Death Row 4 Voting and Promo Thread

Ryder Strong’s cameraman brings the camera into focus and points it at the surrounding 4 walls. He spins around giving the viewing audience of what it feels like to be in a “whirlwind experience” known as Ryder Strong’s life. Suddenly, the camera jolts from side to side…

Cameraman: OW!

Ryder Strong: Dude, are you OK!?

Cameraman: Ye..yeah, I stubbed my effing toe!

Ryder Strong: Who told you you were a cinematic videographer, man? LOL. You’re supposed to just shoot what you see.

Cameraman: Yeah, but, now that everything is taking off for you…

Ryder Strong: Us, man. US!

Cameraman: Well…yeah, but, now that our lives are beginning to change, I wanted to spice up our show! All new graphics, new camera angles like…a deep storyline plot for the fans to follow along with at home…

Ryder Strong: I appreciate your ambition but…I don’t know…I kinda wanna keep it grassroots style. Really low budget and low key. I mean…just because we’re on television, it doesn’t mean that we have to become capitalistic pigs concerned with all things beautiful and glamorous.

No. That’s not our intentions here.

Cameraman: …mhmm…and your tweets about wanting gold…isn’t the slightest bit of greed?

Ryder Strong: Don’t get me wrong, I’d love a new belt buckle as my beer bottle opener buckle is hurting my crotch.

Cameraman: TMI?

Ryder Strong: LOL. But, I’m also doing this for the people.

The people who are still fighting the good fight for all mankind.
The people who are standing up to the hypocrisies they face everyday that prevent them from succeeding.
The people that grind their feets and hands to the bone everyday just to put a one person meal on the table that has to feed 4.
The people that will never get ahead in life because Corporate America deems their self-expression as “the devil” instead of realizing the large amounts of experience and intelligence this person could bring to their fledgling company.
The people that try to adapt to what the “majority” want then get told “it’s not good enough”.
The people that…

Cameraman: Whoa, dude. I was kidding about the “greedy” part.

Ryder Strong: You’re not the first person to mention that, Tim. I’ve gotten a few emails from people that tell me that I’m becoming something that I fought so hard not to become. That’s why I’m doing this video to let you all know I am still the same Ryder Strong. I haven’t forgotten where I came from. I am still one of you. You are all Forgotten Heroes and I stand side by side with each and every one of you every step of the way. Don’t take this success as “change”. Take this success as….CHANGE! The world will have no choice but to pay attention to us!

US!

Tim: Powerful stuff.

Tim hits the STOP button on the camera and places it on the nightstand…

Ryder Strong: Yeah…and you know the funny thing is? I actually believe it…now.













Tim: Dude, do you see that!

Tim focuses in on what looks to be another “Occupy” movement here in Texas. However, this rally is anything but peaceful…or Wall Street related. Signs reading “Ryder is a Traitor”, “Strong Style? Strong LIAR!” and “Ummm, I Kinda Hate You A Lot, RS” are seen by the few people settled in front of the Toyota Center. Tim scans the small crowd to find none other than Nicky Simpson atop her soap box preaching to the masses (read: 5 people) about…”

Nicky: …Ryder Strong doesn’t care about us! He only cares about himself! He hides behind the guise of the 99% when he really is part of the 1%! I ask FMW to remove this character from our television sets as soon as possible. Do you guys really wanna know about Ryder Strong? He…

Ryder charges up to Nicky and snatches the megaphone out of her hands.

Ryder Strong: …is a lovely human beings that bakes marvelous Toll House cookies. Need me to snd you some Cookies of Salvation?! Facebook me your address and I’ll be sure to include a few “Strong Words of Wisdom” for your everyday life!

Ryder drops the megaphone and grabs Nicky by the hand. Tim, still in tow, follows the two around the corner from the Toyota Center.

Ryder Strong:What the HELL is your problem, Nicky?
Nicky: YOU, Ryder. You and everything you NOW stand for.

Ryder Strong: WTF?

Nicky: Don’t give me that computer techy gimmick language of yours. I’m not one of the hundreds of people who are now all over your funky jock. I am THE friend you had when this was all put together.

Remember when we sat in that library putting this whole thing together? Remember when we used to spread our words to our friends and how that slowly blossomed into a movement? A movement supported and backed by ONE common goal: “Live. Laugh. LOVE.” I see you doing a whole lot of living and laughing but where is the love?

Ryder Strong: Fergie, …

Nicky: Who is THAT? Another one of your new “followers”?

Ryder Strong: Guess you missed the joke, huh?

Nicky: My…God, you have changed. Is everything a joke to you now? You used to be passionate about our ideals. REAL PASSIONATE! Now, all I see is 99% entertainment and 1% substance. This is not the man that I sat by for hours on end sharing philosophical ideals and debating the state of the economy with until the wee hoursof the morning. You have become something that WE, the real minority, can no longer support.

That is why tonight, we are throwing our support behind anyone but you.

Ryder Strong: What?!

Nicky: You heard me. Apostasy has dominated for months on end. Do you really think you have any chance of beating him? Especially when I, who knows you better than you know yourself, knows that you are deathly afraid of him.

Ryder Strong: No I’m not.

Nicky: Oh really? Would you like me to retrieve the message you sent me?

Tim: …Ryder…is that…

Nicky: …oh you don’t even know the half of it. Your “leader” is a major pussbag. Jack Eastwood’s intimidating presence gives him goosebumps. I mean, the man is 6’8” so I can understand that but saying that he makes your “knees quake” is not only a little gay but it’s the purest form of cowardice I’ve ever seen.

Ryder Strong: That’s enough.

Nicky: No, I’LL tell you when it’s enough. Hey, camera guy, did he also tell you how much he fears Seth Rotunda? Oh yeah, Ryder faced him in that tag match and although he won, he told me Seth is a bit too aggressive for his taste. Translation: Seth broke my finger nail and I cried to Nicky like a little bitch.

The camera looks back and forth between Nicky and Ryder as Ryder’s eyes begin to fill up.

Nicky: He even fears RYU! Paranoid little baby feels that Ryu doesn’t really like him and will turn on him as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Ryder? Scared of his friends? You don’t say? Now, is that any way he a leader should act?

Tim: Wait, what about Daniel Prideman?

Nicky: Who?

Tim: LOL.

Ryder Strong: LOL!

Nicky: What’s so funny?

Ryder Strong: LOLOLOLOL.

Nicky: Whatever. The point is this “man” is a liar and everyone that believes in him needs to know the true Ryder Strong, not this façade everyone is getting to know on television.

Ryder Strong: I don’t even know what to say to that…so, because I haven’t contacted you, now everything I stand for is a lie?

Let me clarify a few things for you:

1) You are not my mother.
2) You are not by daddy.
3) I’m a busy man trying to make everyone happy.

And I seem to be failing at that at least in your estimation. For that, Nicky, I apologize. But for you to go on this smear campaign against me is just plain wrong. A friend would never do that to another friend. A real friend would stand behind their friend even though soe things may have changed. Don’t you get it? I’m doing this for all of us. My past, however crazy and deceptive it may be, is my past. I have found my natural calling and it is to love the world as a whole. I’m fighting for people to LIVE freely , LAUGH because bitching and complaining gets you nowhere and to LOVE everyone everyday as if it were youer last.

So what, I may be slightly intimidated by everyone in that match…well….except Daniel Prideman, but so what? I’m human. I’m allowed to feel fear, scared and emotional but I will NEVER let those feelings override my desire to make this world a better place. If I have to shove all of my cookie cutter, marshmellowy goodness down everyone’s throat then that’s just what I’ll do. I don’t care if your name is Harlequin or Christian G. Smitten, you will respect my character and you will respect by love.

I love hard. I love strong. And that is what will propel me to knocking off 5 other men tonight in that ring to capture the Abandoned Championship. I will do this for THE CULT aka, the Abandoned people of this world.

Fate has brought me here. Fate will bring me what WE desire.

Nicky: Damn…that was hot!

Ryder Strong: Now, are we BFFs again?

Nicky: We could be FWB too?

Ryder Strong: Um…

Nicky: Shhh! Don’t answer that yet. Tonight, you can give me that answer.

Nicky saunters away slow and seductively to her soapbox and 5 followers. She gathers them all up and head down the street to a local Bank of America to begin “occupying” them.

Tim: That was deep.

Ryder Strong: Cousin, you should know by now, I’m a deep man.

Tim: Yeah…does she know that she has equipment that you…don’t like…training with?

Ryder Strong: Girls are funny: no matter how many times I tell them, they still want to be the one to “turn me”. LOL. It never fails.

Tim: You should tell them you like it #ball...

Ryder Strong: ….Shut. Up.

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 - PBM

Flag Match
Killswitch vs 'Outlaw' John Andrews - Killswitch

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

Singles Match
Anwyl vs Alex O'Rion - Anwyl

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

Singles Match
Abel Steele vs John "Doc" Derrick - Doc Derrick

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

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten vs Harlequin vs Chris Austin - Christian G. Smitten

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.

Idolatry: An Origins Story in Three Parts

Fade in. The setting is your typical American high school – right out of the movies. There are scores of late-teens walking out the main double doors, mostly in small clusters with bags slung over their shoulders or stacked books in their arms. The camera focuses in on one particular guy strolling towards a classic open-top Chevrolet.

“That’s it for another day; god, school is dull. I am so looking forward to.. wait, I should probably introduce myself, right? How rude of me.”

With a smug smile, the guy – tall and well-built – glances into the camera. At the same time, three attractive blondes in cheerleader outfits saunter past, flashing him smiles while giggling to each other. He simply nods in acknowledgement before continuing on his way.

“My name is Matt Ashburn.. and yes, I’ve stuck my penis in all three of those broads.. and my penis is bigger than yours.”

The camera closes in on the Chevrolet, revealing another muscular guy sat behind the wheel looking at his big ostentatious watch. The sun beams reflect off the gleaming red paintwork of his vehicle.

“This right here is Mark Johansson. I’m known as something of a ladies man but Mark? Mark’s known for beating people up, straight killing ‘em. This guy gets in fights all the time – pretty much every night out! Of course, me and Bryson have always got his back… more about him later.”

Ashburn: ‘Sup Marky Mark?

Mark looks over with narrowed eyes and waves his middle finger in Matt’s direction.

Johansson: I don’t go by that name anymore, dickwad.

Ashburn: You know I’m just messing with ya.

Johansson: How was class?

Ashburn: Well math was lame but you know that cute little hardbody in my Bio class?

Johansson: The choir chick?

Ashburn: I don’t know, probably. Anyway, we skipped class and you know the rest.

Johansson: Nice.

Ashburn: What did you do today?

Johansson: Beat up some faggot in the canteen.

Ashburn: How come?

Johansson: He looked poor.

Ashburn: I hope you broke his jaw, but anyway, where’s Bryson?

Johansson: Oh he’s on his way.

“Bryson was the head boy, the top student in the year. He aced every test, was the Quarterback for the first team and his parents were the richest in the whole year. I mean.. me and Mark were wealthy but Nick was something else.”

A tall beast of a man jogs over to the car, bro-hugs with Ashburn and leans up against the side of the car.

Bryson: Afternoon, lads.

Ashburn: Hey Nick, what’s up?

Bryson: Being amazing.

Ashburn: Modesty doesn’t suit us at all.

Bryson: Why should we be modest? With our wealth, intellect and physical ability, we can do whatever the hell we want.

Johansson: We’re untouchable. It’s almost like we’re.. gods.

A cheery piano instrumental kicks in and Bryson turns directly to the camera with an equally cheery grin. Moving in time to the music, he begins to sing…

Bryson: When you’re one of us, forget the cost, you can have anythinggggggg
When you’re one of us, a motherfucking boss, you can even dance and singggggggggg

Ashburn: You can get any girl..

Johansson: .. in the whole damn world.

Ashburn: You can do nearly everythingggggggggg!

Bryson: Nearly? Are you crazy?

Johansson: How come you haven’t had a baby?

Ashburn: I can do damn near everythinggggggg!

Bryson: No, you’re getting it wrong.

Johansson: Is this part of the song?

Bryson: Yes but we can do anythinggggggg!

Ashburn: Can we hire some whores?

Johansson: Can we beat up the poor?

Ashburn: Can we really do anythinggggggg?

Bryson: Of course we can do..

Johansson: .. all the things we want to.

Bryson: Yes we can really do anythinggggggg!

Mark hops out of the car and joins Matt and Nick for a perfectly in sync tap dance routine while scores of students form a large circle around the dancing trio. Then three gorgeous girls run in to join them to dance.

Ashburn: Yes, we’re the greatest!

Johansson: No, we can’t fake this!

Bryson: We’re the coolest kids in this town!

Johansson: We do what we wanna!

Ashburn: We smoke marijuana!

Bryson: We can really do..

All: EH!
NE!
THINGGGGGG-

Suddenly the music cuts out, the crowd stops cheering and the guys stop dancing. A weird skinny emo kid with eyeliner and matted hair has stepped out into the circle and is attempting to breakdance.

“This kid.. I don’t even know who the fuck he is. But he shouldn’t have interrupted us. Big mistake.”

The emo kid quickly climbs to his feet and brushes his shoulder off tentatively. With a snarl, Bryson walks over to him and shoves him roughly. The kid stumbles backwards a few paces.

Bryson: What the hell do you think you’re doing, bitch?

Ashburn: Hey Mark, is this the kid you beat up earlier in the canteen?

Johansson: I don’t know.. could be..

Ashburn: Well, he looks and smells poor, so I figured..

??? M-m-my name is Hannibal.. Hannibal F-Frost.

Bryson: Get your scrawny ass outta here before we snap you in half!

Ashburn: You heard him! Break yo’self fool!

Frost: I.. I just.. I just wanted to be involved..

Ashburn: mockingly I just, I just.. BEAT IT, KID!

Cracking his knuckles menacingly, Mark approaches but Frost quickly exits, pushing his way through the crowd to safety.

Bryson: What a pussy. They should bring back workhouses for people that pathetic and poor.

Johansson: Nick Bryson, future President of the U.S.A..

Ashburn: I’d vote for you.

Bryson: Everyone with sense would.

Ashburn: And that’s why you wouldn’t get in. There aren’t many people on our level of intellect. In fact.. I don’t think ANYONE is.

Mark, Matt and Nick all nod and laugh heartily before strolling to the Chevrolet with the girls in their arms. Fade out.

The sun is slowing slinking into the horizon, the chimes of the icecream truck can be heard fading off in the distance while Celt and Leon Caprice are sitting in the garage listening to the latest rock and roll while fixing up a car.

“My hands are all covered with this sticky substance” Celt says from underneath the bonnet.

“Use my rags,” Caprice slides from underneath the car between the legs of Celt.

“Who wants lemonade?” David GS now enters the garage from the kitchen carrying a tray of sandwiches and lemonade.

“P.B and J! MY FAVOURITE!” Celt bounds over and grabs a sandwich.

“Celt now you have that sticky substance all over our sandwiches!” complains Caprice while he takes a swig of that sweet sweet lemonade.

“That is why we clean as we go, that way everyone stays clean and happy, because that’s what you need to be happy. Stay clean” David GS explains why putting down the tray in order to give out his life lesson.

Suddenly Hannibal Frost now enters the garage from the outside, he looks upset.

“Hannibal what’s wrong” Celt says.

“Yeah, Hanny Boo what is wrong” says Caprice.

“Would you like a sandwich?” asks David GS.

“You know what guys…. I could tell you” says Hannibal before turning to the camera destroying the fourth wall in the process “but I’d rather sing it to you!”

Hannibal puts his hands on the bonnet of the car while the other boys sit around with their chins on their fists.


“So you were bullied?!” says David GS in disbelief as he joins Hannibal.

“Yeah… by those mean boys in Mark Johansson, Nick Bryson and Matt Ashburn” says Frost with puppy dog eyes.

“Well this is what I say to bullies” says David GS as he starts to tap dance.


“And does that work David?!” asks Leon Caprice eager to join in on the singing and the dancing.

“Everytime!” says David GS.

“But I do wonder….” Says Hannibal before diving into the next course.


Now all the boys sing, making it a stunning number with a big finish. Talking jazz hands here people.

y!

Celt holds the final note as he has the biggest diva voice of the entire “gang”.

“Wow guys, it really helps singing out your problems like that,” proclaims Hannibal, “however, I wasn’t happy with our dance moves.”

“Yeah Leon you need to keep up the pace more, totally out of time” says Celt pointing his finger at poor old Leon Caprice.

“ME?! I am the only one here with 5 years of tap under my sleeve!” complains Leon in retaliation.

“Stop it guys! We can’t fight we are best friends!” David GS slides inbetween the two bickering friends before it gets really serious and someone gets called a name like “poopiehead”.

“That’s right we need to stick together, best friends for ever!” says Hannibal as all four friends put their hands in.

“Friendship on three” says Hannibal.

“One”

“Two”

“Three”

“FRIENDSHIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

End Scene.

The next scene opens up on the other side of town, where the grass is greener, the cars are cleaner and everyone is just generally better looking than the other side of town. Here we meet the three heroes of our story walking along the street.

“Felt good punking out Frosty,” says Ashburn kicking a can along the cutter.

“If only they would learn that all that lovey dovey friendship crap won’t help them past high school,” adds Johansson.

“Well, we need to go teach them a lesson don’t we?” asks Bryson rhetorically.

The three awesome guys nod their heads in unison and turn around to go bust up the “party” that the greasers are having in the garage of their mum’s house.

It doesn’t take them long, being a musical you can’t have long scenes of people walking somewhere, this is “Lord of the Rings”.

The landscape changes into a world that is naïve to the way the world truly is, people are skipping home, boy scouts are helping elderly ladies across the street, I think “Denis the Menace” is somewhere too.

“Eugh, this place sickens me,” says Bryson kicking the same can along the street.

“Hold up there fella,” the local postman stops Mark, Matt and Nick in their tracks and picks up the can.

“This is littering, not only that this is also recyclable!” says the postman before breaking into song.

We've been working on recycling
All the trash we can
We've been working on recycling
It's a very simple plan

“Why are you singing to us?” enquires Ashburn.

Separate your glass and paper,

There is footage of a kid separating glass and paper.

Separate you plastic and tin

Now there is footage of an old woman separating her plastics and tins.

Take the trash you've recycled...
To the recycling bin!!!

The postman finishes with amazing jazz hands as everyone on the block throws out their recycling.

“Do you always do your recycling at 6pm sharp?” asks Johansson, to which the postman starts to sing again, “Nevermind I don’t want to know.”

The three walk off, dazed and a little confused about how a whole neighbourhood has planned singing and choreography together.

“This is the house,” says Bryson as the pull up in front of the garage where the greaser “gang” is sitting humming along to the previous song about recycling.

“Hey dipshi-” says Bryson but is cut off when Leon Caprice leaps over and puts his hand over Bryson’s mouth.

“You can’t say that here,” complains Caprice.

“Also, we have something to tell you about bullying,” Hannibal Frost now joins Caprice side as they stand up to the cool kids at school.


“SERIOUSLY WHAT IS WITH YOU PEOPLE AND SINGING” yells Ashburn as the greasers back down.

“Basically we have come here to tell you that your philosophy on life is short sighted and wrong,” explains Johansson.

“Well, we think that you are all just ants at a picnic,” says Celt in retaliation.

“We are being realistic, in the whole scheme of things are you really that close? You are just friends because you go to the same school. What happens when you finish and you go away to college?” says Bryson.

“We are best friends forever –” starts David GS.

“We made a pact!” interjects Celt.

“And what is too say that the same won’t happen to you?” concludes David GS.

“Well for one we all have scholarships because we are smarter and far more athletic than you. Not only that but we at least have a common vision for the future” Bryson explains further.

“Well it is clear that you have come here to fight, the time for speaking is over!” proclaims Hannibal as the boys all start to tussle.

The fight is shortlived with the cool kids overcoming their lack of numbers to gain advantage over the greasers but are interrupted when a car pulls into the drive. Quickly the cool kids bail out while they have the second and hop into the car through the window and sun roof.

"You haven't seen the last of us!" screamed Bryson as Mark and Matt shake their fists while the car pulls away.

DUN DUN DUN


To be continued.

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, ???)

The Pack locker room door spills open and the troublesome trio barge their way in through the frame, casting a shadow over the four walls. Seth grabs a towel and heads for the shower, disappointment etched all over his face. With a snarl, Daniel begins to pack his things, angrily shoving his possessions into a large kit bag. Jack approaches him, warily.

Jack: It’s not your fault, Dan-

Daniel: Yeah, you’re damn right it isn’t. It’s you.

Jack: Explain how you get off blaming me.

Daniel: For all your talk of leadership bullshit, we haven’t done shit since we started this. Maybe I was better off back home. Maybe I was better off without you.

Jack: …you have got to be joking…

Daniel: You think I am? Look at us! All we do is get our arses kicked and mope about it.

Jack: Well you’re certainly moping now, aren’t you?

Daniel: Yeah, and with good reason!

Jack: Uh-huh. But do you really think moping’s going to solve anything?

Daniel: Got any better ideas?

Jack: Actually, I do.

Daniel: I have a bad feeling about this, but go on.

It is at this point that Seth comes out of the shower, drying his head.

Jack: We go out on the lash and crack some faces in.

The blur that follows is intense to say the least. Daniel snatches up his bag and rushes into the shower, almost knocking Seth over in the process. The sound of water is imminent.

Seth: …you told him we were going to the pub, didn’t you?

Jack: Best place to talk strategy. Talk about the future of the Pack.

Seth: Where we can be easily overheard?

Jack: You’d think so, but surprisingly you don’t really listen to others’ conversations in bars. Do you?

Seth: Not really.

Jack: Me neither. So it’s the perfect place.

Seth: Alright, fine. But first round’s on you, I haven’t got any money in my wallet.

Jack: I know a place that takes cards.

Seth: First round’s still on you.

Jack: Why?

Seth: Hey, you’re the one calling this meeting to order, the very least you can do is provide refreshments.

The water stops. Daniel steps out, looking sharp.

Daniel: We going or what?

Jack: Do I look ready yet?

Daniel: You always look sweaty and greasy.

Jack: What am I, a doughnut?

Seth: You’re certainly developing a spare tyre if that performance was anything to go by.

Jack: Leave it out. I just need a drink.

Daniel: So get ready.

Jack: Fine, fine…

He grabs a can of deodorant and lifts up his shirt, spraying in a wide arc across his chest before dropping the shirt.

Jack: Pub?

Seth: Worst reference ever.



Daniel and Seth are sat in the living room of the Asylum, watching television and talking about what their possible match at Death Row IV might be when Jack walks in, holding a bowl of cereal and a joint in one hand and some post in the other. He walks in, nods at his stable-mates and sits down, sticking the joint behind his ear and eating his Lucky Charms.

Daniel: Anything?

Jack: Yeah. Couple of cease and desist letters for yours truly and we’ve got our cards.

Seth: You’ve not looked yet?

Jack: I’m eating cereal, what do you want from me? Then I’m smoking the rest of this, and only then will I take a look.

Seth picks up the letters and quickly arranges them, tossing Jack’s onto the table in front of him.

Seth: Whatever. Here you go, Daniel.

Daniel: Ta very much.

They both open theirs at the same time and the only sound is of Jack slurping down the milk in his bowl. As he takes the rolled-up joint from behind his ear and lights it, his stable-mates look at each other, worried.

Seth: You’ve got to be kidding me.

Daniel: I knew it, I just fucking knew it.

Jack peers over from behind the haze of his cannabis, intrigued.

Jack: What’s up?

Seth: We’re in a match together. All three of us.

Jack: Well no shit, we’re a stable.

Daniel: Um… not like that. Against one another.

Jack: What?

He snatches up the pile of his letters, flicking through until he finds the Death Row IV card, which he tears open and looks at, face slowly contorting into anger.

Jack: This is bullshit.

Daniel: Tell me about it.

Jack: I mean, I demanded a one-on-one shot with Heath! Not this crap!

There is a slight pause.

Seth: …so are you trying to say that we don’t deserve to be in this match?

Jack: What? No, that’s not what I’m saying, it’s just…

Daniel: Just what?

Jack: Just… I don’t think that you should be in this match with me.

Daniel: And how’s that then?

Jack: Because, in all honesty, I need this more.

Seth: …are you serious?

Daniel: Yeah, that’s kinda out of line.

Jack: You’re fucking kidding me, I mean, you were there. I told Pisswater-

Daniel: Pisswater?

Seth: Deveraux.

Daniel: Oh yeah.

Jack: Right. I told Pisswater I wanted a match for a title-

Seth: –and you have one-

Jack: -yes I do, now will you two stop fucking interrupting? I told Pisswater I wanted a match for a title so I figured he’d be able to get it through his thick skull that it’d be man on man.

Daniel: Well it sounds to me like you’re running scared.

Jack sneers.

Jack: You what?

Seth: I think you’re right, Daniel. Sounds to me like the big bad boss man doesn’t want us in that match because he knows he can’t beat either of us.

Daniel: He probably could beat you, but not me.

Seth: Now that sounds ridiculous to me. I could mop the floor with both of you.

Jack: Alright, look, this is getting us nowhere.

Daniel: So what do you suggest we do?

Seth: Well I know what I’m going to do. Hit the gym.

Seth stands up and walks out, but not before bobbing his head back in.

Seth: And just to let both of you know… when I win, we’ll still be a team. Only under my leadership.

Jack: You win, we’ll have a one on one match to settle that. I can promise that.

Seth exits, grunting. Daniel turns to Jack.

Daniel: I think I’ll go home, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my family.

Jack: Fair enough.

Daniel walks out, leaving Jack alone, smoking away his life.



Panther enters the Asylum’s gym to find Jack there, practising MMA on a punch-bag. He strikes the base of it with his knees, viciously beating the leather in frustration. She stares at him for a while, watching the muscles rippling on his back. He stops for a second to take a breath, staring ahead, resting his hands on his legs.

Jack: You gonna just stare, or say hi?

Panther leaps back slightly in shock. She wasn’t aware that Jack knew she was there.

Panther: Sir, I… I’m sorry.

Jack: Don’t be.

He turns around, naked from the waist up. He grabs a towel and rubs his brow with it, gasping for air.

Jack: I need to kill the drugs.

Panther: But wouldn’t that make you unhappy?

Jack: Probably. But it’d also make me a hell of a lot healthier.

He grabs a bottle of water, swigging from it greedily. She sighs, flicking her black hair over her shoulder.

Panther: This coming from a man who’s dead…

Jack stops for a moment and then laughs, a rare, genuine laugh. Panther watches him, biting her lip.

Jack: I guess you’re right. But can you blame me? It’s not like my body refreshes every time I’m reborn. I’m still me, with all my little aches and pains and addictions and feelings. So maybe cutting down would help me.

Panther: But, think about it… you can’t actually go onto the next life, as it were, until you’ve collected all Seven Sins, right?

Jack: Yeah…

Panther: So smoke and drink as much as you want. It won’t kill you.

Jack: …fucking brilliant. Cocaine time!

He goes to make a move out of the gym but Panther stops him at the doorway, one arm outstretched.

Panther: There was something I wanted to ask you, actually.

Jack: Yeah?

Panther: You gonna be ok? Fighting Daniel and Seth?

Jack: When I think about it, yeah. They’re just cubs, really. It’ll be good for them to get clips around the ear. Do you doubt that I’m better than them? Honestly?

Panther: In all honesty, Sir? No.

Jack: Stop calling me that… see? I’m not trying to be arrogant. They’re just not capable of being better than me. And I’m sorry, but a lesson in tough love needs to be learned.

Panther: What about the rest of them?

Jack: My other opponents? Well, besides Ryder and Ryu, both of whom pose no threat, I’ve got to fucking deal with Heath again, haven’t I? And that guy just pisses me off no end. His entire attitude, his ideal on life is a joke. I’m not saying that he’s wrong in what he thinks, because you know me. I’m cool with everybody.

The gays, the straights, the bisexuals, the blacks, the Asians – both kinds, the whites, hell I’m even cool with the Aboriginals, Christians, Hindus, Muslims, Jews, Sikhs and Buddhists, Taoists, Jashinists, every-mother-fucking-one. So it’s cool that he thinks what he thinks and all but it’s just so wrong, in contrast to my own philosophies, that it makes me frustrated that I can’t just smash his face in and have done it.

And do you know the worst part? Those fucking imbeciles in the audience, the ones too dumb to realise he’s just leading them down a shitty path, eat up every single one of those fucking lies that he spits from his mouth. He could read them a fucking story and they’d still jizz all over it like it was actually important. I know I sound like a hypocrite, but…

Panther: You back up yours words of salvation with actions. Look at what you’ve done for all of us, Daniel and Seth included.

Jack: Exactly. Thank you.

Panther: As far as Apostasy goes, you can destroy him. You already have done.

Jack: Not when it counts.

Panther: Well maybe you should stop trying so hard.

Jack: Come again?

Panther: Just let go. Take some drugs, have some alcohol, go write a song or something.

Jack: …are you telling me what to do, Panther?

Panther: I – I –

Jack: Relax, I’m just joking. I know you’re only trying to help. And well, it can’t hurt right? After all, it’s not like if I lose then that’s unusual for me. You know what, you’re right. I just need to not get so worked up over things. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get stoned. But I think I’ll make a phone call first.



Jack is in his Tower, an acoustic guitar on his lap, a phone pressed to his ear.

Jack: Hello?

…

It’s Jack.

…

Jack Eastwood. Don’t be a prick, you know who I am.

…

I heard you had some issues with Pisswater and wondered if you needed any help.

…

Pisswater. You know, P. Thurston Deveraux? I don’t know what the ‘p’ stands for so I just call him Pisswater-

…

Like I said, I wondered if you needed any help.

…

Well fuck you then, but don’t come crying to me when you don’t have a job.

Sighing, Jack turns off the phone and lights up a fresh joint, grinning as he starts to strum away at the guitar, singing randomly in a Viking style.

Shit.

SHIT.

SHIT!

It can't end like this...

But it will.

I guess I shall be the harvest for this one. The one that falls to his opponents. And it's only fitting, if you think about it.

What can the Harvest hope for, if not for the care of the Reaper man, after all?

But it doesn't really matter. I don't have a strong desire to hold the Abandoned Championship. In fact, I never really joined with the goal of having gold in the first place. I just came in to have some fun.

So I'll go into this match with just one simple concept...

Ryuuketsu.

It is the Japanese word meaning Blood. It also contains my name. Rather appropriate, I would think.

Outside, it is a stormy night. We see Callum Pullin walking down a small street, his body being shielded by a heavy jacket. He clutches tissues to his broken and bleeding nose, all while grimacing at the pain

???: HEY!

Callum turns to see a man with a sick smile spread across his face. He begins to pick up the pace, all while limping under the pain inflicted on him by Mark Johansson

???: Come here a second girly, I just wanna talk!

Callum begins to pant as he picks up the pace again, his heart racing. Suddenly he trips

???: You haven't been too clever, now have you? Bitch.

Pullin is pulled violently to his feet, and is slammed down again with a hard punch to the side of his face. The thug begins to kick at his side, causing Callum to scream out in pain.

???: Do you want me to stop? TO BAD!

The thug drops to his knees, and begins to hail down with punches upon Callum's skull, reopening his eyebrow wound and worsening his nose's condition. He then wraps his bloodied hands around the throat and begins to squeeze as Callum lies there, helpless. Broken

???: Heh. You're no fun.

The man bends down, and takes Callum's jacket, revealing the heavily bruised and fragile body of Pullin. He begins to walk away, and Callum begins to crawl over to a wall to help himself get up. Carelessly, he hits a bottle with his knee, alerting the man to his consciousness. The man walks over to him, and swings his leg back for an almighty blow to the head of Callum, sending him fly and knocking him out.


Myers: Is he awake?

Nurse: I think he's coming to.

Robertson: Callum, can you hear us?

Pullin: Wha... happen...

Myers: You were in a fight. A very bad fight.

Nurse: He'll be asleep again soon. I doubt he'll remember any of this.

Pullin: No, NO! Don't... don't leave Callum behind....


We find ourselves in a dark room. Callum sits, leaning on the wall. His hair is shorter and darker, he bears cuts on his face and wears dark colours.

Pullin: When we getting out of this dump? I've been couped up in this shithouse for three days. I want out.

Thomson: Patience, kid. Need to wait for the host to get worse, when that happens, everything'll be dandy.

Pullin: So why this place? Couldn't we be in something nice, like a luxury resort or some shit? Like those places you see in them magazines.

Thomson: Uh uh. No chance, this is the place where he grew up. The scariest place he knows, the darkest place he knows.

Pullin: Damn.

-----

We fade in to Tiffany and Dryden having a coffee in the hospital's cafeteria, there is no one around except them.

Dryden: Tiffany, that fight, is a perfect reason for us to be doing this to him. He needs it. FMW will not fund any protection for him, and lord knows we can't get it. There will be more instances of this, it needs to be done.

Myers: It's unethical. It's cheating. And you know he wont agree to it.

Dryden: I digress. Look, just give me ten minutes with him, and I'll have it all sorted. It's for his well being, as well as the movements.

Myers cradles her head in her hands, and reluctantly nods

Myers: Fine. But if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with it.


Once again we are in Pullin's hospital room. Dryden stands above him, holding a white bag. Callum is sitting upright, breathing slowly.

Dryden: Hey buddy, how are you?

Pullin: Sore. Very very sore.

Dryden: You know, there's this new thing which is being tested at the moment. It's created to help with malnourishment and to fend off the diseases which can come with living in poverty and well, the makers were wondering if maybe, you'd like to give it a try, and help out some guys who, really need it.

Dryden stands there, cracking his fingers nervously, hoping that his lie will pass. To his delight, a smile crosses Callum's face

Pullin: I'd love to man. For the children.

Dryden: Here, I'll give you the first dose now, hold out your wrist.

Pullin does so, and grimaces as Dryden injects a blue liquid into him.

Dryden: How do you feel?

Pullin: I feel.. I feel, sublime.

Dryden: Good. Let's keep you this way.


Dryden is seen infront of the hospital, pacing nervously while talking on his phone.

Dryden: Yes yes, he took it.

...

Dryden: Battle Royal you say? Who is he against?

...

Dryden: Who?

...

Dryden: Who?

...

Dryden: I'm sorry, who the hell are these guys?

...

Dryden: That may be true, but Pullin has been injected with the drug. They do not have this advantage.

...

Dryden: It'll be fine, I assure you. Perfectly fine.

Dryden hangs up, and takes a deep breath

Dryden: Just as long as he taps into it.

We open up this short scene with Veronica Cherrywood, our resident reporter backstage at Death Row 4 preparing herself for an inthrilling interview with current Full Metal Championship champion Nick Bryson when all of the sudden, a large figure wearing only his pants and a large Stormtrooper helmet over his head barges Veronica off set towards the cheerleaders who are practicing their routines for the Death Row 4 Pre Show. Shaking in fear, we notice that the cameraman stupidly presses record on his camera and we see that Stormmaster is raring to go. Adjusting his helmet, Stormmaster poses towards the camera for a brief moment then gets his very short promo underway.

STORMMASTER: LET STORMMASTER TELL YOU SOMETHING IMPORTANT!

This may not be a fully proper Championship promo that everyone seems to want Stormmaster to do but this will have to do. Stormmaster will inexplicably apologies to Veronica Cherrywood for shoving her towards a group of semi naked cheerleaders who are inexplicably practicing for their inthrilling lap dance on Reggie later on tonight.

You see Stormmaster is raging over losing his previous saved promo that Stormmaster is trying to write but let Stormmaster tell you something important!! Reggie and Peyton has nothing on Stormmaster's sorry ass.

You see Nicholas Gray, Damien Inferno. SMUT has only been formed and if you think for one fucking minute you have got this match in your barbie fucking handbag then you have another thing coming. You see Son of Shark Boy and Stormmaster will be your new FMW Tag Team Champions.

Why? Because Stormmaster said so.

Son of Shark Boy will be on his fin and Stormmaster will hope to assist Son of Shark Boy in helping him to win SMUT's FMW Unified Tag Team Championship belts. To be honest, SMUT is only getting started and once this match is over, Stormmaster will continue to whip up a storm, in fact a hurricane.

SMUT will hopefully learn from this and Stormmaster will be back more better than ever. Why? Because Stormmaster fucking said so bitches.

Now then if you will excuse me, I need to fucking recharge myself. I have a date with destiny or was it Cheryl Cole? That bitch has some cracking melons on her.

And with that, Stormmaster moves away from the camera who appears to be not in operation now for some strange reasons by that nervous cameraman (or women if you are that sexist). Suddenly, Stormmaster's managers Peyton and Reggie enter the scene from far left...or right?

Reggie: Whoa dude what is this?

Peyton: A camera dumbwit. You know, a camera that is pointed directly at you where you stand in front of it so that you can speak to your fucking self.

Reggie: Dude there's no one operating it.

Peyton: There is now.

Suddenly Peyton moves behind the camera and...turns it off...now all you see is pure blackness and you hear Reggie's voice.

Reggie: Man I never knew you had skills to turn off that camera.

Peyton: You really are a fucking cunt sometimes.

Silence.

Fin (get it...fin as in...SHARK...FIN!!! I'll get my coat)

Death Row 4
From the Toyota Center in Houston, Texas

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Steve Monroe

Flag Match
Killswitch

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt

Singles Match
Anwyl

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy

Abel Steele

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno

Triple Threat
Harlequin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

Chapter Something or Other (Lost Count): THIS IS NOT THE GREATEST PROMO IN THE WORLD! NO! THIS IS JUST A TRIBUTE! YOU GOTTA BELIEVE ME!

A poorly made graphic swipes across the screen as the words ‘Between the Ropes with Jon Wallace’ appears on the screen. The usual advertisement’s for the Facebook page and Twitter appear, as well as various other Pro Wrestling news sites are advertised on the popular webshow

Wallace: Good Evening Jobbers and Jabronis, WELCOME TO BETWEEN THE ROPES, Live from the WallaceDome!

Jon Wallace is over excited as he introduces the show

Anwyl: It’s just his mum’s basement, pal!

Wallace gives Anwyl and almighty death stare

Wallace: I’m Jon Wallace and we have an exciting show ahead of us, Tonight we have Full Metal Wrestling’s...

Anwyl cuts Wallace off

Anwyl: ...Premier talent, Future Rookie of the Year, Future Rookie of the Decade, Current King of The Rookie’s, The Future, Future Hall of Famer, Future FMC, Future C-4 Champion, what else should I add?

Wallace glares at Anwyl

Wallace: That’ll be enough, Like I was saying, we have FMW’s up and comer ‘The Future’ Anwyl on the show, he’ll be answering a few questions as well as a selected ‘viewer’s choice’ questions

Anwyl: TAMARA!

Anwyl shouts

Anwyl: WHY AREN’T I ON NETWORK TELEVISION... Oh, this is live isn’t it?

Anwyl smirks as he takes a sip from the cup in front of him

Wallace: Yes, yes we are. Now let’s get back on topic, you are currently in a feud with Alex O’Rion with what seems to be the closer of a match at Death Row IV, this has not only boosted your popularity with the fans, how are the guys back stage treating you? Obviously someone loves you as you are getting a huge push!

Anwyl: They treat me with respect, like I should receive, I am better or as good as most of the top guys and I am what, 21 years old. Full Metal Wrestling can see talent well, that’s why I am getting pushed, and you have guys like Nick Bryson with the championship and Rampage! Jobbing to a team called SMUT! I mean seriously, Rampage I feel has no self respect stepping into the ring with those said people.

Wallace: You seem to talk about the C-4 Championship a lot and it shows in your promo’s and Tweets, if you become C-4 Champion, Rampage is a likely contender for the title.

Anwyl: So?

Wallace: So... You should be weary of what you say!

Anwyl: No. Next question!

Wallace: We all know about your history with drug problems, as you have spoken about on the television mini-series, but you seem to make comments about Alex’s alcoholism problem?

Anwyl: Of course I do, I am bettering myself, I am making my problem’s disappear and I am talking about them. Of course Alex has a problem with alcohol; I mean if you had a life depressing as his you would hit the bottle. I drink alcohol, it’s in my blood, its Aussie lifestyle, but Alex takes it to extremes. He is out of control; Chris Austin said it best ‘Alex doesn’t have any respect of dignity left’. Alcoholism is not a disease, it’s a choice. Alex chose’s to hit the bottle when the going gets tough, he gets pissed of his fucking tree and he pays for it. Look at his ring work, sloppy, horrible and I have trouble working with him. When you have a man coming to shows smelling like a hobo and wearing shades, at times I haven’t wanted to step in the ring with him.

Wallace: This is coming from a man who is twenty-one years old and has spent an undisclosed amount of time in rehab. How can you say those things?

Anwyl: With my mouth, I say these thing’s with my mouth. Alex hasn’t learned from his mistakes, mean while I am, I don’t go to sleep with blood in my alcohol stream. I don’t wake up in the morning with a headache from binge drinking, sticking my head underneath the tap at my bar. I am changing, for the betterment of myself. Support Alex O’Rion all you want, but you know, you know deep down that Alex O’Rion is a representation of what is wrong with the world, nobody wants to change. Hell, I could slip into a drug fuelled coma and forget the last six years if I wanted to. Alex has been doing that for how many years? Please!

Wallace: Do you have any respect for Alex at all?

Anwyl: None!

Wallace and Anwyl sit for a second in silence

Wallace: What about all the amazing matches O’Rion has had in the past? The Mount V match, the Full Metal Championship reign?

Anwyl: Why? It’s the past; I am looking towards the future! That’s reason the industry is where it is! You have people reminiscing about past ‘glories’. I am asked about the Full Metal War and what I think of it! Really I don’t care, Ethan Black I don’t care, HavOc I don’t care, SPARTA don’t care. I am looking towards what’s now and what’s next, and that starts with ME!

Wallace: But the past makes paves the way for the future, one day you will be old, you will be clinging onto what you have left, everyone does! You are the kind of guy that will buy a company just so you can main event at fifty years old and wonder why your company is in the hole, unless you are already dead from your early years of drug abuse. That’s your future.

Anwyl: WHAT!? You live with your mother...

Wallace: I am her sole carer you inconsiderate fuck!

Anwyl: Is that so you can mooch off her internet connection and get paid for sitting in a basement writing reviews about how ‘shit Ammunition was because Alex O’Rion lost to someone legitimately better than him’ with your only reasoning behind him winning is the fact that he is a ‘legend’. Your future is nothing, nobody will remember you, I am the biggest star that you have ever had and the last star you will. You will die lonely with pointless video’s about pro wrestling and the countless hours you spend playing Modern Warfare. Get a real job you tax dogding CUNT!

Wallace: Get out of my house now, take your camera’s with you.

Anwyl: Your mum’s house cunt!

Wallace: I will call the police, now get out!

Anwyl starts to leave; all the cameras follow him up the stairs as Jon Wallace closes the show

Wallace: That’s all the time we have now folks on a controversial Between the Ropes with Jon Wallace, please leave your comment below or drop me a line via Twitter at @JWallaceBTR. Thank you and good night!

The cameras begin to follow Anwyl to his brand new Escalade, the camera crew jump into the back while Tamara, Anwyl’s good looking brunette publicist climbs into the driver’s seat.

Anwyl smashes the dashboard with his fists and starts reaching into his bag, at his feet. He pulls out a little white container and a bottle of water and drops two pills into his hand. Anwyl cups his mouth and takes a massive gulp of water and sinks back into his seat. Moments pass and nobody says a word before Anwyl opens his eyes. He looks over his shoulder and see’s the camera pointed in his face.

Anwyl: FUCK!

They keep staring at Anwyl, camera pointed in his face. They were allowed to keep them there, it was in the contract.

Anwyl: Have you been filming?

The camera man nods

Anwyl: The whole time?

He nods again

Anwyl: So it’s alright for Alex to drink himself to fucking death, and I can’t take some prescription medication for a slight pain in my back. Come on, I have been on flights and car trips for the last week. Don’t judge me you prick! I am not doing anything wrong.

Nobody says a word as Tamara keeps driving

Anwyl: Damn fucking straight!

Death Row 4
From the Toyota Center in Houston, Texas

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Jonathan King

Flag Match
Killswitch

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt

Singles Match
Anwyl

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy

Singles Match
Abel Steele

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno

Triple Threat
Christian G. Smitten

Main Event
War Games Match
Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

Hes got it.
So tell is, Mister Schemer, what is this schemey scheme you've schemed?

The lights slowly rise as we fade into a large room with an oaken table. Matt Ashburn, Mark Johansson, and Nick Bryson sit around it, with Bryson at the helm, as they sing.



He pushes a button on the phone


A muffled 'Yes, sir.' sounds out over the intercom.


Ashburn Thirty Three?
Ashburn
Whats that?


Ashburn
I don't know anything about it but Its clearly-


Ashburn
Yes indeed! Its clearly the greatest thing since its been done by us three.

A door can be heard opening as a group of men walk into the room. The Mayor, marked with a sash across his body, aproaches Bryson with his hand out. When Bryson walks past him, however, he awkwardly places his hands on his jacket and grows red in the face.

The sound of tubas and percussion accompany Bryson as the four men who are contractors show him some plans. He examines each piece of paper carefuly before-


Three of the men leave, the fourth one walks over to the table and lays out a large blue print and some other papers and tools. The music pauses.

Contractor
So this is the blueprint of the entire thing, its going to take up about three blocks.

Mayor
Three blocks! Oh my! I don't-

Bryson
Shut up, tool. Continue.

The music begins to pick up again.

Contractor
And it can be completed in about eight or nine days.

Bryson
Not good enough.

the music stops.

Contractor
Well, if I can get an extra hund-

Mayor
Oh, ho! That sounds pricey!

Bryson
Money is no option.

Mayor
But, I-

Ashburn
He said money is no option!

Matt slaps the mayor as the music picks up again. The four men, excluding the mayor, look over the paper. Bryson pulls over a white piece of paper and signs it. He pulls the mayor over and instructs him to sign. The contractor also signs.

Contractor
Just one last thing


Contractor
Where are we going to build this mall?


Bryson points to a set of blocks.


Mayor
There? But, but, but, thats where the greasers live!


Mayor
Uh... no! I can sign off on this right away! Thank you mister Bryson.


The mayor bows and exits out the room walking backwards and the contractor follows him.


Ashburn
Yes!


Ashburn
Instead of dealing with those twerps we're going to go over their heads.


Ashburn
And our strength is our absurd ammount of currency.


Bryson hops up on the table and throws his arms out.


Ashburn
Win in the end.


Ashburn
They will be dead!



Bryson and Ashburn quickly turn and face Mark


Bryson and Matt look relieved.



Ashburn
I can't wait!


Ashburn
This will be so awesome!


Ashburn
We're the brightest and the best!



Ashburn
We'll bulldoze your...house... down!

Ashburn and Johansson jump up on the table. The three of them face each other and place their hands in a center.



GOOD!


They hold out the last note as they begin doing a ho-down on the table with Matt and Bryson locking arms and spinning in a circle as Mark claps and stomps his foot. The three of them step on the lip of the table and tip it, falling with it gently to the floor and posing on their knees. The scene fades to black.



___________________________________________________

KNOCK!
KNOCK!
KNOCK!

There is a knock on a wooden door as the lights come up. We see four wooden doors with four suited nerds standing in front of them. There are four clicks in succession as Hannibal Frost, The Celt, Leon Caprice, and David GS open their respective doors.

Hannibal: Whats this about?

Four Nerds: Are you-
Hannibal Frost?
Leon Caprice?
The man called Celt?
David GS?

Hannibal, Celt, Leon, DGS: Yes?

Four Nerds: This is a notice. A notice of eviction. This residential area has been bought out.

Celt: WHAT!

Leon: Impossible!

David: Let me see those papers!

Four Nerds: As you can see these are all legal and certified by the mayor!

Hannibal: Who would buy up this old block?

Suddenly a limo pulls into view. A horn honks as Nick Bryson pops his head out the sun roof.

Bryson: Ha, ha douches! That person would be me!

Hannibal: You wont get away with this!

As soon as those words are said there is a loud noise as an engine lets off steam. Suddenly a set of large bulldozers run over the homes of the Sons of Attrition. Hannibal, Leon, Celt, and David can only turn and watch as their homes and belongings are demolished. The nerds step off the porches, which are the only remains of the homes, and leave the Greasers alone on their stoops.

A trumpet sounds as Bryson pulls himself up through the sunroof and stands on the roof of his limo.

Bryson: I did it, I've won! You guys tried to play the game but you were short a few cards!

Ashburn steps out of the limo door

Ashburn: Its always nice, when you play with loaded dice. You greasy kids stood no chance against a force thats quite like us you know

Johansson steps out of the car as well.

Bryson: I mean did you really think you could ever beat me? I think the only thing more funny is all of your careers.

Johansson: Seriously. you do know who we are?

Ashburn: Well it looks like there is only one more thing to say to you AND!

Johansson: THATS!

Bryson, Ashburn, Johansson: L-O-L!

Bryson: That means I'm laughing out loud in your face at your misfortune!

Ashburn: L-O-L! You guys thought you were slick, but the only slick thing about you is your greasy hair!

Johansson: L-O-L!

Bryson: Yes! Lets all L-O-L! Hey Ashburn why dont you hand them their consolation prize!

Ashburn: L-O-L! Yeah, whatever you say! Here you go guys, this is a ten percent of booklet!

Bryson: L-O-L! Thats right! We're building a mall here! A mall built on the foundations of your collective broken dreams!

Johansson: Good one, Boss! L-O-L! Heres a question, how will they use that when they have no money!

Ashburn: L-O-L! Thats right! You guys are oh-so-poor, what would you guys ever need to go to a mall for!?

Bryson: Now guys, lets not make fun of the handicapped.

Ashburn and Johansson look confused as the SoA stare at Bryson who, after a few moments, clutches his stomach.

Bryson: L-O-L! Yeah, I couldn't keep that up. Hey, Matt, why don't you give them the second part of their consolation prize!

Ashburn: Sure thing!

Ashburn begins skipping happily in front of a still stunned Sons of Attrition, throwing white paper in the air like confetti.

Bryson: See, I'm not heartless. Theres some applications!

Johansson: Does that count as irony, working in the mall?

Ashburn: Hey, Hannibal! Heres an application for Hot Topic! I suspect that you might just be the guy their looking for!

Johansson: Hey, Celt! Maybe you could be the janitor! You and DGS could make a creat custodial team! You could mop! He could learn to vaccuum! I see a bright future ahead for you and your team L-O-L!

Bryson: Oh! Uh-oh! You guys might want to take a step back BECAUSE!

From off screen comes an army of bulldozers, cranes, concrete mixers, and construction workers. They put on their top hats and clank their metal lunch boxes.

Construction Chorus: We're gonna build this mall!

Bryson: L-O-L!

Construction Chorus: We've got all our supplies! We're ready to bring savings to the gals and guys!

Ashburn: JUST NOT SOA!

Construction Chorus: L-O-L! We're ready to go!

Construction Foreman: Excuse me sirs but if you're not with YNG you need to go!

He points to the SoA members.

Bryson: L-O-L!

Construction Chorus: We're contributing to society!

Ashburn: Far more positively than these greasy loser douchebag kids!

Johansson: Thats you, SoA!

Bryson: L-O-L! It feels so great to win! Was there any doubt?

Ashburn, Johansson: No!

Bryson: Alright guys! Party at the high rise! EVERYTHINGS ON ME!

Ashburn and Mark jump back into the limo as the Sons of Attrition slowly walk down the street. The Construction Chorus walks up and takes up the whole shot, dancing in tight coreography as cranes swing pinatas back and forth and bulldozers spin in circles as the limo does donuts in the dirt and rubble of the remains of the four SoA homes. Bryson, Ashburn, and Johansson all exit through the sun roof and look up at the camera as the limo comes to a stop.

Construction Chorus: L-O-L! L-O-L! L-O-L!

Bryson: We are so freaking amazing!

Theres a big finish as a curtain goes down and the lights fade.

I am not a bad man.

I'd like to think that I never have been - I was born into a good family and raised by good parents. That makes me a bit of an anomaly in today's professional wrestling industry, where the norm is to say that one's parents fucked one up, that one's childhood is to blame for whatever personality flaws one may exhibit. Not me, though; my formative years went swimmingly. I'm not like Chris Austin, whose father impregnated his girlfriend; I'm not like Jonathan King, whose parents disowned him for following a path other than the one they wanted for him; and I'm not like Matt Ashburn, whose madre and padre just plain sucked at being parents.

The shorthand version of that is that my parents did a damned good job with me. As corny as it may sound, they were there for me - they loved me, supported me, and above all else, taught me.

Because of them, I know how complex and wonderful human life is - it's the result of millions of years of growth and evolution, all come together to create that which sets humanity apart from, say, rocks. Because of them, I have a healthy respect for human life - I know how valuable it is, and how unforgivable a sin it is to take one's life away from them.

I know how valuable another man's freedom is. Without freedom - to move, to think, to speak - we are bereft of that which makes us human. Taking another man's freedom from him reduces him to a state comparable to that of a pet; take another man's freedom from him, and you may as well force him down onto his hands and knees and make him bark.

Or bray.

Or ... you get the picture.

Thanks to my parents, I also know the value and sanctity of marriage. When a man and a woman join hands in holy matrimony, they're making a commitment to one another that isn't easily broken and should not be taken lightly. A wife must be loyal and faithful to her husband, and a husband to his wife. This principle in particular is one that I've found great use for in my life today.

I have a wife, and I am faithful to her.

I am a free man, and I respect the freedom of others.

I am alive, and I treat the lives of others with the respect and gravity with which I would prefer mine to be treated.

I have been raised right.

I am not a bad man.





" ... you're sure you'll be okay?"

"For the last time," David said into the phone, "yes. Steve and I will be fine." He waited a few seconds for a response, and when none came he couldn't help but roll his eyes. It was a lie, an uncertainty - he knew it, and so did she - but the fact that Rachel continued to pester didn't make the fact any less-true. "Look, Rayche ... nothing's for sure with this kind of thing. You know it as well as I do. But you have got to trust Steve and I. A phone call or text every hour does a lot more harm than good ... comprende?"

The silence on the other end of the line persisted for some time. Just as David began to wonder if the call had dropped or something, there was a small sound, barely audible - a sniffle. She was close to tears. David refused to let her get there.

"Rachel." His voice was firm, but not harsh. "Comprende?"

There was another sniffle, this time a bit louder. Directly after that, though: "Comprende."

"That's my girl. You're at home, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I want you to stay there until you hear from Steve or I - don't go out, not even if someone invites you to. Keep the doors and windows locked, and don't answer the phone if you don't recognize the Caller ID. Understand?" He hated giving her instructions like that, but it had to be done; if, for whatever reason, he and Steven were unsuccessful in their bid to save Anna, Rachel would more than likely be in very serious danger.

"Yeah ... yeah, I understand."

He had to protect her in the event that something bad happened to him. She may not have liked it, but he had to. Rachel was his wife - his personal safety took a backseat to hers, no exceptions.

"All right," David said. "I need to get back to the room - Steve and I have been making some serious headway."

"Oh, okay. I won't keep you any longer."

"Great. Listen, I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay ... wait, David? Wait."

He had just been getting ready to end the call, but stopped himself and put the phone back to his ear. "Yeah? What is it?"

"I ... I love you."

David took a deep breath. "I love you too, babe."

Somewhat quickly, before she could drag things out any longer, he hung up and slipped the phone back into his front pocket. As he did so, a sudden chill passed through his body - it was cold outside. The sky overhead was cloudy, a featureless gray ceiling that the sun could not seem to penetrate. David looked out towards the horizon - the motel they were at was in the middle of nowhere, so there was nothing to obstruct his vision - and saw that the cloud cover was present for as far as the eye could see.

The wind gusted again, sending another chill reverberating through him. David shivered and started walking along the motel's yellowish outer wall, towards the flight of stairs at the building's far end. He took these up to the second-level balcony, and after passing the first six rooms upon it, he came upon Steven, leaning against the wall outside their room. The younger Smith's arms were folded over his chest; his eyes gazed out over the flatlands, and his lower jaw worked nervously on the toothpick between his teeth. His eyes briefly shifted over to David as the latter walked up, but returned to the horizon a moment later.

"Any luck?" David asked.

Steven shook his head.

"So what're you doing out here?"

Steven's eyes shifted over to David again. "He was starting to make me mad," he said casually, rolling the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "Came out here to cool down."

"Gotcha." David glanced at the closed door on one side of Steven, and then at the window on the other side of him. It was blacked out, the view into their room obscured by the comforter from one of their beds. "Ready to go back in?" he asked, looking back at his brother.

After a moment's deliberation, Steve plucked the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it over the edge of the balcony. "Yeah."

They both stood ready by the door, steeling themselves. David put his hand on the handle, turned it, and pushed; as soon as they opened it, a loud, raspy scream suddenly burst forth from within the room: "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! HELP MEEEEEE! HELP ME, HELP! HEEEELLLLP!"

Both brothers darted inside, pulling the door shut behind them. As Steven quickly worked to get the mattress back into place against the door, David went over to the screaming man in the chair and socked him hard in the side of the face.

"We talked about this," David said, crouching down and using his first two fingers to tilt the man's head back towards him. "No noise when the door's open - comprende?"

The man, a locust they'd knocked out and brought up to the room in the middle of the night, spit in his face. "FUCK you, man! You and your brother and your cunt girlfriend! Fuck all of you!" He went back to struggling against his bonds, like he'd been doing all morning and for most of the previous night.

David wiped the spit from his face. There was blood in it, which didn't really surprise him - he and Steven had been alternately interrogating the locust and beating the tar out of him for the past eight, nine hours. He could understand Steve's need for a break, though - the bastard's defiance was starting to irritate him.

"Steve."

The locust stopped and looked at him. David hadn't moved from his crouch, hadn't stopped staring at him, but he did reach his hand out towards Steven, palm open.

"Yeah?"

"Gimme a gun."

The locust laughed - he was nervous, but David admired the effort he was putting into masking it. "Oh, what? You gonna shoot me now, is that it?"

David didn't answer, just kept staring at him. He felt cold steel against his palm as Steven placed the gun in his hand, and his fingers coiled around the handle. His slow, methodical pace had the desired effect - the callous bravado soon fell away from the locust's voice, and he began trying to negotiate with David as he turned the weapon over and over in his hands.

"H ... hey, come on, man. You ... you're not gonna kill me. You can't, not if you wanna find your girl."

"She's not my girl," David said, popping the mag out and checking how many rounds were left.

"Well ... heh ... come on, either way. I can't tell you what you wanna know if I'm dead, right? You shoot me, and she'll be sucking off some South American drug lord before you even get an idea of where we were keeping her."

"I know that," David replied evenly. "But you aren't being very helpful as it is. And to be frank, we're both getting a bit tired of your attitude, so ... " He popped the mag back in, checked to make sure the safety was off, and pressed the gun against the center of the locust's forehead.

"C-c-COME ON!" he cried aloud, his negotiative tone becoming a pleading one. "You, you don't understand! If they find out I told you anything, they'll kill me!"

"That's an if," David said. "I don't deal in ifs. Now I'm going to ask you one more time, and if you don't tell me what I need to know, I'm going to paint that wall behind you with your gray matter - no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Understand me?"

"Please," the locust said, walleyed with fear. "Please."

"Dave," Steven said from behind him. "Man ..."

"Shut up. Now," David said to the locust. "Last time. I have a friend - a lady friend - that I believe you locust douchebags have abducted. My brother here tells me that odds are, you're going to sell her off as a sex slave at some point, and I would very much like to keep that from happening. So I'm going to ask you: where and when will this happen?" He pressed the gun harder against the locust's forehead, hard enough to hurt.

"I ... " The locust seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment. " ... Chicago."

"Chicago." David looked over at Steven, who shrugged. "Where in Chicago?"

The locust just looked at him, defeated, all the fear having gone out of him. "I don't know," he said. "Look at me - do I look like the kind of guy who's clued in to all the details?" When neither Smith brother answered him right away, he continued on. "It'll be somewhere nice, that's all I know. The girls we take usually get auctioned off to overseas clients - drug lords, nobility, politicians, you name it."

"Yeah ..."

David turned to Steven, who'd spoken.

"It makes sense," the younger Smith said. "Chicago's big enough for them to fly in from an international airport and remain inconspicuous. It's also the only city of that size within the locusts' area of operations." He shook his head in amazement, staring down at his shoes. "It's the perfect human trafficking operation."

Rolling his eyes, David turned back to the locust. "When?" he asked, nudging him in the forehead with the gun.

He smiled through the caked blood on his face. "It'll be on a Sunday. Transactions always go down on Sundays. They normally keep the girls here for a while before shipping them off ... but who knows? She might already be gone." He laughed a little, though the physical damage dealt to him made itself evident when the laugh shredded itself into a harsh, hacking cough.

"So that's it?" David asked. "Somewhere in Chicago, on a Sunday?"

The locust shrugged, chuckling again. "I hope she's gone," he said, grinning spitefully at both Smith brothers. "I hope she's long gone, and you two fuckers get gunned down for nothing."

"Yeah," David said, rising back up to full-height. "Doesn't surprise me." Before the locust could respond, he flipped the gun around in his hand so that he was holding it by the barrel and smashed the handgrip into the side of his head. Something made a loud cracking sound - it might've been the gun, but it might not have been - and the locust pitched over in his chair and lay still on the carpet. Both Smith brothers stared at him; it was a while before either spoke.

"So ... " Steven started. "When do we leave?"

David tucked the gun into the waist of his jeans. "Now," he said. "Get your shit packed."





"You have ... one ... unheard message. First ... unheard message, sent from ... Leon Caprice ... today, at four ... thirty-seven ... p.m. Hey, Dave, it's Leon. Just calling to check up on you, make sure you're okay and that you'll be in Houston for Death Row. None of us have heard from you in a while ... I tried calling your home phone just now, but no one picked up. Just wanna make sure everything's good with you, bud. Call me or Celt back when you get the chance. Bye. End of messages. To check erased messages, press - "

David lowered the phone from his ear, pressed 'End', and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Who was that from?" Steven asked.

"Leon."

"What'd he want?"

"Nothing important," David replied. He could feel his brother's eyes on him but did his best to ignore them, forcing himself to look straight-ahead, out the windshield. Steve eventually gave up and turned to look out the passenger's side window.

"Gotta hand it to that guy," he said. "When he said they'd pick somewhere nice, he wasn't kidding."

"Yeah," David agreed, still facing forward in the driver's seat.

"Maybe we shouldn't have just left him on the floor in the room. I can't imagine the maid at that place comes around more than once a week."

"Nah, he'll be fine."

They were parked across the street from the Drake Hotel, a renaissance-style hotel and far-and-away one of Chi-Town's finest. Luck, as it were, couldn't have been more on the Smith's side: having left the motel in Iowa Saturday afternoon and arriving in Chicago early Sunday, they'd elected to stake the place out after seeing two men in locust jackets walk inside. Sure enough, those two had been followed by more. And more.

And more.

On top of that, after they'd given up counting how many locusts had entered the Drake, a stretch limo had pulled up to the front entrance. David and Steven had both watched as several well-dressed men of Middle Eastern descent had stepped out and entered the building, where they had immediately been greeted by a small cadre of men in black jackets with green insignias on the left shoulder.

"Foreign clientele," Steven had said. David had merely nodded.

Now it was starting to get dark, but something was keeping them from making a move. All the pieces to the puzzle were in place save one - ironically, the most important piece of them all.

"God, where are the girls?" David asked, looking past his brother at the front of the hotel.

"I dunno, man," Steve said, shaking his head.

"D'you think they're already in there?"

"I don't see how they could've gotten a group of sex slaves into a high-brow hotel without ... wait." Steven shifted around in his seat. "Wait. Dave, man, check this out."

Leaning over the space between driver and passenger seats, David joined his brother in watching as another stretch limo pulled up to the front of the Drake. Out of this one stepped several more locusts, each with a woman in a beautiful dress on his arm. Pair by pair the exited the limo and entered the Drake, ten couples in all, and as they went David saw that the women were walking rather stiffly, like each had a pebble in her shoe.

Or a gun in her back.

"That's them," Steve said quickly. "That's gotta be them. Dave, is she there? Do you see ... Dave?" He's turned towards David, and the look on his brother's face made him take pause.

He'd seen her. She was the last to exit the limo.

As Anna Ortega was escorted into the Drake, David couldn't help but take note of how beautiful, how stunning she looked. They'd put her in a slim, strapless black dress and heels, and someone David doubted was a locust had done her hair up as well. Although he couldn't see her face, he was sure she had makeup on, and he found himself thinking about hwo he had never really seen what she looked like with a lot of work put in to her appearance.

He wanted to, though. God, how he wanted to.

" ... Dave? C'mon, man, snap out of it."

David blinked his eyes a couple times and shook his head viciously. "Sorry," he said, looking at Steven. "What was that?"

"Did you see her? Was Anna there?"

He took a deep breath and nodded grimly. "Yeah. Yeah, she was there."

" ... all right. Guess we're going in, then."

"I guess."

They waited about ten minutes, not wanting to enter the hotel right on the heels of their targets. Once that time had expired, though, they quickly exited the car, crossed the street, and entered the lobby.

The place was, for lack of a better term, vast. Wide, with a high ceiling, the lobby of the Drake hotel was at or near the pinnacle of class - everything was some shade of either red or gold, from the plush carpeting to the tiled floors to the ornate wall and ceiling carvings. David and Steven couldn't help but look around in awe as they made their way to the front desk, passing beneath a giant chandelier on the way. They were greeted by a freshly-shaven man with hair that was just beginning to thin.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah," David said, still looking around. "What's the largest space you can reserve here? Like, the biggest room or suite or whatever."

"That would be the Presidential Suite - six rooms, top floor, spectacular view of Lake Michigan. Unfortunately, it is currently being occupied by a private party and will not be available to reserve until ... " The man looked down at a notebook on the desk in front of him. " ... March 2013."

"Oh," David said, trying his best to sound disappointed. "Um ... all right. Thanks anyway."

"Any time, sir."

"So what?" Steven asked in a hushed tone as they walked away from the front desk. "You think they're up in the Presidential Suite?"

"That'd be my guess."

"And you're just gonna go up there, barge in, and start shooting?"

"You have a better idea?"

The younger Smith thought about it for a moment. " ... no," he said finally, seeming to accept the fact that there was no way this was going to end well.

"That's what I thought. Now come on." David turned left and headed off down a side corridor that shot off from the main lobby, Steven at his heels. They arrived at a bank of elevators just as an elderly couple were disembarking. Politely allowing them passage, the Smith brothers then entered the elevator and hit the button for the top floor.

Once the doors closed, each reached around and pulled out the gun he'd tucked into the back of his waistband.

"There's gonna be a lot of 'em," David said, checking his.

"Yeah."

"Will we have enough ammo?"

"Probably not. This can't turn into a drawn-out thing, Dave - we're gonna have to get in, grab Anna, and get out without getting shot."

"Okay."

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal a narrow, featureless hallway with an ornate pair of double doors at the end. The air seemed to grow heavier as David and Steven stepped out of the elevator, and both jumped when the doors slid shut behind them. David glanced down and saw that Steve was holding his gun so tight his hands were shaking; a look down at his own weapon saw that his knuckles had gone a ghostly white.

As they drew closer to the doors, their footsteps nicely muffled by the carpeting, they could hear voices from beyond the doors. There were a lot of them, but one seemed to be louder than the rest, as though it was being delivered through a microphone.

They went right up to the doors, and David pressed his ear against one.

" ... SOLD, for seventy-five thousand."

He grimaced, and his eyes caught those of his brother. The two shared a nod.

"In and out," Steven whispered.

"In and out," David repeated.

They took a step back and then lunged forward as one, kicking the double doors open.

" ... the bidding will start at one-hundred thou ...

All activity within the room stopped as the doors banged hard off the inside walls, and all eyes turned toward the Brothers Smith. A crude sort of stage had been erected in the middle of the room; the Middle Eastern men they'd seen enter the hotel, as well as a few other well-dressed Asian individuals, were seated with their aides and assistants at various points around it. Locust grunts were stationed all over the place, appearing just as stunned as their clients.

David wasn't concerned with them, though - he was concerned with the girl currently on the stage, the one who was going to be auctioned off for at least a hundred-thousand dollars.

The black dress was gone; although Anna was still in lingerie, she looked like she felt naked.

"Anna," David breathed.

"DAVID!" Anna shrieked.

"SHOOT THEM!" someone yelled.



Something whizzed past David's ear, and that galvanized him into action. He looked at the closest person to him - a short, heavyset man of Middle Eastern descent who was several years into the process of hair recession - put the gun to the man's temple, and pulled the trigger.




"David?"

David closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath and let it out, and opened them again. "Yeah?" he asked, doing his best to keep his eyes on the road.

"Can you, um ... can you pull over somewhere?"

A little voice in the back of his head screamed for him not to, but David did as Anna asked and turned into an empty parking lot. They'd just dropped Steven off at his and Morganne's house, not five minutes earlier; once they'd gotten Anna out of the Drake they'd just gotten in the car and drove, only stopping to gas up the car and get Anna something to wear. She now sat next to him in a loose-fitting gray sweatshirt and black running pants, hands folded tightly in her lap.

None of them had said more than a sentence since leaving Chicago, and there had been times when the tension in the car had made David want to kill himself. Now, though, as he pulled into a space at the very furthest corner of the parking lot and shut the car down, he realized that all he really wanted to do at the moment was sleep. A quick glance at the dashboard clock told him it was nearly five in the morning; they'd been driving for the better part of nine hours.

Silence filled the car. David glanced over at Anna and saw that she was still staring down at her hands, not blinking.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "They said they'd hurt me if I didn't cooperate," she said softly. "So I cooperated."

David felt his heart twisting, wrenching, contorting inward on itself. "Anna," he said, "I'm ... " He reached out to touch her, hesitated for a moment, and then lay his hand on her shoulder. "I'm so, so ... so sorry."

"Sorry ... ?" She looked up at him. "Why are you ... David, you saved me."

David opened his mouth to reply, to say something that would diminish the fact that he'd saved her, that he'd not only risked his life, not only risked his brother's life to make sure she was safe, but that he'd taken the lives of others to do so. He opened his mouth to say something to that effect, but she wouldn't let him and kept right on talking.

"I can't believe you actually came for me," she said, disbelief evident in her voice. "I mean ... I HOPED you would, that's why I told Lucy to find, but ... " She stopped, suddenly choking up, and clapped a hand over her mouth. " ... but you actually came for me," she finished, her eyes welling up.

"Hey," David said. "Hey."

He leaned over to embrace her, to comfort her, and she suddenly threw herself at him, forcing him back against the driver side door and pressing her lips to his in an airtight seal.

David felt his eyes bug out of his head; he grabbed her with both arms and frantically pushed her away from him, looking at her like she'd flipped her lid. "Are you crazy?!" he hissed, keeping his voice low for reasons that escaped him. "I'm married! You can't just ... " He stopped.

She wasn't replying, wasn't showing any sign that she'd even heard him. Anna just sat there, half on top of him, her half-lidded eyes locked on to his; she was breathing hard the way most people do after a long kiss, and her chest heaved beneath her sweater with each inhalation and exhalation.

David found himself stricken by her beauty - he remembered how she'd looked stepping out of the limo, how she'd looked up on the stage wearing nothing but lingerie, how she'd looked when he'd first lain eyes upon her. He remembered her smile, her laugh, the way she made him smile, made him laugh ... and before he knew what was happening, she was on him again, kissing him even harder than she had before. This time, though, Anna wasn't the instigator.

He'd pulled her in. He'd kissed her.

And he was just getting started.





I am not a bad man.

Yes, I am a cold-blooded murder. I know how to handle a gun, and I know how to handle a blade, and I've used my knowledge on both topics to kill on numerous occasions. I've shot men in the heart and in the head; I've stabbed them, slashed them, and there was even one whose throat I cut open. I've killed in self-defense, in the defense of others, and simply because my victim made me angry.

Yes, I am a robber of freedom. I've held free men against their will and tortured them to meet my own ends. One of them - my most recent captive - may not even be free yet. He may still be bound to a chair, lying on the floor in a shitty motel room somewhere in Iowa, his cries for help muffled by the blanket over the window and the mattress against the door.

Yes, I am both of those things.

But I am not an adulterer.

I love my wife. I love her with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength. If I could ensure one thing in my life, it would be that Rachel and I will grow old together. There's nothing I won't do for her, and I think I've made that point pretty clear on several occasions - see the above statements on murder and captivity.

What happened with Anna? That was an accident. I was tired, I was rattled, and I think I might've still been adrenalized - get in a firefight sometime, see how long it takes you to come down.

I didn't mean for anything to happen between her and I, honest to God I didn't. I love my wife. I love Rachel.

I am not a bad man.

I'm not.

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
N/A

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

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, ???)

The scene cuts to a shot of the stage, with out intro, with out pyro and with out musice walks down John Derrick, no ring gear; just street his clothes and a microphone. He stands in the ring, surveying the crowd, with eerie, awed silence. His eyes hold a look, something more beyond anger, or sadness, more than fatigue, as if they are the rippling reflections on an old forgotten well that had long forgotten what a stone's throw was. Memories, some shared some held fast in his mind's keep seemed to play out in the glint. He grabs a stool from the timekeeper, and perches himself in the middle of the ring, like and old gargoyle, carving a space in the center of the canvas like it was out of living stone. He looks at no one now, his face a mask, frozen in the seconds before one can muster the words of a though long held, never spoken. He is here for himself, the crowd are just witness, to some confession to no one.

John Derrick: I am not a man with faith. This is what people who know of me, know of me. I hold nothing to be truly sacred, I have no hallowed ground. I live, because I... I can't do anything else. It's true, I don't have reason to be here any more. I don't. The fame, money, power and respect I have earned would glut any normal man. Here, in the this ring been witness to and achieve the impossible. I've lived life at the extremes of human experience, enough for a dozen lifetimes. I've been called every name, hero, villain, saint, martyr, miserable bastard, self-centered asshole, an arrogant, prideful mercurial man-child, a champion and a has been. I've been through it all. I've won and lost. Done enough of both to earn most men an indelible reputation. I have nothing left to do here, no reason to carry on, murdering myself by inches, pushing myself towards that abyss of “Wrestler, 42 Found Dead in motel”, I have nothing to prove anymore, and yet...

I can't leave. As much as I know in my mind, that each time I set out here I'm doing little else but padding out an obituary, I can't let it go. It's the god-damnedest thing! I don't even know why. I have no fucking answer for you. All the pithy answers, the slogans, the catchphrase, the little white and big white lies that we all pass off to ourselves, the ring hollow like empty platitudes they are. Not because they are true, but because they are, they are too fucking true. I am competitor, I am an addict, I am sorry washed-up has been, who just doesn't know how to quit because the silence in my empty house is too unbearable to live with, but even as I say these things, they feel cheap and dirty like a wad of used tissues. If there was some grand realization to be had, then I'd have fucking had to have had it by now right?

The last sentence wells up and comes out screaming out, for a second he stares at the spotlight to compose himself.

Maybe that's the epiphany, though. No grand reason, no noble cause, no inviolate truth, just a tangled mess of hurt, betrayal, desire and neuroses that compel me like any other person to just keep moving forward, even if, intellectually I know I ain't even walking, I'm just digging myself a hole. It's not satisfying to the think that, but I can't really say it could be anything else. Were I a man of faith, it'd have been tried to the limit, over and over by this time. Job ain't got shit. That's damnable misery, really is that it's not even a question of I want any way. Because despite everything that is telling me that this ain't really a ring, it's a mausoleum, that you ain't my fans; you're a lynch mob, and Abel Steele ain't a competitor, but an executioner, I'm not conflicted. I'm not. Were I to live out my desires, it wouldn't be to hang up my boots, and walk out with my legacy untarnished by his filth, it'd be to lace it up and walk out with my head high.

Every other thing I want, every person that I... He chokes on the words for a moment. There's nothing that can stop me, nothing that I wouldn't let my decay and corruption touch and leave in ashes and ruin, nothing I wouldn't burn to get back in here. There's the rub. It don't matter for a second, what I want, because faith or no. He sadly smiles at the irony. Faith or no, my desires are still just spittle in swirling winds of fate, because desire, this burning passion, this hungry ghost inside me that eats anything good and worthwhile in myself, this thing that animates me, that keeps me coming back is what is killing me. The time is coming that I want ain't enough, that I will, just can't.

Everything in me, everything that speaks to what I want screams for one thing. This. This goddamned life. La puta vida. But, me, the Man without Faith more than any other man seems to be cut down an almost sentient cruelty and apathy of fate. This time he looks up straight through ceiling. Everything I want is here, I'm not fucking done here, you fucking miserable old bastard! I need this, I want this so much, it's the only fucking place that makes any sense for me, and everything that could ever lead me out withers and you're gonna fucking take this too! No, you greedy old cunt, this is not yours to take. Not this place! You fucking have this too! Fuck you. I don't care how every time I want to prove that I still belong her the whole world turns to shit, that people literally die around me, that my fucking puta goddamned vida has 'nother fucking litter little bitches biting at ankles.

Fuck you.

I'm going to die here. You wanna kill me. FUCKING DO IT. DO IT! C'mon Abel! You're the latest manifestation, you're fucking Avatar of my demise. I welcome it! Fuck it. I've literally done everything else. That's the fucking hilarious part, you're steaming and fuming and huffing and puffing about ending me, well fuck that's a kindness. You'd be my best, and dearest friend if you fucking snapped my neck right here in front the lynch mob, like they are slavering to see. Because it's the only thing I haven't done yet, it's that undiscovered country, I've got nowhere else to go. Tell me though? Are you ready for that? Is it time for you yet? Because I have nothing left, nothing left to hold back.

So fuck it.

Bring it the motherfuckin apocalypse, I wanna watch it all burn.

He drops the microphone, and leaves through still silenced crowd, like an unseen ghost

MWUAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!!!

This is my greatest plan ever! Full Metal Wrestling will shake in fear once the full gambit of this plan has been revealed!!

FMW… BOW BEFORE YOUR MASTER!!!!

MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHA!!!!!

…

Oh… umm… I mean… I’ll have a coke.

Professor CHAOS looks across the table he’s sitting at, looking at the waitress holding her ordering pad, as she just rolls her eyes and walks away.


~*~

We see the entity that has become known as Professor CHAOS walking through the backstage area, hugging close to the walls and shipment crates. As he approaches the corner, he crouches and peaks his head around the corner, looking for any witnesses. Seeing none, he steps around and continues his “stealth” path down the hallway.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps sends Professor CHAOS into alert. Summoning all his knowledge of stealth and cover, mostly gathered from Splinter Cell and Gears of War games, he dive rolls behind the nearest stack of crates. The FMW crew member walks by, just looking at the long bit of cape that is still sticking out while shaking his head. He continues on, ignoring anything going on. Professor CHAOS peeks back out and sighs a breath of relief, now that the “Threat” has passed.

Professor CHAOS finally reaches his destination, the wardrobe room for all FMW Staff. He goes to each washing machine, and lifts a large sack, cartoonishly labeled “SOCKS”. Professor CHAOS lets out a maniacal laugh as he goes to each machine, dumping the socks into each one.

~*~

We are looking in on a semi-full Toyota Center as the fans are being lead to their seats. There is a dull buzz across the arena, everyone excited for Death Row. Suddenly, the sound of static rocks the arena and the FMW Logo on the big screen disappears. The screen only shows the reflective shine of aluminum foil.

“MWUAHHAHAHAHAAHHAAH!!!”

Suddenly, the camera jerks violently, and allows us to see Professor CHAOS laughing into the camera. He pauses to catch his breath, then addresses the crowd.

“Ladies and gents, FMW Universe, I am Professor CHAOS… and you are a few mere moments from becoming my loyal minions. You see, I am a super genius that nobody in FMW has ever seen the likes of before. I will assume control of this company, and thusly… your wallets and minds. You see, you’re all gathered tonight for some sort of major event… but that’s not happening. I have ruined everything, and when each and each one of you asks for a refund… Full metal wrestling will be so embarrassed and broke, they will be putty in my hands… HAHAAHHAAHAHAHAHAH!!!!”

At this point, a voice off camera can be heard yelling, “Butters, what are you doing over there?”

“I AM –NOT- BUTTERS!!! I’ve heard that guy’s awesome though. This is all off-topic. The point is, tonight, you cannot have a wrestling extravaganza without referees… and you can’t have referees if I’ve ruined all their uniforms!!! HAHAHAHA!!! That’s right, I –PROFESSOR CHAOS!- broke into the arena and mixed all those precious white and black uniforms with a batch of my own socks! That’s right, all the colors shall bleed together and there will be no way Death Row can go on!!! BOW BEFORE CHAOS!!!”

As Professor CHAOS reveals his plan, the referee for the opening warm-up match walks out, his shirt not damaged one bit. Professor CHAOS stops laughing and stares directly at the referee.

“YOU THERE!! How is your shirt still white?! Why isn’t it pink and embarrassing? How have you done this?”

The referee shrugs, not having any idea of what is going on. Finally, a crew member walks onto camera with Professor CHAOS. “Umm.. CHAOS guy? I do the laundry here, and I always put in a bunch of these Shout Color-Catching sheets in. Makes it much easier to prevent colors from bleeding. “

Professor CHAOS looks out to the crowd, that is starting to laugh and chuckle in his direction. He looks totally defeated, his shoulders slouched. He just shakes his head and starts to walk away.

“Aww… tartar sauce…”

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
Steve Monroe

Flag Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt

Singles Match
Anwyl

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy
Ryder Strong was impressive here, by the way

Singles Match
John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno

Triple Threat
Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team SoA

David GS killed it.

Battle Royal for TV Title #1 Contender
Steve Monroe

Flag Match
'Outlaw' John Andrews

Cage Match
Leviticus, Matt Dunn, and Jeff Whitt

Singles Match
Anwyl

Abandoned Championship Match
Apostasy


Singles Match
John "Doc" Derrick

Tag Team Championship Match
Nicholas Gray and Damien Inferno

Triple Threat
Chris Austin

Main Event
War Games Match
Team YNG (Mark Johansson, Matt Ashburn, Nick Bryson, ???)

The one where things fall apart

Let’s just go ahead and get something out of the way now; we’re not going to win.

We’re not going to win.

I know, I know: I’m the one who never says die, but I’m also not a liar, so with that said

We’re not going to win.

Ask me where Leon Caprice is?

Go ahead

No?

I’ll do it for ya, I’ve got your back like that:

I have no fucking idea FMW fans, I have no fucking idea.

Ask me what’s the deal with Hannibal Frost?

Don’t be shy

No? Okay, I’ll take care of it:

(in a highly monotone voice) Doctor-Patience confidentiality runs to the core of the medical practice and cannot be broken upon even for [regular voice] yadda yadda yadda. He’s held up in hospital, that’s literally all I know.

We’re not going to win.

I’m afraid that’s just a fact we’re going to have to just lay down on the table and accept.

As much as I would love to see the look on Bryson’s face as I take away his world title run, as much as I want to smack that little shit Ashburn around, as much as I want to knock some sense upside the head of Mark Johansson...I am under the very heavy belief that’s you’re looking at the last days of the Sons of Attrition.

I don’t know what you think about that; maybe you like us, maybe you don’t...maybe you think “eh, whatever, does it really matter?” And you know what, maybe a few months ago I could have agreed with you. Maybe a few months ago I could have said “hey, we were just a bunch of guys thrown together by fate...big deal”

Sigh

I wish I could still say that, because it’d make the inevitable a whole lot easier to take. But then I’d be lying, and I’m doing that tonight.

No FMW, it’s time to be honest.

As much as I’d like to tell you that the SoA losing won’t matter, as much as I’d like it just to be a bump in the road, as much I’d like to say we didn’t wager something as valuable as Bryson and his goon’s did...

I can’t. I can’t because actually, actually the SoA means alot, to me.

I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to become...dependant on anyone else. That’s for other people to do to me. I’m the one people lean on for support, not the other way around. I’m the pillar of strength that the weak hang onto. I’m the one who doesn’t falter.

At least that’s the propaganda I yell at myself in the mirror every mornin’.

It’s not easy you know, maintaining a five year career in FMW, especially on the show built around being the most violent and chaotic. Despite want I might have preferred, my career taught me to be a lone wolf. Too many times I’ve been hurt by people I’ve put faith in: Adema Aries, PX, Mark Johansson, Seth Omega to name just a few.

But that a lonely, harsh, anti-social life. As much as you think you can be an island in this sport, the constant waves rocking and eroding you will teach you differently.

So the fact that this time that the break up is being forced on me rather than a mutual...agreement...it’s make things even more bitter to take.

I’m going to honest with you folks now, I’m going to be real with you...these last few months I’ve been dependent on Leon, David and fuck it yes, even Frost. Despite my “success” I’ve been more vulnerable than ever, I’ve need them to keep me going. I’m man enough to say I couldn’t have continued without the support of those men. It’s dumb, but I honestly have trouble admitting that to you, because that’s a weak point in my armour I’m showing you right now. Don’t think for second now that some dumb son of a bitch, likely named Chris Austin, isn’t going to take this and throw in my damn face sometime soon down the road. He’ll mock me, and the SoA, for simply having been friends. That shit will annoy the hell out of me, but again, in the interest of being honest, that’s the truth of it.

The simple fact of it is...I need the Sons of Attrition. They understand the pain, and struggle that goes with this sport in ways you fans can’t. You got to live, and they.live.it. Just being able to talk to someone in this sport, and say something, and for them not to turn it around and try and use it against is actually a big deal in my world. Leon understands my need to be supreme mortally upright, David GS understands that I’ve had to make this all about competition in order to enjoy it...Frost...Frost understands the dark, backhanded nature of this sport that I hate.

So when I say to you, as fans, that we’re going to lose at Death Row 4, do not take that as me brushing this match off. No, far from it:

This match is going to be war for me, and you can damn sure know it’s going to be war for YNG as well.

If Nick Bryson thinks he’s going to rip away the one stable factor in my life without a fight, he’s a fool.

Even if Leon doesn’t show for this fight, even if Frost isn’t fit for this fight, I, for one, am going down swinging as hard as I ever have.

You want to take any my friends; you want to take break up the one band of men who didn’t have some insane plan to take over FMW?

You’re going to beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of me to make that happen; and I don’t know if you’ve heard, but that’s a rather difficult task.

How much to do you want this Nick Bryson? Ashburn? Johansson? Mystery Asshole?!? How much!?

Because Guess what!? I NEED those men; I NEED my brothers in arms! I need the group called Sons of Attrition! I need their comradeship like the body needs food! I need their mutual support like fish need water! I don’t want to be on my own anymore! Quite frankly I’m sick of being the little ship that rides out the storm on its own.

I don’t have much in this life, but I have these men’s backs! I’m sick of being alone! I’m sick of forever fighting the uphill battle! I’m sick of dealing with sorry sons of bitches like you Nick Bryson all the time, and never having a friendly word sent my way!

I NEED these guys as much as I needed this belt, this title which if you know anything about me meant everything! And as I march towards our final battle, the last hurrah of the Sons of Attrition, before we’re split, never to reform, never to be allowed associate again, I know! In my heart! That David, Leon and Frost would take the beating of their LIVES before bowing down to you and your scum Nick Bryson!

Nick Bryson I want you to know, I want you to understand that I, in my time with these gentlemen, these men of virtue, that I have gained something that you and your henchmen will never have, nor ever will; I have earned the respect of these men, and they mine, and while I time was short, it’ll have meant more to me than anything you’ll ever say or do again!

So Nick Bryson, when you come to me in that twisted, brutal steel construction, and you attempt to tear anyway all this from me, I want you to know it’d have been easier to walk through HELL than have split the Sons of Attrition!

Because as long as there is breathe in my lungs, blood in my heart, strength in my arms, and belief in my mind I will FIGHT you, I will FIGHT you, I will FIGHT YOU!

I will throw punches and kicks and headbutts and what the hell I have in my arsenal all night at you Bryson, I will bludgeon your face so bad people will think it’s mince beef! For me, this isn’t about you or your fucking title, this about defending one of the few good things in my life!

When the referee raises your hand Nick Bryson, you and your men will not be all smiles; you will be broken messes of your former selves, bloody impressions of men, because that’s what it takes to rob me!

Come you sons of bitches, I can feel myself being ready for this fight already! Try and steal from me my brothers in arms! Ashburn! Please I’m begging you, try and step to me like you owe me, try it, because I’m dying to smack the stupid smile off your face! Please Ashburn, please make it happen I’m begging ya! Johansson, please, try and talk that shit you sprout to me in the ring, please! I want to see how a man with no teeth speaks!

And mystery man, no matter who you are, no matter where you come from, no matter what you think you’ll achieve on this night, just know, in your heart, that’ll NEVER be worth the fight you’ll have to have given me for it; having to go toe to toe with the Celt is NEVER FUCKING WORTH IT

COME ON YOU BASTARDS, COME ON!

AND TO YOU, SONS OF ATTRITION, AS WE MARCH TO OUR DOOM, I SAY
IT WAS AN HONOUR TO FIGHT BY YOUR SIDES
LET’S MEET OUR NOBLE END

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, ???)