down a dark alleyway where there is a man waiting for her, he snatches her handbag in one swift movement and starts running away down the opposite side of the alley.

PBM: Never fear, when PBM is here!

Paper bag man arrives on a childs scooter and throws a banana peel under the thief’s foot.

The thief goes skidding head first into a trash can, dropping the purse. Paper Bag Man picks up the purse and hands it to the old woman.

Old Woman: Thank you kind sir, but where did you come from?

PBM: It’s a secret!

Thief: Ouch my head… Who the fuck is this dude wearing a paper bag over his head, the douche?

PBM: I’m the Paper Bag Man and don’t you forget it you foul miscreant!

PBM smashes a trash can lid over the thief’s head, knocking him out cold.

Old Woman: Do you want payment?

PBM: Not at all my lady, PBM does not accept money for his deeds. Will you be able to get home ok?

Old Woman: I think I’ll be ok from here thanks to you Mr… Mr. Bag Man!

PBM: Excellent. Paper Bag Man shall be on his way then, to stop more atrocities and uphold the law!

Paper Bag Man “zooms” off on his scooter as the scene fades out.

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

Prior to Ammunition 14.1

Numb. Lately, Damien has wished that through every ordeal, every painful event, he could remain numb. But, things have changed. He can't cut away his emotions; that would lead down a path he new all too well, one he'd forsaken after his nearly career-threatening injury long ago.

But, even with his eyes closed and a picture of Eliza on his mind, his stomach turns at the deed at hand. The bile rises in his throat, and his eyes burn with fresh tears. Jess giggles and moans as she thinks of the torment she is subjecting her former love to.

Damien pulls away as the churning pain in his stomach reaches its climax. He stumbles off to the side and vomits onto the pavement.

"If I were any other girl," Jess hisses in delight, "I'd be offended."

The convulsions in his stomach cease, and he spits the last traces of vomit out.

"You've had your fun," he pants between gasps for air. "Now, tell me what Joseph is planning."

"There's no rush, dear Damien. Joseph's plan will require weeks of preperation. And until he's done, David will be safe."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I am the one in charge of watching over him."

Damien turns back to the blonde harlot he had once loved. Emotions mix on his face; rage, revulsion, confusion, sorrow. Things used to be so simple.

"Then just let him go. And then I'll finish Joseph once and for all."

Jess shakes her head, then stands to put her dress back on.

"It can not be so simple. I can't allow it to end just yet. That would be no fun. I mean, you aren't the only one I want to suffer. And if Joseph is stopped just as his plan is almost complete, that w-"

Damien reels in his focus, turning his revulsion into pure kinetic force. He uses it to crush Jess against the wall face first. He holds her there for a moment, increasing the pressure just to hear bones pop and break. Taking a deep breath, he releases her, letting her fall to the ground. As her wounds begin to slowly heal, Damien approaches her. He kneels and pulls her face an inch away from his own.

"Alright. We'll do this your way for now. But let's get one fuckin' thing straight, Jess. You try to fuck me over on this. . ." He pauses as memories of his time in Danse Macabre fill his mind. "Well, let's just say that even if I can't kill you, I'll still put every single fucked up thing I've done before to shame. I tortured your daddy for weeks on and off for what he had done to you. If David gets so much as an infected ingrown hair while I wait, I'll make your eternity worse than any torment in the nine circles of hell."

Jess weakly smiles.

"I l-love it when you t-t-talk dirty."

His teeth beared in disgust, Damien releases Jess, letting her head hit the pavement once again. With a deep breath, he turns and leaves the alley, a deep, dull pulsating pain creeping into his skull. He passes the bank, his business there completed. The closer he gets to his hotel, the sharper the pain becomes.

As he slides his key-card through the lock, his breathing becomes shallow. He stumbles through the door and just barely into the restroom just to the side of the entrance. Another convulsion grips his stomach like a vise, and yet again it empties of it's contents, now nothing more than acid. He barely makes it to the toilet in time.

His stomach effectively emptied of everything solid and liquid for the moment, Damien stands and walks dizzied by pain in his stomach and head. He uses the wall to guide himself from the bathroom and to his bed. He sits and places his hands on his head, his eyes closed. His mind is blank as the pain intensifies.

"Love, you look like hell."

Damien's head snaps up and he scans the room for the source of this voice. In a chair off in the corner sits a girl with dark black hair with bright blonde streaks throughout. Her legs are crossed, as are her arms. Damien's eyes widen in disbelief.

"No. It isn't fuckin possible."

The girl stands and walks over to Damien. She reaches out and places a single finger upon his forehead, and the pain in his head relents.

"Coming from a wizard, that's kinda funny."

Damien gasps at her touch, as warm and gentle as he remembers.

"Eliza. But, I-"

"Killed me. It's okay, love. Given the situation, and the shitty information you were given, I'd have done the same."

Damien, his hand shaking, reaches up and runs a hand through her hair.

"Is this. . . real?"

Eliza smiles up at Damien and places a warm, pale hand on his cheek.

"As real as the gods will allow."

She leans down and places a single kiss on his lips.

"How," he whispers, his voice harsh as he attempts to hold back his pain.

"It's hard to explain," she begins, pulling away from him, "and we don't have the time now. So, for now, let's say I'm your new guardian angel, after a fashion. And now, I'm here to offer some advice.

"You've been lied to, love. Too often of late. So many tragedies could have been avoided had you been told the truth. But, for the moment, that's not important. David is. And you can't save him alone. You'll need a lot of help. And some of it, you won't want to ask for."

Damien looks up into her eyes, no doubt in his mind that Eliza is telling him the truth.

"Who?"

"An old acquaintance. One you've fought once or twice. One you used to call a friend."

"Eastwood."

"Yes. That's it for now, love. I'll be back soon, and I'll be wathing you."

Without another word, Eliza slowly disappears, seeming to dematerialize before Damien's eyes. He doesn't make a move until she's gone.

Damien pulls out his phone and opens the "contacts" function. He scrolls down until he finds the number for Jack Eastwood. His thumb hovers above the call button. After a moment, he shakes his head, turns the screen off and puts it back in his pocket. Eastwood wouldn't answer him anyway. A plan formulates in Damien's head.

* * *

Prior to Death Row. . .

Damien stands with his back against the wall just around the corner from the shared locker room of Jack Eastwood's Pack. Waiting for the right moment to come along, he has his ear phones in, his I-Pod on shuffle, currently blasting Dio's "Stand Up and Shout". He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to sort through his past couple of months.

Shit, he thinks, rubbing at an itch on his eye with a gloved hand. All this god damn success here in FMW; the Tag Team titles, main event matches, and yet all this bullshit outside of here. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I was in hell.

As the outro of "Stand Up and Shout" transitions to "C'est la Vie" by Protest The Hero, Damien opens his eyes and finds Nick Gray standing before him, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in mild confusion.

He says something that Damien can't quite make out over the music. Damien holds up a finger to tell Gray to hold on, and clicks the pause button on the mp3 player.

"Now, what?"

"What exactly are you doing here?"

"Does it matter?"

Gray rolls his eyes.

"Don't answer my question with a question. It's annoying as hell."

"So was that little stunt on Corruption." Damien pauses for a moment, then adds, "Also, you've got to be the least hip sumbitch I know."

"I'm hipper than you!"

"And that is such an accomplishment."

"Son of a-"

Gray cuts himself off, realizing the tactic Damien is using.

"Don't change the subject, Damien. Why are you hanging out outside Eastwood's locker room for?"

Damien shakes his head.

"What's it matter?"

"It matters because we have a title defense tonight. If Eastwood and his little bitches fuck you up beforehand, we can kiss the Tag belts goodbye."

Damien smirks and rolls his eyes.

"First off, don't worry about SMUT. We're the champs for a reason. We can beat anyone who comes our way. Second, Eastwood and his boys ain't got shit on me."

As Gray tries to continue arguing, Damien hears a door open and gestures for his partner to be quiet. Damien looks around the corner to see Seth Rotunda and and Daniel Prideman walking away together. Damien turns back to Gray.

"Listen I've got somethin' important I've gotta talk to Eastwood about. More important than anything at the moment."

"More important than the tag titles?"

Damien hesitates. Durimg his last run in FMW, nothing would jave been more important to him than the FMW Tag Team Championship. He would have let everything else burn if it meant winning them.

But things have changed.

"Yes. . . It's my brother."

Gray opens his mouth to protest, but stops himself. He shakes his head and turns away, and throws his arms out in reluctant defeat.

"Whatever. Just don't com crying to me when Eastwood caves your head in just for fun." As he rounds a corner, he adds sarcastically, "Good luck."

Damien turns and walks to Eastwood's door. No hesitation, he pushes the door open, walks in, shuts and locks it.

"What the hell? Get the fuck out of here!"

Damien turns to find Jack staring a hole through his head.

"Calm down. I just figured a face to face conversation would be a good idea here."

Jack narrows his eyes, and then starts digging through a duffel bag.

"We've got nothing to talk about. Now get the hell out. I have a title match to prepare for."

Damien approaches slowly, ready to counter any attack Jack tries.

"I need your help, Jack. I'm im some deep shit here, and I'm pretty sure you're the only one who can help."

"Tough shit. I've got no reason to do a damn thing for you."

"We used to be friends, Jack. You would've helped me back then."

"Yeah. Back then. This is now. And things have changed." As he picks up his bag and throws it in a locker, he adds, "You still not acknowledging your time in LPW?"

"This ain't LPW, so it don't matter. Now quit changin' the subject."

"Listen, bitch. I haven't got the time for this back and forth of please and piss off. So, how about you get your arse out of my locker room, let me get ready to win the Abandoned Championship, and go fuck yourself."

With that said, Jack turns away, no longer acknowledging Damien's presence. Damien, growing agitated at Eastwoods attitude, Damien walks over to him and grabs his shoulder to spin him around. On the turn, Jack clenches his fist and swings his fist at Damien.

"I told you to fuck yourself!"

The punch connects with Damien's upper lip. As Eastwoods bare hand collides with his former friend's face, Damien's sight suddenly clouds over as various visions play before his eyes.

Two scenes take dominance on Damien's mind. The first shows Eastwood as he is now, with only a few differences. The first is what lies at his feet: a pile of corpses, all of whom Damien recognizes. The faces of men such as Seth Omega, Hannibal Frost, and Skyler Striker adorn the cadavers. At the top of the pile lies Heath "Apostasy" Yates, his cause of death made evident by the deep red mark wrapped all around his throat.

Jack stands there, staring at his handiwork with a sadistic grin on his face. In one hand he holds a long, thick chain, stained with his victoms' blood. In the other, held tight, posessively so, is a championship belt.

The Abandoned Championship.

Jack raises his prize and stares at it, the look on his face changing from sick to prideful.

This vision fades to show another. A young girl, no older than thirteen, struggling beneath the massive Eastwood. She screams in agony, begging for the assault to end.

As if an answer to Damien's subconscious pleas, the visions cut off abruptly. Damien finds himself and Eastwood both laid out on the floor, a few feet apart. Jack groans as he slowly raises himself up

"First time I've ever gotten knocked out after punching someone else."

Up to his knees now, Jack puts his hand on the side of his head.

"Shit. What the hell did you do?"

Damien sits up. He touches his lip, wondering why it doesn't hurt very much after havin been punched by Jack.

"Somethin' new. I'm a sin eater, Jack. Just by touchin' someone, I can view their greatest sins damn,near first-hand. And now, apparently when threatened, I can cause pain to a sinner if he's fucked up enough."

Despite the migraine growing in his head, Eastwood starts to smile.

"A sin eater. Heh. Interesting. Tell you what. I'll help you with whatever bullshit problem you've got, and you help me out on turn. What do you say?"

Damien stands and dusts himself off.

"Works for me. Here's my problem. . . ."

To be continued. . . .

Rotunda stands still, his breaths are short and sharp, and sweat drips from his brow, while his surroundings are lit up by only a single spotlight. He panicked, stricken with fear as he had realised what he had been reduced too, he cries out for Her, yet it only falls on deaf ears. Rotunda knew that she wanted him, and he longed for her sweet embrace also, but it almost seem as if their love was forbidden, yet if they had found it earlier, their happiness would not have mattered. Their love, instead of being celebrated, would be met with scorn and called obscene. Sure, she travelled from person to person, successfully fulfilling their deepest fantasies, only to leave them broken and filled with thoughts of what could have been, but there would also be a time where she would settle down and stay with the ones which fought so long for her and they would be happy and their relationship would go down in history and met with applause by their peers. Rotunda wanted that so bad.

She wasn’t only interested in being with the hard men of wrestling. She also flirted with other sports stars, soldiers fighting on a frontline in some distant country, musicians eager to hit the big time and many, many others. Oh so many craved her, yet many ended in either a penniless state, depression or even death, there was always a risk of trying to get intimate with her. But nobody seemed to care; it was if she was the only thing men desired, and she would continue to seem innocent to those around her, despite being followed by roads of the dying and depressed.

The alternative was her sister, Fame. Rotunda had idolized her, once upon a time, they even had a budding relationship, but Rotunda also realised that she was next to nothing. Fame would prostitute herself out, just like her sister, only, she wouldn’t be picky, and she would flirt and love anyone who paid her enough attention. From the rich in Hollywood, to some man that would sing about candy-like weather on Youtube and even to tyrants that would rule with an iron fist over their innocent people. Fame had previously been someone that the talented and unique would long for, but now she was a shell of her former self and would do anything to have a cheap little thrill.

Rotunda called out the name of the original person he was searching for, he hoped that she would run into his arms, screaming with delight of having finally found him. He called out once again, and yet nobody answered. Rotunda thought that it was a wild goose chase, maybe she was above him after all, but he quickly put the thought to the side and yelled out again, this time with a hint of desperation and anger. It was then she appeared. Rotunda was surprised she appeared in the form that she did. She did not run to him, like he had thought, instead she stared blankly and wrapped up in the satisfaction of finding yet another toy to play around with.

He ran towards her, but each time he got closer, she would move even further. Sometimes, playtime could be a process of mocking and teasing, perhaps it was to test out whether they were fit to be in her presence or not. She stopped the games and Rotunda ran as fast he could move towards her. He scooped her up and pressed his face against hers, hoping that the embrace would never end.

He stared down at the title belt, and whispered her name: “Glory.”


Thomas ap Gruff searched around the gym complex, from corridor, to corridor, room to room and that awkward moment when he walked into the men and women’s showers. Gruff had lost contact with Rotunda, who, last time they spoke, seemed to be fixated with a title match at Death Row 4, he seemed to live by the code that nothing is worth doing unless some glory comes of it. Gruff dragged his feet as he went on, cursing Rotunda’s name. Gruff stopped in his tracks as from a nearby room, he heard a familiar sound.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump

Gruff turned into the room, only to find an overworked, yet focused Rotunda firing punches into a punching bag. Each blow rocked the bag backwards and then spinning on its axis.

“Seth?” Gruff asked calmly, but with a slight hint concern.

Rotunda ignored his agent, firing a combination of punches, followed by a roundhouse kick.

“Seth, I think you’re straining yourself,” Gruff stated.

Rotunda stopped and turned to look Gruff directly in the eye. Rotunda’s eyes were filled with rage as sweat dripped from every pore on his body and his breaths were snorts. It seemed Rotunda was in some kind of a battle trance.

“You’re scaring me, Seth.”

Rotunda spat on the floor, before going back to his work, his unprotected fists now speckled with blood.

“Ryder Strong,” Rotunda muttered before striking the bag with a left hook.

“We need to go now, Seth,” Gruff said sternly.

“Ryu Quinn,” Rotunda said even more loudly as he sent a knee strike into the bag.

“You honestly need to calm down.”

“Daniel Prideman,” Rotunda growled as he struck with a rare spinning back fist into his target.

“Please, Seth, you’re tiring yourself out,” Gruff begged.

“Jack EASTWOOD!” Rotunda barked as a right hook sunk into the punching bag.

“Seth-“

“THE CHAMPION!” Rotunda shouted as he launched himself into the bag, pummelling it with right and left hooks, combination punches, palm strikes and knee strikes, before exhaustion finally took over and Rotunda sunk against the wall.

“He’s really up for this,” Gruff said with concern as he hurried up to help Rotunda to his feet.

“Tell Eastwood that if he steps in my way, I’ll make sure that I’ll execute him,” Rotunda barked.

Rotunda stood up in the living room of his flat, he was a man completely driven on winning a title for the first time, and he wasn’t going to let it pass. He’d ended many a people’s dreams in his boxing days. He wasn’t prepared for it to happen to him and winning the title would finally mean he was with Lady Glory and he would be on the ladder to be a household name.

“You honestly want me to say that to him, word for word?” Gruff enquired.

“I don’t care that I’m part of The Pack, he’s not stopping me.”

“Seth, just lay down just for once,” Gruff squeaked as he realised what he just said.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing…nothing…at all,” Gruff said, his voice making Paul Bearer sound manly by comparison

“You want me, Seth Rotunda, to just lie down for the lowlife that is Jack Eastwood? You want me to deliver a ruthless beating to all those in the ring, only to lie down on by back and get pinned? What else should I do? Let him fuck me in the arse? Take out his laundry? Deliver him my agent in a body bag?”

“Fine, don’t lie down.”

“Rant over then.”

“Are you sure you’ll take out Apo then?”

“Listen, I may be 0-2 against him, but last match, he felt the Dreamkiller twice. See the way his head rocked back, imagine his brain slowly sliding to connect with the back of the skull, my fist caused all of that. The best part is that he’ll feel it again, because the Dreamkiller hook cannot be dodged, it cannot be blocked, ducked, reversed or even caught. It quite simple, if you don’t see skull fragments by the end of the night, I haven’t done my job.”

“That sounded pretty cool,”

“I try my best for someone of my standards.”

“What about the other three?”

“Pah, they don’t matter. Although me and Prideman stick together, he’s just a massive baby, who inflicts pain on others simply for the fact he had an unfulfilled childhood. Ryu Quinn is trying to make up for the fact that he simply contributed to a murder, and now feels guilty and Ryder Strong takes wrestling as a joke, and deserves to feel a Rotunda Wreckage.”

“I don’t think these guys will be standing a chance at all.”

“Think about it, Gruff, everything will turn up Dreamkiller, I know it. It just a matter of how many casualties I can inflict in that time.

And there’ll be so many casualties.”

Death Row 4
From the Toyota Center in Houston, Texas

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)
*If YNG Win Sons of Attrition must disband. If Sons of Attrition win, YNG must forfeit any titles they posess.

Death Row 4
From the Toyota Center in Houston, Texas

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)
*If YNG Win Sons of Attrition must disband. If Sons of Attrition win, YNG must forfeit any titles they posess.

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER
Come on, Storm... we don't want to disappoint.

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)
Hmm... looking forward to seeing what happens regardless of vote.

The hospital room, with its bland decor and emotionless themes, was the first thing that Hannibal Frost saw as his eyes fluttered open. His mind was erratic. No thought could be latched onto; nothing to anchor him back to reality.

He tried to move, but the restricting feeling of tough leather kept him pinned to the hospital bed.

"He...llo?"

Frost had felt the simple question slip from his own throat, but the sound he heard was hoarse and beaten. It was a sound that no soul wanted to hear: the sound of encroaching death.

When no one answered, Frost tried again, louder this time. The mucus in his throat seemed to break, allowing for a stronger call, but still... no one came.

Erratic thoughts soon gave way to a feverish slideshow of images and ideas. The Sons of Attrition were first and foremost. His three partners in justice flashed before his eyes, each one hoping for his helping hand. But being confined to a hospital bed...

Frost immediately began to struggle again, the hospital bed his anchoring thought. He had no idea why he was there, but he'd find out soon enough.

"Knock knock, Frosty."

The voice from the doorway immediately struck a chord within Hannibal Frost. Each syllable was tinged with just a hint of joyous malevolence, all tied together with a wicked bow. Terror raced through Frost with speed.

"May I come in?" The voice asked, a smile biting behind it.

"What's wrong with me?" Frost asked, knowing the figure in the doorway would have the answer.

"How on earth should I know? Do I look like a doctor to you?"

A grating laugh escaped the man, the sound filling the room for a brief second.

Frost growled at that laugh, hating that he had to hear it once again. "Right, stupid question. What's wrong with you?"

Another laugh. "Me, you, apples, oranges."

"Get the fuck out of this room, Harley."

The man in question touched a hand to his chest, feigning a look of surprise. "Get out? GET OUT!? Why, the Harlequin will do no such thing. In fact, I was just here to take peek at your medical record."

Frost struggled against his restraints as the Harlequin snatched a clipboard from the door. Moments passed as the man who used to be Dr. Harley Quint studied the file.

"Hmm... how sad, how sad indeed."

Frost cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Harley glanced over to Frost, his painted face wicked under the fluorescent lighting. "Old friend, I'm sorry to say, today is not your day."

"So you rhyme now?" Frost barked in response.

"No. NO. Completely on accident."

"So... what's wrong with me, Doc?"

Harley quickly returned his gaze to the clipboard in his hands. "Abdominal pain, nausea, aching of the joints... and medication isn't helping?"

It was weird for Frost.

The second that Harley stepped into the room, all the fear evaporated. He KNEW that this man would not hurt him, not like this.

But, Frost's body, karma, destiny... all unforgiving and merciless.

"Harley, please... what's wrong with me?"

Harlequin jumped back, a look a pure surprise enveloping his face. "Please? I honestly don't know what to say. When do I ever come bearing good news?"

Frost swallowed a lump in his throat, real fear now striking at him. What if this was it? What if the thing that truly had the power to destroy him... was something he couldn't even fight?

"It's either ulcerative colitis, or... colon cancer," Harley said plainly. "Can't really color that one, even with my impressively entertaining vocabulary."

Frost felt his world fall out from under him. But, for some reason, it caught something on the way down.

Relief.

Happiness.

An inevitable sense that everything would end soon. That... all the fighting... would close out. Maybe not in a peaceful way, but... Frost couldn't find it in him to care anymore.

"Don't be so glum, Snowman. It could just be the colitis. Which is only annoying."

"My luck is for shit."

"Right you are, and believe me, it pains me to agree with you."

Frost, for the first time since waking up, smiled. "I bet it does."

"Oh Frosty, I never wanted this. I'm only here because your subconscious can't handle it alone. Am I dying? Why won't this stop?"

"Mocking me now?"

"No, no I'm not. YOU are mocking you because this world was always too much to take. And now you're chiding yourself for being so weak.

"I'm not weak."

"Then prove it. Because you are going to die either way the loaf is cut. To the left... to the right... DEAD. Maybe now... maybe later... DEAD."

Frost felt his lip curl at the inevitability of it now. He couldn't just accept death.

Of course, he might've had to, as Harley pulled Dirty Harry from the inside of his coat.

"Frosty, I know you. Just like I know every little piece that fits into this," Harley said with a smile, shaking the gun with emphasis. He then pulled back the hammer on the Magnum, before aiming it at Frost. "And I know that if there's one thing you wanna do... it's to go out with a BANG!"

Harlequin then pulled the trigger to that .357 Magnum Revolver.

Click.

This was never my dream.

A red glow from neon signs on the street front below his hotel room was the only light. It cast the room in an almost demonic way. The reflection from the television made it look like a wall of fire, the white curtains looked like they had been stained with blood and the chandelier looked more like a giant claw reaching out to grab him from his bed.

Am I losing my mind?


The room was fitting for the dark thoughts that were becoming more and more a part of his psyche. For every thought of good and contentment that was a part of the “real” him, another thought of sinister intent lurked just behind in the shadows of his mind.

Is this my destiny?

Abel found his hand reaching out instinctively into the red haze, grasping for the one thing that he had been able to turn to in need over the past weeks.

Since his initial attack on John Derrick the weeks had run away from him, spiralling faster and faster until his life felt like on giant tornado. Abel knew himself well enough to understand that winning anything in FMW wasn’t of any import to him anymore.

He was bored.

He had tried to walk away on numerous occasions but whenever he tried it felt like something was pushing him toward the eye of the hurricane. Like something, or someone, wanted him to be a permanent storm of destruction.

He had tried to turn a blind eye to the dark thoughts in his mind. He had traced them all back to the attack on John Derrick. He had felt clarity and justification in his actions that day.

The man had been a weight around his neck and he was fully justified in removing that burden. At first Abel had thought that by removing the burden of being “good” had opened up the dark corners of his mind, that his actions against Doc had lit the fuse. Now he suspected that the madness in his mind had already been taking over. His actions that day were merely the first cracks in the wall.

Am I evil?

Despite the lingering doubt in his mind, Abel was fairly convinced that he was not evil. He had done far too much good in his life for that to be true.

Is it the boredom?

Since he could remember Abel Steele had always been fighting for something. For his boxing titles, for respect, for a friend in need or against an enemy but now Abel had nothing to fight for. He was comfortable and without any real drive to win in a sport he honestly didn’t care all that much about

It is the boredom!

Skulling down the remnants of the smoky brown liquid from the bottle in his hand, Abel turned to face himself in the mirror. The reflection, dishevelled and bathed in pale blood red light was too much.

NO MORE!

Abel shouted in disgust at himself as he flung the empty bottle out of his hotel window sailing into the red, red night.

Surprisingly, Abel did not hear a smash of the bottle on the ground outside. He turned to the window only to see a man fallen on the sidewalk below his window. The wheels of his bicycle still spun slowly at the feet of the injured man and an empty scotch bottle lay on the ground, encircled by a growing puddle of blood.

I SAID NO MORE!!!

Abel grabbed up another full bottle of whiskey from the hall table and flung it across the room, smashing into pieces against the wall. His mind warped under the impact of what he had done.

I am NOT a bad person. That man should have been wearing a helmet, it was his own fault.

Suddenly the room burst into flame, the pale blood red replaced by the intense orange light of burning alcohol. As the fire crept up the wall Abel grabbed up his personal items and left.






Eve watched from across the street as Abel walked calmly out the of the hotel lobby. She had been on her way to visit him and make sure he was ready for his match tomorrow night. After his drunken exploits in the lead up to Ammunition 14.3 she had wanted to make sure he was ok

Water was dripping from his clothes and smoke billowed out of the door until it shut behind him. The screaming fire alarm left no doubt as to what was going on inside. To her surprise Abel never once glanced back as he turned down the street away from the commotion of the gathering crowd outside the Vista Views hotel.

Quickly she grabbed out her mobile phone and dialled. This was unexpected from Abel and her employers would definitely want to know about it.






Abel stood on the roof of an abandoned building looking out across the city. He could see the glow acroos town where the Vista Views hotle burned on. The wails of sirens rushing to scene piercing the silence of his empty roof top.

I am insane.

Abel stepped up onto the ledge of the building, looking down at the empty alleyway below. No one would see him here.

Everywhere I go, chaos follows.

Abel slowly turned to face away from the alley, placed his hands on his head nad leant back, falling into the night. As the concrete rushed up to meet him Abel felt calm for the first time in weeks.






Mister? Are you ok Mister?

A gentle shake on his shoulder greeted Abel as he opened his eyes. It was dark all around him.

So this is hell?

No mister. You saved my life. You are an angel!

The awe in the girl’s voice was quite unnerving. As Abel looked at her he quickly realised that she was a homeless child. She was dirty, wearing clothes that did not fit her and she smelled like a mix of wet dog and mouldy bread.

As she noticed him looking at her perplexed, she pointed underneath him. For the first time since opening his eyes Abel noticed he was not lying on flat hard bitumen. Rather he was lying on a warm soft tangle of lumps and bumps.

He slowly got to his feet, aching all over and turned to find two men lying at his feet. The odd angle of their heads left no doubt as to their death.

I…. I fell…. On them?

Yes’sir. Jus’ in time too. They was about to kill me mister.

The girl pointed to a gleaming metal blade a few feet away.

Abel’s mind reeled, the unbelievable odds of him surviving that fall AND rescuing a girl from murderers was too much to comprehend.

Chaos…..

Abel looked back at the girl and reached into his pocket, handing over a $50 note to her.

Go and get yourself a hot meal girl.

the girl’s eyes sparkled and a smile split her face from ear to ear.

Mister you really are an angel.

I am no angel…now go.

Abel walked to the main street with the girl, then watched as she rushed toward a nearby restaurant, no doubt seeking the hot meal Abel had mentioned. As she went inside Abel turned and began walking back across town.

I am no angel. I am the Lord of Chaos.

Suddenly the door to the restaurant crashed open again behind him and a waiter tossed the homeless girl outside.

I told you never to come back in here you little bitch!!!

Abel watched in horror as the girl stumbled out the door and tripped over the leg of a woman walking by the door, losing her balance and falling into the street. He opened his mouth to shout out in desperation but it was already too late. As the girl smacked her head on the asphalt a bus slammed into her skinny little body, her head popping like corn under the tires.

Abel turned away unable to watch as the bus screeched to a halt. He felt his stomach drop. Chaos truly was following him wherever he went an no matter what he did

If I am The Lord of Chaos, then it is time to let Chaos rule.






Eve watched Abel go from amongst the throng of people crowded around the body of the dead homeless girl. Her death was a tragedy but her greater concern was for the man trudging away from the scene.

Once again she reached into he coat and pulled out her mobile as she extracted herself from the crowd.

Hi, it’s me again.

I think it’s finally happened.

Yes, he’s completely cracked. What do I do now?

Eve snapped her phone shut and began walking behind Abel at a distance. She felt heartbroken for the man but she had too much on the line not to follow her latest instructions to the letter. She would sit back and watch the chaos reign.

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

Death Row 4
From the Toyota Center in Houston, Texas

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)
:3

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman
Gonna wait to vote til I see more promos


Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)
subject to change with more promoes.

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

Absolutely no fucks given about votes. My first show back, I'll vote for whatever pleases me with no knowledge of what has happened beforehand.

The world of professional wrestling, it’s a different world. Politics is everything. It’s pretty easy to get ahead. No, not by having a great work ethic. No, not by pulling off 5 star matches. By KISSING ASS. I’ll give you a prome example.

Nick Bryson.

You say “Nick Bryson, yeah, I know him! He’s my favourite actor!”

He can’t act for shit. You know it, I know it. Even Sir Henry Cooper knows it, bless his soul. That’s why he was defeated by Christian Bale in the best actor category at the Oscars. Wrestlers can’t act. Why do you think SoL’s movie with Lou demolished the subsidiary known as LPW Films?

But the role he got isn’t what matters. What matters is that he’s World Champion. FMW World Champion. But as I mentioned before, it’s pretty easy to do so. By kissing the ass of a certain P. Thurston Deveraux. You want to know why he and his one and only cock sucking counterpart Matt Ashburn were put against me and Ripper?

Deveraux made that match, not to give me a push, not to give Ripper a push, but because Deveraux wanted to make YNG look like kings. He wanted them to look like gods coming into their match against Sons of whatever the fuck they’re called. You want to know how people succeed in this business? Kissing the bosses ass.. Whatever Bryson wants, Bryson gets.

Nick Bryson wants to become the first two time World Champion? There you go, Nick Bryson becomes the first two time World Champion. Nick Bryson wants to headline the biggest show of them all at Ultimatum III? Sure, Nick Bryson headlines the biggest show of them all at Ultimatum III. Guess what I get? I get booked to LOSE against a fucking “shark on land” and a “Storm Trooper here to make his daddy proud”. I bet his dad is rolling in his fucking grave.

And now he gets his own stable. YNG, or as I like to call it, “The Nick Bryson Experience”. He’s like Steve Miller, without the bad haircut. What, I take that back. Nick Bryson has a terrible haircut. Cut by Trey Spruance, by the way. That’s right, Deveraux is cutting back everywhere. Don’t be surprised when you ring up the FMW hotline and hear the voice of Sleg.

Anyway, back to Bryson. The man who supposedly owns a town called Cleveland in the middle of Britain. You guys really want to know what Cleveland is home to? The Full Metal Wrestling, drum roll, creative writing team! Hold your applause, though. Because this team of guys are the reason this company is losing money to LPW. Let’s look at it’s team.

Nicholas Brighton. This man was behind the cancellation of Distortion. Genius? Yes, 100% yes. But then, this man was the one who put Nick Bryson on the top of the Ultimatum stage. He was the one who decided to put the belt on Bryson. You want to know why? Nicholas Brighton and Nick Bryson are the same person. Kissing ass paid off, now he’s the head writer for the company.

I could go on for hours ripping on Bryson, but there is ONE man who I personally admire on that creative team. Dean Johnson. A charming man he is. He’s the man with the ideas that could actually make FMW be even on the same LEVEL as LPW. Johnson wants to push the young guys, while Bryson pushes only himself and YNG. Johnson wants to make the brands more distinct, while Bryson is making the brands less and less distinct, and is now even bringing back the name known as Anarchy. He’s the man who I think should be running this company, even taking the place of Deveraux.

But now, I need to talk about Death Row. I’m taking on several men, with the winner being crowned the contender for the TV title, held by yet another Bryson yes-man in “Marky Mark”. Now, I think they should put let me win, and put the title on me. Wanna know why? Too bad, I’m telling you anyway.

Trey Spruance. A man who on his days off smokes weed with Andy Savana. Yes, Andy, we saw you. Trey’s career has gone downhill since he was part of PWA as a Misfit. The dumb Misfit. Here in FMW, he’s practically just a jobber. He’s been released time and time again by both companies. And now, to “reinvent himself”, he puts on that paper bag that we never wanted to see again after its use in PWA. It never worked before, why will it work now? And now SMUT? A shark, a storm trooper, and a man with a paper bag on his head? That’s the stupidest fucking stable I’ve ever heard. And now, I get to face a man with a paper bag over his head. How a DDT going to feel now?

FMW is full of these freaks. Let’s look at the one and only Sean Jensen. The man who can’t keep his relationships backstage together. Who fucks all the hot girls at Protest the Hero concert. By the way, Jensen, Protest the Hero are fucking terrible. You are fucking terrible. Somehow, in your debut match for this company, Deveraux chooses you to compete in this TV title contendership battle royal. Why, though? You’re not marketable. The only reason you’re marketed in LPW is because Drew Michaels convinced management to make you join the Misfits. You may not be known as a Misfit anymore, nor do you like to be referred to one, but you will be nothing more than one. Yet, now, you’re part of a stable, which, honestly, has the worst concept known to mankind. GSW.

Now, GSW. You, of course, have yet to make an impact in this company, because Devaux refuses to let you win. Tag title match? Deveraux says no. TV title match? Deveraux says no. You even had two men in that match, yet he decides to keep the title on Ashburn? Bad move, FMW. But now, NOW GSW get put in ANOTHER match for the TV title, with Jonathon King, the rich man with the cocaine problem. The rich man with a criminal record after robbing banks. Ironic, eh?

Down my list, yes Adam Smith. Callum Pullin. Guy from the indys to job to stars like me. Good job, FMW.

Starchild? Really? Rock stars can’t wrestle. We learnt that a long time ago. But, yet again, FMW brings in what most of the roster lacks in star power, to, not be a manager, not be a “guest host” (don’t get me started on that), but to wrestle. You practically jobbed to Rampage, what makes you think FMW will put the title on you? Exactly. They won’t. you’re in there to make the crowd “happy”, when most of them aren’t even impressed by your music. Oh, by the way, Smoke on the Water is possibly the worst theme song choice. Ever.

Oh, here we go. Big Steve Monroe. A man who, even though he clearly earns more than even RICHARD Dynamo in LPW, “somehow” has no money and is forced to live on the street. One, Matt Clark doesn’t appreciate gimmick infringement, you son of a bitch. And two, how can you be unemployed, and somehow bang some hot chick up (yes, your wife will forever be called a MILF), and somehow have a house? See, exactly. FMW, you need to get better creative writers.

As I go through this list of hobos who have MILF’s hanging off them, cocaine addicted “money men” who joins a bunch of guys who on their own would be released due to their natural shitty wrestling ability, his man whore of a team member, indy jobbers who think they can make a name for themselves, jobbers who put paper bags over their heads to somehow reinvent themselves, botchtastic jobbers who think returning will make them “current”, and rockstars who should stick to their day jobs, I realise something; they HAVE to put the title on me.

If they didn’t, the TV title would be NOTHING. I’m on the only marketable superstar in this company. I know it, my fans know it, and even Nick Bryson the bastard himself knows it.

Join my campaign. Push Christian Parkes, to infinite and beyond.

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King vs Christian Parkes vs Ripper vs Sean Jensen vs Callum Pullin vs Starchild vs Adam Smith vs Steve Monroe vs Paper Bag Man

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt vs Slegnadamus, Butters and Rampage

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy vs Eastwood vs Ryder Strong vs Seth Rotunda vs Ryu Quinn vs Daniel Prideman

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno vs Son of Shark Boy and STORMMASTER

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA (The Celt, David GS, Hannibal Frost, Leon Caprice) vs Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

Ripper brooded silently as he sat in his dark hotel room; his recent loss heavy upon his mind. The losing didn’t matter really. Ripper could give less than two shits about the score card at the end of the match. What he wanted, what he had always wanted, was blood. His idiotic and self-doubting behavior within the ring had led not only to humiliation, but to a great personal failure. The thought of his hesitation from atop the ropes brought a sudden rush of anger into him. The small pain Bryson had brought him served only to amplify it. His eyes clenched shut and his teeth clamped together as a he fought to simply stay still. His body grew warm as he struggled not to smash everything within reach. Then suddenly his body relaxed, and his eyes opened. He mumbled softly under his breath.

Ripper: No. Fighting is stupid! Break. Kill.

He jumped up from the bed in a flash and wasted no time in driving his fist through the cheap plaster wall. He turned to the window and the air-conditioner blasting cooled air into his room. He smiled wide as he drove his boot through the plastic covering and deep into its inner workings, the steel of his boot clanging dully against the metal pipes and covers as they dislodged from their appropriate positions. He laughed as he slammed it in again. And again. Bits of plastic and metal began to fly in all directions as he brutally destroyed the machine. His eyes glanced upward to his reflection in the window then grew wide and joyous as he walked over to the old tube television that sat on the dresser. He lifted easily and screamed as he launched the television through the window, shattering the glass, and sending the TV over the railing and crashing down onto the asphalt of the parking lot three floors down.

Ripper: Seven years bad luck! Hahaha!

He walked to dresser and fished his screwdriver from the pocket of his jacket he had left there. He smiled at the dried blood along the shaft.

Ripper: What do you think, Friend? Who’s next?

His eyes were wide and expectant as he heard a familiar voice in reply. What it said, however, made his face grow dark with anger.

Friend: No one tonight. That energy doesn’t do you any good if you use it up on some idiot hotel guest.

Ripper plunged the screwdriver into the wall in rage then pulled it back out, shouting.

Ripper: Then who?!? And when!

The voice answered softly but clearly.

Friend: Tomorrow. Use my gift to you tomorrow. Teach one of those sorry wrestlers the same lesson you taught me. Show them true pain. Show them the color of their blood.

Ripper’s anger and hatred suddenly slipped away as he locked it into the small place at the back of his mind where it would wait. He smiled happily.

Ripper: You see? I knew you would have a good answer. After all, you learned YOUR lesson so well.

Ripper giggled softly to himself as he slipped on his jacket then put the screwdriver in his pocket for safekeeping. He quickly surveyed the room, happy with his handiwork as he stepped out through the window then descended the stairs to the parking lot. He sighed contentedly as he sat down on his motorcycle and revved the engine to life.

Ripper: I think I’m going to head to Texas now instead of in the morning. The sunrise is always more beautiful in Texas.

Friend: You’ve been to Texas?

Ripper’s face grew less bright for a moment as his eyes dulled in an uncharacteristic moment of reflection.

Ripper: I grew up there.

The engine of Ripper’s motorcycle rumbled as he pulled out of the parking lot and sped down the road. He glanced back in his mirror in time to see a lit-up police cruiser pull into the hotel behind him. Ripper’s smile slowly returned as he vanished into the distance.