Lethal Injection VOTING AND PROMO Thread! (2024)

We fade in to the office of FMW representative P. Thurston Deveraux. He clears his throat and folds his hands, placing them on a large oaken desk as he begins to speak.

Deveraux: It has come to my attention that due to certain circ*mstances we find ourselves with an incomplete tournament field tonight. The superstar known as Harlequin has proven himself to not only be reckless in the manners of the ring, but a man with no regard for the safety of not just our performers and personell, but our fans too.

He lifts a single piece of paper and begins reading from it.

It is with this in mind that I reveal that Harlequin has been suspended without pay and for an indefinate ammount of time, effective immediaely. Thusly, his spot in the tournament for the Full Metal Championship, the most prestigeous title in wrestling, is hereby vacated.

To resolve the situation we're proud to announce that there will be an open invitation Battle Royal to earn entry into the tournament, which is taking place entirely at Lethal Injection. Everyone dreams of one day making it big. Tonight is their chance to walk out of the arena making history. Good luck to everyone.

Deveraux stares into the camera for a few seconds before the scene fades to black.

PROMO ONLY until Wednesday, March 7th, at 5:59 PM
PROMO AND VOTING until Wednesday, March 7th at 11:59 PM
VOTING ONLY until Thursday, March 8th, at 11:59 PM

The Garden

” And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.” – Genesis, 1:26

There’s a man named Peter Singer. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He is perhaps the greatest, most influential living philosopher. He has written a number of things, primarily on applied ethics. The most famous of these writings is Animal Liberation, a book that contains an argument that jump started the animal rights movement. Without Singer, groups like the Animal Liberation Front and Peta wouldn’t be so well known. It’s worth knowing that Singer himself doesn’t particularly like either of those groups, as he believes that they overstate what he has argued. In fact, if there’s one thing you should know about Peter Singer, it’s that almost anything negative you hear about him is simply something about his beliefs that is drastically overstated and taken out of context.

I find Singer’s argument interesting. The five minute version goes something like this. In the abortion debate, there are all of these argued markers about when a person gains sentience, and becomes a morally important being. It could be self-awareness, it could be higher thinking skills, it could be feasibility, it could be memory, or any other number of things. But whatever the yardstick used, there are animals that also fit the description.

Furthermore, if the goal of ethics is to reduce the harm suffered in the world while maximizing the happiness, why shouldn’t this extend to animals? Why is the suffering they feel irrelevant? Unless you have some sort of rebuke to this, you end up simply not caring for other animals because they aren’t your species, something that Singer calls speciesist. The thought is that, at least at some small level, we should endeavor to not make the lives of animals a living hell. Of course, as a modern society that consumes massive amounts of meat and animal products, we do just this.

The argument hinges on the idea that what animals go through is at least on some basic level the same that we go through when they suffer. According to Singer, most of the actual differences between animals and humans aren’t really that large. We have opposable thumbs, but it seems that a fish with opposable thumbs would still not be as worthy a creature. We aren’t the only animals that feel pain, that have a concept of self, that have familial relations and mourn our dead. So why is it that even the most basic steps to ensure better treatment of animals – like only consuming free range meat – seems like such a bother for most people?

To be clear, I don’t have a proper rebuke to Singer. I happen to agree with him philosophically on a lot of things, even if I could never practice vegetarianism or veganism. I feel, though, that there is one thing that is overlooked a tad by Singer. What separates us from the beasts is something that we have that no other species has: language. And it’s more important than you’d think.

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” No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat; Since Eden's freshness and man's fall No rose has been original.” – Thomas Bailey Aldrich

A young Heath Yates, somewhere around seven years old, walks with Pastor Rick Yates through a dingy dog kennel. The plain cement floor is lined on both sides with iron dog cages, where dogs of all shapes and sizes bark, eat and jump at their doors. Heath looks at each one carefully, as the Pastor suspiciously eyes the more energetic dogs. Heath points to a black Labrador, which has placed its paws high on the cage, wagging its tail excitedly at Heath.

Heath: What about this guy?

Pastor: He’s a tad old. I thought you wanted a puppy?

Heath: I do… but he looks really happy to see me.

Pastor: Well, I bet a lot of these dogs would be if they knew what we were offering. These dogs would love a home, some companionship and some love. But, this isn’t just about them.

Heath: Right, I want a puppy so I can train him and learn responsibility!

The pastor smiles at his precocious adopted child. The two move on. In another cage, a small Dalmatian puppy leaps and yaps at Heath. Heath begins to stop, but the Pastor tugs on Heath, trying to keep him moving.

Pastor: You don’t want that one, son. He’s too much work, trust me.

Heath turns, and spots a half-grown German Shepherd puppy. The puppy is contently chowing down on its evening meal.

Heath: I like him…

The pastor reads the tag on the cage. It reads “#47 - Max – 6 months – Very calm, doesn’t bark”

Pastor: I think I like him too. Should we take a look?

Heath: Yeah!

The pastor motions toward the front of the kennel. An exhausted worker comes by, and directs them beyond the door. Heath and the Pastor are moved to the outside area, where they are fenced in. Heath and the Pastor carefully watch their step as the worker moves to the kennels, and opens the hatch #47. After a minute, Max comes toddling out to great Heath.

Worker: Come on out, Maxy!

Heath: Hey there, boy!

Max looks at Heath and wags his tail. He excitedly sniffs out the young Heath.

Pastor: Be calm, Heath. He’s just checking you out, just making sure you won’t harm him.

The dog digs its snout into the coat pocket of Heath. Heath tries to pet the Shepherd, but the dog ignores it, digging into his pocket.

Heath: Hey there… get out of my pocket! That’s my beef jerky!

The worker pulls the dog away by its collar. Heath retrieves the jerky from his pocket. After Heath pulls it out, the dog instinctively sits.

Heath: Look… he already knows sit!

Pastor: Looks like.

Heath snaps off half of his Slim Jim, and eats it. The dog looks longingly at the snack, and Heath tosses the rest his way.

Heath: Alright… good boy!

Pastor: Heath, I’m not sure that’s… is that okay?

Worker: Oh, it’s okay. Just don’t make a habit of it.

The dog is released by the worker. Max goes back to Heath, and sniffs the now empty hands of Heath. The dog licks Heath’s face.

Pastor: I think he likes you.

Heath: I think he’s cool. Can we take him home?

Pastor: I don’t know…

Worker: Well, we have some things to ask you and some paperwork to fill out. We can get that started right now if you’d like.

Pastor: What do you say, kid?

Heath: Let’s do it!

Pastor: Alright.

Worker: Alright then. I’ve got to put him back, just for now.

Heath looks at the excited dog. Heath stares into its face.

Heath: Alright boy. I’m coming back for you… don’t you go forgetting me. I’m going to be your friend now.

The pastor chuckles as the dog is put back in its kennel. Heath and the Pastor walk off, as they hear the puppy whimpering from inside its cage.

Heath: Don’t worry Max, we won’t be long!

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” Why have we had to invent Eden, to live submerged in the nostalgia of a lost paradise, to make up utopias, propose a future for ourselves?” – Julio Cortazar

Language is such a ubiquitous thing. We sometimes forget how rare and important it is to us. We have grown so used to taking it for granted. Even those who are deaf or blind have access to it. And yet, we understand it so little.

We have so many classes, books and energy devoted to the study of the use of language. The works of Shakespeare have been so carefully scrutinized that it’s quite possible that no original thought remains to be shared about his works. What is relatively unknown is how exactly humans come to learn language, and how that process is unique to us.

Now other animals have some forms of communications. Grunts, whistles and other sounds can convey certain primitive messages. A bluejay might know a specific whistle that signals a specific predator. What they do not have is something that Noam Chomsky calls syntax. It is the basic framework from which we deduce all of language. It is the reason why humans suddenly dramatically expand their vocabulary at an early age, where this expansion never happens in even the most well trained chimpanzees. Some scientists have devoted their entire lives to trying to teach language to apes, only to discover that the apes could only form basic sentences that would relate to basic things like wanting food or wanting an object.

Syntax is the thing that separates us from beasts, and nobody knows quite how humans go about acquiring it. There is a thought that humans might be genetically disposed towards it in some way, but there’s not really any consensus on the subject. In any case, this syntax allows us many uniquely human things. Specifically, it allows us to create ideas.

Human beings can think of things like souls, god, honor and legacy. These are ideas that can only exist with the invention of language. The human mind acts as a fertile garden for these ideas, which can later blossom and spread to other minds. With the information revolution that modern computing has brought out, these ideas can spread faster than ever before. A cat cannot tell a joke to other cats. A fish cannot hold a sermon for other fish. A horse cannot brag of its sexual conquests to other horses. A bee cannot call another bee a slu*t. Even a chimpanzee cannot understand the potential of something like a computer without demonstration. A human being can do all of these things, for better or worse.

These ideas can outlive even us. The thoughts of people like Martin Luther King, Voltaire, Locke, Emmanuel Kant and Hobbes have echoed throughout human history, influencing and shaping things long after the physical forms of those men had since disappeared from the Earth. And here is where perhaps we can draw a relevant distinction between the death of a man and the death of a beast. When you kill a man, you destroy the garden that his mind has become, and prevent it from further growing and spreading any seeds that haven’t already been spread. The same could not be said for even the most intelligent of beasts.

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Pastor Yates sits in his recliner, staring at the television. The 700 club is playing. Curled up on the floor sits a fully grown German Shepherd, indifferently resting.

Pastor: HEEEEEEEAAAAAATTHHHHHH!!!!

A slow and steady thumping of a teenager trodding down a set of stairs can be heard. Credits roll by on the screen, the digital clock above it reads “9:59”

Heath: Yeah?

A now teenaged Heath Yates rounds the stairs, and enters the living room with the Pastor. The dog gets up, wagging its tail. It runs to Heath and puts its front paws on Heath’s chest. Heath casually tussles the dog’s ears.

Pastor: I need you to take the dog for a walk tonight.

The dog’s tail wags faster. It jumps down and circles, looking at the Pastor.

Heath: I take him for walks in the morning. I thought you wanted to be all healthy and sh*t?

The dog looks at Heath, and barks once.

Pastor: I do… but my knee has been killing me lately.

Heath: You should get that checked out

Pastor: I think I’m going to. But for now, I need you to walk the guy for him.

The dog looks again at the pastor, and quickly circles back to Heath. He leaps up on Heath’s chest again.

Heath: I’m sorry, did you want something.

Heath smiles as the dog barks once again.

Pastor: Knock it off, mutt!

Heath: Max… did you want to go… on a WALK?!?

The dog circles quickly barking again. The dog runs to the front door and looks towards its leash, hung up on the coat rack.

Pastor: Why are you getting that thing all fired up?

Heath: It amuses me. It’s like he knows people language.

Pastor: You’re going to wake the neighbors. Just take him out.

Heath: Alright Pastor. Let’s go Max.

Heath snaps the leash onto the dog. The pastor gingerly lifts himself off of the recliner, putting all his weight on his left leg. He hobbles away, as Heath opens the door, and is nearly pulled to the ground by an excited Max.

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”Love doesn't grow on trees like apples in Eden - it's something you have to make. And you must use your imagination too.” – Joyce Cary

The things that we cultivate in our minds are curious things indeed. We put so much effort into getting ourselves to learn skills, become fluent in languages and control our dispositions. I’ve thought at length about being simply more motivated, and trying to be sure that I maintain good habits. I rightly think that these things will lead to greater success in my life.

But some of the most important things to take root in our minds are not planted there deliberately by us. They arrive on the winds of fortune, blossoming without much cultivation at all. In gardening, you might refer to these sorts of flowers as weeds, undesirable and unwanted. Indeed, some people treat these sorts of ideas just like they would treat a patch of dandelions in a bed of roses. But most do not. Most might not even be aware that such things aren’t in their garden by their choice, and in their ignorance recognize those ideas as their own.

I have noticed one such idea bubbling its way into my conscious thoughts as of late. The idea is simply this:

“Champion”

When I was first crowned the Abandoned Champion, I poked fun at my own achievement. I ran down the title’s history and status. I never considered myself great. But as time went on I grew attached to that title, and what it meant to me. I grew to consider myself as something more than just some tertiary champion.

The idea blossomed into a belief. That belief was that I was the best champion that Full Metal Wrestling had to offer. At the time, it was a modest claim backed up by several facts. Several titles had been vacated. The Ultraviolent Championship was not being defended, through no fault of the champion. I began to think of myself as THE champion.

At first it was a silly notion. It was comical to think that I, a previously unheralded 21 year old, might be the best in Full Metal Wrestling. I thought it was more of an indictment of others than a boast for myself. But the idea would continue to grow, demanding more of my attention and energy.

So, perhaps out of ego and perhaps out of humor, I bought the replica Full Metal Championship. I thought it would be funny, and relatively harmless. I thought that I would wear it about for awhile, gain some laughs and perhaps bring some attention to my matches. I didn’t think I’d end up taking it seriously.

The entire rationale for that purchase was that I was the best champion in Full Metal Wrestling. Then, somewhat surprisingly, I lost the title that made me that sort of champion. It was my first loss in over a year, and it stung more than any other loss I had ever taken in my Full Metal Wrestling career. And I assumed that it would poison that idea, by proving it false. I thought that the idea would wither away and die, and that the belt I had purchased would soon become a prop relegated to some forgotten box in a closet of my apartment.

The loss was like a storm in my mind, and it uprooted some of my more fragile conceptions. But the idea that I expected to perish had instead flourished, feeding on the rain of the storm and growing in spite of the wind. I looked at my fake championship, and I wanted it to be real. I wanted to climb the mountain again to the top of Full Metal Wrestling, this time in earnest. I wanted to stand atop that mountain with purpose, and spread that seed to everyone down below.

Apostasy… is the champion of Full Metal Wrestling.

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” The loss of Eden is personally experienced by every one of us as we leave the wonder and magic and also the pains and terrors of childhood.” – Dennis Potter

Teenaged Heath Yates stands in front of his dog, Max. Max is laying on top of a metal table. The room is tiled, with several wooden cabinets attached to the walls. In a chair behind Heath, the pastor sits, extending out his leg.

Pastor: Today… is a real bad day for this leg.

Heath: Max’s or yours?

Pastor: Well, both. But I was talking about mine. I tell you, these replacement knees, they work wonders. The first one feels great now. But this one still hurts a bit when I have to get up or sit down.

Heath: Well… hopefully we can get Max’s leg fixed up just like we got yours all fixed.

Pastor: You sure he didn’t trip or anything?

Heath: Yeah. Just came home one night, was trying to walk him, and he just didn’t want to leave the room downstairs. Just wanted to lay in his dog bed.

Pastor: I saw that a few days ago. I just thought he was being lazy.

Heath: I thought so too. But when I poured food in his bowl, he had to limp and drag himself over.

Pastor: Poor guy.

Heath pets Max by his ears, who looks up at him. Max casually rolls over, allowing Heath to scratch under his chin. A veterinarian walks into the room.

Veterinarian: Hello there. I’m Steven Gomez. Just call me Steven.

Pastor: Hey doc.

Veterinarian: So… what’s the problem with this guy?

Heath: Well… like I’ve been telling the Pastor here… this guy has been limping around for about a week now. Just doesn’t want to get up and go for walks… so I wanted to get his legs checked out.

Veterinarian: How old is the dog?

Heath: About ten years old now.

Veterinarian: And, I assume he’s a German Shepherd.

Pastor: Correct.

Veterinarian: Alright, let me see.

The doctor attempts to lift Max by his torso. Max puts his front paws in position, but his hind legs dangle uselessly on his rear, occasionally kicking out and attempting to support himself. The vet lets go, and Max is able to stand for only a moment before one of his legs gives out. The dog collapses into the arms of Heath.

Heath: I’m sorry boy. We just have to test some things out.

Pastor: So… what’s the problem? Broken bones? Muscle tear? Needs a knee replacement? Arthritis?

Veterinarian: Well… I would have to do a genetic test to be sure. But… in German Shepherds there’s a genetic disorder that might cause this.

Heath: What’s that mean?

Veterinarian: The disorder is degenerative myelopathy. It’s sort of like Multiple Sclerosis. The nerve fibers in the dogs start to degenerate, and misfire.

Pastor: So… that’s what’s wrong with his legs?

Veterinarian: Likely. DM starts at the rear legs, and progresses towards the front of the dog. It will slowly become paralyzed.

Heath looks at his dog, who is laying in his arms. The dog looks up at Heath, as Heath scratches behind it’s ears. A moment of silence passes.

Heath: Is there… a treatment?

Veterinarian: I’m afraid not.

Heath brings the back of his wrist to his eyes and rubs. Another moment of silence passes, as the pastor looks down to the floor.

Heath: How… how long does he have?

Veterinarian: It depends. From first symptoms, it can progress as quickly as 3 months or as slowly as 3 years. Sometime soon, he’ll lose control of his bowels… and you’re likely never going to be able to walk him again.

Heath: So…

Pastor: Is he hurting?

Veterinarian: Well… it’s hard to say. Dogs and other animals in chronic pain don’t yelp. There’s really no reason for them to convey that sort of pain, you know? Animals yell to alert others of whatever is causing them their pain. But when the pain is internal and constant… they have no mechanism for telling us.

Heath: I… I need a minute.

Veterinarian: Certainly.

The vet walks out and closes the door. The pastor rises, squinting in pain as he does.

Heath: What should I do?

Pastor: There’s nothing that can be done for him. Just a matter of making the last of his time here worthwhile.

Heath: He… he can’t walk. He can’t even bring himself to eat. And soon, he won’t even be able to control himself, he’ll be messing up inside the house. And you know he feels bad when he does that.

Tears begin to run down the cheek of Heath Yates. The dog tilts its head, and makes an effort to stand on its front legs. From sitting position, the dog licks its owner’s face.

Heath: He knows I’m sad…

Pastor: He’s a good dog, son. He’s earned a rest.

Heath hugs his dog. Max slumps back down into laying position. Heath pulls a Slim Jim out of his pocket, and unwraps it. He feeds the entire treat to the dog, who wolfs it down hungrily.

Heath: You’re right… can you go get him?

Pastor: Absolutely kid.

Max finishes the treat. The pastor leaves the room, limping all the way. After he leaves, Heath buries his head into the fur of his best friend, and sobs audibly.

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” We must cultivate our own garden. When man was put in the garden of Eden he was put there so that he should work, which proves that man was not born to rest.” – Voltaire

We go to a trainer’s table. Apostasy sports a gash on his forehead, opened up during the Through Hell and Back match at Corruption 15.3. The gash is stitched up, but dried blood paints the left side of Apostasy’s face. A doctor flashes a light into the eyes of Apostasy.

FMW Doc: Alright, I’m going to have you read this card again. Do you remember it?

Apostasy: That line of random numbers you always have me read before matches?

FMW Doc: Yup. That’s the one.

The doctor flashes the card and looks at his watch.

Apostasy: Two, nine, seven, four, three, eitght, two, eight, fourteen

FMW Doc: Good. It looks like you’re not concussed.

Apostasy: That was a concussion test?

FMW Doc: Simple little thing, isn’t it? The idea is that if you read it slower now, we know that your eye function is impaired, and that’s a big sign of a concussion.

Apostasy: Good then. The ladder just hit me in the face and cut it, instead of bruising my brain.

FMW Doc: Indeed, quite good. So you’ll be all set for Lethal Injection.

Apostasy: Fantastic. Any other news?

FMW Doc: That should be good. Here’s your bag…

The doctor hands Apostasy a black duffel bag, partially opened.

Apostasy: Thanks.

The doctor goes to a set of drawers by the bed. He pulls out a ziplock bag marked “laceration kit”.

FMW Doc: Here’s some extra gauze and bandages for that dressing. In a few hours, you’re going to want to put a new dressing on that wound. The stitches should dissolve in a few days, let me know if you have any issues with them. Additionally, if you have any headaches tonight, loss of memory or anything like that… be sure to let me know right away.

Apostasy: Thanks doc.

FMW Doc: No problem.

Apostasy stashes the baggie into his duffle bag. Poking out of the bag is a single Slim Jim. Apostasy looks at it, and stuffs it further into the bag. He pulls out his replica Full Metal Championship, now engraved with his name. It still bears a single piece of masking tape, with “interim” written across it in black marker. Apostasy shoulders the belt and walks out of the doctor’s office.
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”It is not good that the man should be alone.” – Genesis 2:18

For humans… pain is temporary. Pain can be forgotten. Pain can be a motivation. Pain can be simply viewed as an obstacle to be overcome. Pain can become a part of a larger story, which is developed in our mind. Pain can be the seed of this story, the catalyst that makes the story grow, or the obstacle that the story grows around, like a tree that twists its trunk around an old wire fence.

I know what I have endured in both life and in my matches. I know what has shaped me. In the end, I want it to mean something. I want it to help grow an idea that will spread readily. I want that idea to be rooted in the heads of those who only barely know me, so that it may live on forever. For that pain to mean something, for my struggle to ultimately be redeemed for greatness.

I want to be the Full Metal Champion.

Austin: Needed a break from work. I’m slightly surprised you’re here actually.

Hunter: Honestly, me too. Just finished another double, got another shift for patrol coming up in a few hours so, while I don’t mind your company, if you can try to make it quick. A nap would work wonders for me right now, ha-ha.

Austin: I’ll do what I can.

Nicole invites me in and I look around. I can tell by the heavy sigh that she’s stressed out. From what she’s told me they’ve reached a backlog of cases and the paperwork has really gotten out of hand. She, along with a few others, has been working overtime down at the precinct to get things back on track. I sit down on the couch and rub my face as she slowly sits beside me.

Austin: You look absolutely exhausted. How hectic have things been at V.P.D.?

Hunter: Don’t really want to talk about it, to be frank. Just a lot of crap and it keeps coming.

Austin: That bad, eh?

Hunter: Could be worse. I could be doing something I don’t love doing.

Perhaps not. I mutter “hmm” as for some reason I continue to think about that statement.

Hunter: So what’s up, Christopher? You look bothered.

Austin: Yeah… big-time stuff coming up for yours truly.

Hunter: Oh yeah, that FMW pay-per-view thing. Lethal Injection, right?

Austin: Yep. Wait, I thought you didn’t watch much of FMW.

Hunter: I don’t, but I watch your stuff from time to time and a lot of the guys at work enjoy it.

Austin: Who is their favorite?

Hunter: Oddly, they like you a little bit. They also really like the Celt. They say he’s “one of us”. But most of them are Hannibal Frost fans.

Austin: Idiots, the lot of them.

Hunter: Jealous, hmm?

Austin: (slightly defensive) Nah, not at all. I’m sure Hannibal Frost connects with them somehow. So, who’s your favorite?

Hunter: I guess it’d have to be you by default. I don’t know anyone else and the way the guys talk about it, apparently you’re really good at what it is that you do. Most of them expect you to win this tournament or whatever.

Austin: Ugh.

I scowl as that… “expect” word comes up. I’m legitimately starting to hate it. Nicole catches my change in mood.

Hunter: What, you don’t expect to win or something?

Austin: I’d rather discuss just about anything but that.

Hunter: … OK, when’s the last time you got laid?

I snatch my head over to her area and she’s smirking at me. I don’t even see the relevancy that question has to anything I’m doing right now.

Austin: What kind of question is that? That’s not what I had in mind when I asked to change the subject, Nicole.

Hunter: Damn, that long, eh? No wonder you’re so wound up, ha-ha.

Slightly embarrassed I start to pace the den of her apartment, hoping the reddening of my face subsides. I figure she’ll keep pressing the issue until I speak up about it, otherwise she’ll just tease me over it and that could go on forever.

Hunter: Come on now, Chris. What was it? Three months? Four, maybe?

Austin: (sighs)… about eight, possibly more, I lost count.

Her eyes widen at that statement. What? So what if it’s eight months, no big deal. I’m in Canada, I can end th...

Hunter: f*ck. You know, you’re young, relatively famous, cute and athletic. This shouldn’t be much of a problem for you.

Austin: Well what about you? You’re in a drought too, aren’t you?

Hunter: Maybe but I’m a chick, if it really came down to it I could end it but I literally don’t have time to do anything besides work, sleep and eat.

Austin: Ditto on the lack of time, Nicole.

Hunter: Well you’re over here, apparently taking a break so you can find time in your schedule to rectify this situation.

Austin: If you want to be that way about it, you have a few hours before your next shift.

There’s silence. Nicole begins to chuckle as I look on, rather serious as is my way. She then begins to think. She then looks at me funny and sighs heavily.

Hunter: So uh… yeah…

Austin: No. Not happening. Don’t get me wrong Nicole, you’re very attractive but, just no.

I shouldn’t have to go any further. Kylie? Jaime? f*ck that, I’m not dealing with women right now. Women and FMW just don’t mesh well for me. I’ll lose focus and sh*t of that nature. I have enough stuff to think about.

Austin: One, this is straight out of some corny ass romantic comedy movie. Two, I’m not trying to complicate one of the few stable things going for me right now. Three, No.

Hunter: No need to explain. I can understand if you’re out of practice and not up to your “standard”. It was just a thought anyway. No big deal.

Out of practice? Not up to standard? She’s got girl balls, I’ll give her that.

Austin: Out of practice? Yeah, right.

Hunter: Could’ve proved me wrong but it’s your prerogative. Now, what exactly did you want to talk about again? Something about your job?

Austin: …

You know, for some reason that doesn’t even seem like a big deal anymore.

Austin: Eh, it’s not important. I think I’ll be fine.

Hunter: Glad I could help. I take it you’ll be leaving now?

Austin: Precisely. Driving to Seattle in a few hours.

Hunter: Alright then, be safe and good luck. And if you can, try to break that dry spell ASAP, maybe things wouldn’t be so stressful for you.

Austin: Practice what you preach.

We both laugh and I go to leave as she walks somewhere, I wasn’t looking back. I open the door and it hits me…I do need to get laid. So. I shut the door and call her bluff.

Austin: You’re on, Nicole.

Hunter: You sure about this?

Austin: Only if you are.

Hunter: (Looks at wall clock) Eh, I’ve got time. No redos though so get it right the first time.

Gotta love the straight-fowardness of Nicole Hunter. Anyway, that’s all you need to see and hear. Infer from this what you will.

Deveraux looks at Apostasy, Frost and Caprice. Steele looks towards his prospective opposition eagerly. Austin’s pacing reaches a rhythmic frenzy and his eyes remain fixated on the FMW Championship Belt.

Deveraux: Apostasy, you have risen so high in such a short time. You became such a top competitor that you even call yourself the “Interim Full Metal Champion.” Perhaps that could be official after tonight.

Frost: Yeah, right.

Apostasy: You’re a co*cky little something, aren’t you?

Deveraux: Gentlemen, my office is not the place for any physicality. Save it all for the ring. The fans at Qwest Field and watching at home need to see you all perform like you never have before. Hannibal, as a former champion I know that you would like to uphold the championship once more, yes?

Apostasy: Because he did such a masterful job of it the first time. Emphasis on the word “job”.

Frost: Bro, I don’t mind kicking your ass right here, right now.

Deveraux: But I do. So save it. Leon, Derrick, Smith, Steele. You four have shown what talent and one opportunity can do for someone. I truly believe that either one of you could win this tournament. Steele, you were once seen as a future champion and I look forward to seeing you prove that you can in fact be that. Leon, you’ve had so much success and have shown such indomitable will. Smith, you may become our biggest rookie sensation since David GS, Derrick, a certified hall of famer… no doubt you have what it takes.

Derrick absent mindedly tips his cap as most of everyone in the office maintains a general aloofness about the situation, barely minding the words of Deveraux save for just enough effort to give off the impression that they hear his words. Austin’s pacing continues. His gaze upon the richest prize in this federation does not break. In fact, it strengthens. Frost and Apostasy momentarily break their own stare-down to see Austin’s pacing like a caged animal, his eyes hungrily trained on his prey, if you will.

Deveraux: Austin, you… Austin?

Austin’s tunnel vision is in full effect. Background noise blocked out. In this world according to Chris Austin, there is himself and the Full Metal Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship Belt. Frost notices this and goes to address Austin.

Frost: Looks nice doesn’t it? Yeah, it feels even better too. Unfortunately, this is about as close as you’ll get to it because I fully expect to be defeating you in the finals to win that belt for the second time.

Apostasy: That’s where you’re wrong. Austin might be on the losing end in the finals but you won’t be there to pin his shoulders to the mat if that’s the case. I will be, however.

Leon: Whoa, whoa. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m still in this tournament and I’m on my game like never before.

Steele: All you blokes can shut your trap. If anyone’s beating Austin tonight, it’s going to be me, count on that.

Doc: Well you’ve done a great job so far of beating Austin, Abel.

Steele: I’m not doing too shabby when it comes to beating you.

Doc: Won’t happen again if I can help it.

Frost: Guys, guys, chill. We all know that we want to be FMW Champion, but what about Austin? He’s just pacing like a madman, as if he’s the only one in the room. He seems to forget that there are some obstacles in his way before he gets all nice and acquainted with that championship.

Austin’s pacing continues. It’s as if every fiber in his being is screaming for someone, somewhere to ring a bell so he may fight for the FMW Championship.

That championship is all I see, all I need to know. So long as it is not in my possession. I must continue to work. This is why I study, this is why I train. This is why I am Chris Austin. This is why… it all makes sense.

Frost: Cat got your tongue, Chris?

Austin: (still pacing, gaze never breaking from the FMC) You only see obstacles when you lose sight of your goals.

Each member of the field, sans Austin exchange looks of “the hell he didn’t just say that”.

Frost: Oh, so we’re not obstacles to you, we just don’t matter?

Austin: (still pacing, gaze never breaking from the FMC) You misunderstand.

Apostasy: I catch your drift. I’ll see you in the finals.

Austin: (still pacing, gaze never breaking from the FMC) Fine.

Leon: Apostasy, you’re sorely off-base. I will be in the finals, and I will be winning that championship. Hopefully Austin’s there to face me.

Austin: (still pacing, gaze never breaking from the FMC) Be careful what you ask for, God has a cruel sense of humor.

An argument ensues. Doc, ever the cool customer stays out of it while Austin remains terse, Deveraux tries to calm the ruckus and Smith merely leaves. Then Austin stops pacing and this catches the rest off guard. His eyes remain on the championship and nothing else.

Austin: Well, one thing is established. I will be in the finals. There’s only room for one more and true to my status as the ultimate constant, most of you have it set that I’ll be there to face you. I personally don’t care which one of you I defeat last, work it out amongst yourselves.

With that, Austin backpedals out of the room. Eyes still trained upon the championship as his competition eyes one another.

"Long day, law me looooow..."

* * * * *

Kraven: “AGAIN”

He bellows to seemingly no-one in particular.

The sound of movement and empty bottles rolling across dusty floorboards comes from off-camera.

Man: “That's seventeen times now K.W...”

The voice of this second man is tired and anxious simultaneously.

Kraven: “Earl, I pay you to serve me booze and keep your damn mouth shut. AGAIN.”

Another puff of cigar smoke wafts upwards into the increasingly cloying atmosphere of the dingy bar. As the miasma parts an out of focus man in a flannel shirt crosses the background of the shot, tinkers with the jukebox for a moment and then returns to his chores, muttering.

Earl: “Don't even pay me for that...”

"Long day, law me looooow..."

'K.W.' grins through a gritted cigar and brings his hands back behind his head. His eyes close as he immerses himself in the sound of his own theme music.

Kraven: “Man it's good to be king.”

The best part of a minute of bluesy metal passes uninterrupted with Full Metal Wrestling's latest – and some would say greatest – acquisition comfortably resting in the eye of this particular tornado. The air is filled with his smoke and his music. The message is clear before he has even spoken to the issue.

Kraven: “So here's the deal...”

Suddenly Kraven kicks his feet off of the table and swings round to face the camera, leaning towards it imposingly.

Kraven: “Name's Kraven Whiskeyjack. Only reason you're watchin' this is because either you're curious – and ladies, I can't say as I blame ya – or you're the competition. And that might just be a problem for your continued healthy existence.

He strikes a match and lifts it to the end of the ragged-looking cigar, taking a series of quick puffs.

Kraven: “What we got going on in this little scene right here...”

He tosses the match away and gestures behind himself.

Kraven: “...is a metaphor. So when I say that this is my bar and I I'll fight any damn fool who says otherwise I hope you'll be sharp enough to catch my drift.”

Another awkward shuffle comes from off-camera.

Earl: “Technically it's my bar K.W...”

Whiskeyjack snaps around in his chair, raising an arm in defiance and hollering back at the unseen voice of Earl.

Kraven: “SHUT YOUR GOD DAMN MOUTH EARL OR I WILL UNRESERVEDLY MESS YOUR sh*t UP.”

Earl doesn't respond and a visibly angry Kraven slowly wheels back around his chair to face the camera. He distractedly brings the cigar up to his mouth, inhales deeply and then puffs out smoke with a frustrated expression on his face,

Kraven: “OK. Screw the metaphor. Let me put this in plain English in case any dumb-ass bartenders get the grand idea to smart mouth me again.”

As he leans forward once more he lifts a hand and rubs at the stubble all over his jaw. It looks as though he hasn't shaved in weeks.

Kraven: “I claim ownership over all I survey. I see something I want, I take it. Someone gets in my way then I beat their ass until they can't stand up anymore.”

A final puff on the now-spent cigar before he tosses it to the floor and spits out a quantity of tobacco leaf.

Kraven: “Guess I'm one of those fellas who lives life with a philosophy. You might think that strange from lookin' at me but hell, man's gotta have a code.”

Slowly Whiskeyjack stands, turns and plucks something off of the other side of the table before turning and sitting heavily. He taps the newly acquired packet of cigarettes on his thigh, removes one and lights it.

Kraven: “Now I'll be bringing this code to Lethal Injection. I'll also be bringing the twins...”

He kisses his left fist, ignoring his right because of the lit cigarette clutched between his first and second fingers.

Kraven: “And let me be as clear as I can when I say that ol' K.W. Aint no kind of discriminator. I will bring the pain down in wrath-of-god style waves on your narrow asses regardless of race, gender or any other god damn excuse you might think to throw my way once I've got you on your knees.”

“There aint a living creature on this planet that I wont fight, specially if it means staking a claim on something I want. And all the boys and girls at FMW are gonna learn real quick that what Whiskeyjack wants is to run train on this damn company.”

“If I were one of the fools who's thinking about stepping into the ring with me at that Battle Royale then I'd be scared. Hell, I'd be PETRIFIED. But I know that not all of you guys got all your dogs barking. So consider yourselves warned. Stay home. Find another profession. Cos I aint going no place else and I can guarantee that wherever you end up once I'm done with you, you'll definitely have been through hell to get there.”

The music stops again and the track auto-changes to 'Straight Outta Compton' by N.W.A. Kraven places the cigarette in his mouth and squints through the smoke as he shoots a look at the camera before standing and shouting back off-camera.

Kraven:“Earl what the f*ck is this gangster bullsh*t? Why do you even have this on there?”

Earl's voice is muffled as if he's talking from the doorway of another room. Whiskeyjack has his back to the camera and his hands on his hips.

Earl: “Thought you owned this place Whiskey. Don't seem like the God's of the jukebox agree.”

Kraven grabs an empty beer bottle off the floor and hurls it. The sound of breaking glass and a muffled grunt come from off screen, and Whiskeyjack advances to the point where he's almost off-camera himself.

Kraven: "EARL SHUT THE f*ck UP. YOU WANT TO GO THROUGH THE WINDOW LIKE TWO-DOG? DIDN'T THINK SO YA DUMB REDNECK GOAT-FU...”

Momentarily he looks back over his shoulder and seems to consider his words. Then he is suddenly on the camera in what seems like one stride and grappling it's owner. The camera man grunts as Kraven grips him with an extended arm, the lens gazing up into the attacker's face.

Kraven: “Lethal Injection. Whiskeyjack's comin' and he's bringing a whole sack of beat-downs for you FMW losers. Kraven's about to make sh*t get real. See you there.”

The camera and it's operator fall to the ground with a thud, cracking the lens. The device stays functioning just long enough to catch Kraven striding angrily after the now-silent Earl.

Kraven: “...told you to play the song you stupid sumbitch. Act like a god damn man and come here...”

* * * * *

The screen blacks out.

“My father says she was born lucky, he says I was lucky to be born. I don’t need luck though, I don’t want it. I’ve always had to struggle and fight and that’s made me strong. It’s made me who I am.” – Zuko, from Avatar: The Last Airbender (Siege of the North, Pt. 2).

__________

It’s a clear, sunny day over Olympus. It feels like the calm before the storm… and it very may well be. The Gods aren't going to like what I have to say. I specifically chose an appointment time after dinner in hopes that they will be somewhat placated by full stomachs. I stride up the white marble staircase, and the large golden doors open wide to suck me into the large palace. As per usual, there is an abnormal amount of tension as I step up to the Olympians Council.

Apollo: Good to see you, Andrew.

Slegnadamus: I wish I could say the same.

There was some uncomfortable shifting in the room. My father looked especially nervous.

Apollo: Then state your business.

Slegnadamus: You'll have to forgive me, feel free to strike me down with a lightning bolt if I piss you off.

No reaction to my weak attempt at humor. Meh. Screw them.

Slegnadamus: I’m tired. I'm weary. And I'm not going to continue running around, doing your errands for you. You send myself and other demigods on Heracles’ Labors, and to what end? I've done nothing but play your little war games and I'm sick of it. I’m just done. The one career I had, I’m burnt out because all my free time is spent here. If I could, I would wish this all away.

Deep breath. By the look on Zeus’ face, the only reason I wasn’t being fried right now was because Zeus was trying to find a longer and more drawn out way for me to die.

Slegnadamus: But before I take my leave, I would to say something else though. And this isn’t just to quell my grandfather. I no longer fear death, and for that opportunity, I am grateful. I treasure the friendships built upon this mountain, but I can no longer continue up here.

I turn and begin to walk out.

Apollo: May I please take up just five minutes of your time?

The booming Godly voice has changed, it’s softer and more human. Without looking back, I know my father has changed into his mortal form and is following me out. However, it’s not going to work.

Apollo: Son?

Oh Gods dammit. I turn back for only a second. I see my father walking towards me with sadness written all over his face. My surrogate sister, Artemis, with watery eyes. Zeus, being held back only by Hera’s strong grip his waist.

Slegnadamus: Five minutes.

Apollo: The Council was glad you asked to see us, you see, we had something we wanted to ask you.

Zeus: I forbid you; he no longer has the privilege of that choice.

Hera: With all due respect, husband, shut up. Go ahead, Apollo.

I raise my eyebrows, impressed with the magnitude of this supposed topic. The timer in the back of my head tells me five minutes are rapidly approaching, but I’ll listen.

Apollo: Well…
__________

I always enjoyed my time with Andrew, and I’m pretty sure he enjoys hanging out with me. There’s no Slegnadamus here, no stage names. I call him Andrew, he calls me Kara. But the worst thing is that I think I’m starting to develop a crush on him. I’m not sure whether I hate myself or Andrew more for this. Not that it’s his fault, of course.

Right now, we’re sitting in my apartment watching a movie, something that we would do back in high school. We’d meet at one of our houses, we’d finish homework (well, he’d do his homework and usually end up helping me), and then we’d watch a movie. There was never anything between us then, but now, when I’m 25? Embarrassing.

I spend the rest of the movie thinking about him, and I’m thankful that it wasn’t a romantic comedy, that would have been awkward. When the movie ends, I feel emboldened by some unseen force.

Kara: Andrew?

Andrew: Mmm.

Kara: Have you ever liked me?

Andrew: Of course, we’ve been friends since high school.

He’s smart, he gets the question immediately. I’ve seen him lie many times, and Andrew’s unnaturally good at it. But he could never lie to me, at least very well. I take small steps towards him, and he doesn’t back down. Soon, I’m standing right in front of him, my boobs pressing against his chest. He lowers his chin, and I look into his eyes, only to see something I haven’t noticed previous to today. I stand on my tip toes, and put my lips to his. He recoils at first, and then briefly relaxes before suddenly pulling away.

Andrew: No, between my FMW travel schedule, and me, this is not happening.

I give him a sarcastic smile, he returns a roll of the eyes.

Kara: What’s wrong with you?

Andrew: I’m cold, calculating, cynical, and generally misanthropic. This can’t and won’t happen. I’m sorry.

He closes his eyes for a second and sighs.

Andrew: I should go.

He turns and heads out the door. I can hear his footsteps descending the metal staircase outside, and I fall back onto the couch dejectedly.

Andrew dislocated his shoulder playing baseball, popped it back in himself, and went out there the next inning and pitched.

He’s taken huge bumps off ladders, cages, and even caught fire during a match.

But he can’t even face this, and he flees?

What a f*cking puss*.

Apollo: Well, we came together and decided that due to your outstanding field work, you deserve to be honored on Mount Olympus.

Meh.

Apollo: Andrew. Slegnadamus. We offer you power that you can only dream of, an opportunity granted to a very small few over the millennia. We offer you a seat of power on Mount Olympus, as a God.

Not so meh.

Andrew: Pass.

A flash of light, and I feel myself convulsing on the ground. Somewhere in the dissonance, I hear someone say to put the old man down for his nap. I would’ve found that incredibly funny if my heart hadn’t stopped then.
__________

I couldn’t help but sit dejectedly on the couch for a second. Then it hit me, and I ran out the door to follow him. I meant to keep my footsteps silent as I followed him down, but I didn’t care enough to make a conscious effort. I saw him through the metal slits on the stairs, his shoulders tightened when he heard me thundering down after him. But even still, he didn’t speed up.

I caught up to him on the second floor landing and deftly pinned him against the brick wall of the apartment. He could have easily pushed me away with his size, but instead he relaxed. I pushed my body into him once again and our lips made contact. Andrew pushed me away again, but he didn’t put much heart into it. I moved my hands around his neck, and he did the same. He relaxed more this time, and even returned the kiss timidly.

I didn’t ask for that, but I’ll take it.

It’s a start.

“Moving forward. Memories left behind. A new life, a new journey. I've built anew. For mankind... for my kind. The vessel stares back at me. From every angle, the menacing smile latches on. Talking walls speak and spell my life story. My past life. The vessel sleeps beside me... the comfort breath. Morning skin of machines, of humanity's beginnings. Am I God? I've been called worse... drift in and out. The vessel brings me sleep. Hyper Sleep.” – Between the Buried and Me (“Augment of Rebirth”)

__________

When I finally came to, I felt… fine. Apollo was sitting next to my bed, reading an issue of Rolling Stone.

Slegnadamus: Really, Rolling Stone?

Apollo: I have to keep up with what’s popular in music, it’s technically in my job description.

Slegnadamus: But… Rolling Stone?

Apollo: Gotta roll with the punches. There’s a lot of sh*t out there, like this magazine, and then I’m all like “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore”. But when good things come along, it’s like, “some faith in humanity has been restored.”

I stare at him in disbelief. He ignores it and casually goes back to reading.

Apollo: You’re lucky Ares and Hermes were holding Zeus back.

Slegnadamus: I’d rather die than be stuck up here for eternity.

Apollo: Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?

Slegnadamus: Consider me honored, I’m still alive. I just want some sort of humanity left. The Godly side of me is the elephant in the room, and I want it gone.

Apollo: Well, I can’t just remove it.

Slegnadamus: Obviously. But I’m done up here, I have no more business.

Apollo: The offer will stand for one week, if you decide to change your mind.

Slegnadamus: I appreciate it, but it’s not happening.
__________

It’s been a week since we kissed for the first (and then second time). But nothing’s changed. Here we are, curled up on the couch, watching a movie again. Andrew’s phone beeps. He checks it and smiles.

Kara: You need to get that?

Andrew: Nope, just an alarm for a deadline that passed.

Kara: A good deadline, or a bad deadline?

Andrew: Depends how you look at it. But for me, good, now that it’s passed.

Kara: If you say so.

As I rest my head on his shoulder again, I can feel Andrew’s muscles are far more relaxed than before the message. Whatever’s good for him is good for me.

Good for us.
__________

“I've awakened to feel a piece of distant harmony. How could I not see possibilities and unlimited passion. Hello luminescent being, walking outside of my last identity. Celebrate, for in the end, we'll meet inequality. I see light, I see light in your eyes.” – Periphery(“Racecar”)

Fade in.

Seattle, Washington.
March 6, 2012.
8 hours before doors open.

Brooks is in a garage setting up a tripod to record what undoubtedly would be a make or break for him. He sets the timer to 60 seconds and walks over to the fridge to grab a beer before sitting on the couch to shoot the video.

The camera flashes signaling it will begin recording in 3 seconds

A couple weeks ago, when Damion Kross told his secretary to tell her secretary to leave a message on my answering machine for me to call Damion Kross and then I called Damion Kross and he proceeded to fire me over the phone, I thought a big cloud was lifted off the career of Paul Brooks. Because gone were the days when I’d go up to someone and say “hey – what about me and Nigel Vanderbilt? We got this big thing going – how ‘bout the cage?” and someone says “no, thats for somebody else. We just gonna keep you right where you at right now.” Then I said “well what about me and Hustle? I got this great idea – he comes in, he’s got the Beats by Dre deal, well hell, I got…” “No Paul. Thats for somebody else.” Then you go “I got this great idea – I could do it with cYnical. I’m gonna be the underdog taking on the biggest traitor in LPW and we’re gonna take this thing all the way! Because cYnical and him turning his back on Insanity was the biggest thing to ever come down the wrestling pike!” And they said “No, that’s not for you brother. You can’t do that. We’re gonna keep you right where you are.”

Brooks opens up the beer and takes a sip.

I said “how about me and Trey get back together? Altered State! It was the best tag team to come along in the current season!” and they say “no Paul, we need you in a singles role man. We need you to do this. We’re gonna put the TV title on you and then we’re gonna take you here, and then you’re the number one contender so then you get this world title shot...” Well all that sh*t never happened!

So there I am, floundering along, there’s nothing going my way, because the politics in LPW kept the biggest potential superstar in wrestling on the goddamn ground! What are you supposed to do? On one hand, they’re paying you a bunch of money – they’re paying ME a bunch of money. While on this hand they’re saying “hey, go out and give Lincoln a hell of a match. Go out there with a 23 year old American kid. Give him seven good minutes. Let the people see what he can do.”

They say you are what you eat. In LPW, they didn’t feed me nothing but garbage, so I let myself become garbage. I became complacent with everything they said. As long as Public Enemy#1 LLC kept sending in the cheques…maybe I wasn’t happy with everything that was going on, but I became complacent.

Brooks drinks some more of the beer.

Then they send me to Japan – the big injury! Kross delivers the shot heard around the damn world – Paul Brooks’ out of the high-paying job. All of a sudden the phone starts ringing off the hook – it’s FMW, it’s the PWA, it’s ROH, it’s TNA, and all Paul Brooks’ gotta do is make a decision. Andy Garner, whether he re-mortgaged his house one time, two times, maybe three times, came up with the right figure for Paul Brooks to make a decision.

I stroll into the Qwest Field – the biggest piece of crap I’ve ever seen. I broke in in a building called the TD Garden in Boston, Massachussets. Home of John Cena. Home of The New England Patriots. Home of The Boston Bruins. Everybody who was anybody set foot in the Garden. For the last two years, all you’ve heard about anywhere in wrestling is the famous FMW Arena. Debut night, I roll in. You got the Smoochy the Frog. You got Wolfbanger. You got Sharpedo King, you got Kuruk you got Shockmaster…Stormmaster – whatever the hell his name is! You got the YNG. You got a bunch of damn MISFITS, running around thinking that they can actually wrestle. All I’ve seen in FMW is a bunch of violent crap and that’s exactly what I’ll call it cause that’s exactly what it is. Paul Brooks is here to wrestle. It’s what I do best. It’s what I do better than anyone in the world.

Mass Chaos. Justus. They got the big send-off. Tears were in everybody’s eyes. It was a big deal. All Paul Brooks got was a good swift kick in the ass as Kross hung up the phone and left me high and dry. There’s no Awakened here. There’s no UGK here. There aren’t any sh*tty ass bookers and there damn sure isn’t a Damion Kross here. There’s no one that can hold back Paul Brooks now.

Brooks finishes off the rest of the beer.

“Canadian Destroyer”? Tossed it out the window. Never was meant to be. FMW’s gonna find out first hand what Paul Brooks can do. And I’m gonna show everyone here exactly what a true superstar is supposed to do, what a true superstar is supposed to be. Because no one here can hold be back. Not Andy Garner. Not X. Not Damion Kross. Nobody. I’m gonna be the superstar that I always knew I could be, because there’s no one and I mean no one in FMW that can stop me.

I spent my whole life not knowing what I want out of it, just chasing my tail. Now for the first time I know exactly what I want and who... that's the damnable misery of it. I want the Full Metal Championship belt and there’s nothing anyone in the Battle Royal or anything Apostasy, Leon Caprice, Chris Austin, Hannibal Frost, Abel Steele, John 'Doc' Derrick or Adam Smith can do about it!

Brooks gets up and walks over to the camera turning it off before grabbing another beer and sitting back down to do some opponent scouting.

Fade out.

Wednesday May 17th 2006
Saltwater Beaches High School

Santana Braxton squints her eyes as she looks through the crowd of people at her high school as she attempts to find the boy she wanted to find. Moments later, his huge, muscular frame comes into her line of view and a smile crosses her face.

Santana: Found him.

Sage: Are you sure you don’t need my help?

Santana: Don’t worry sis, I’ve got this under control.

Santana leaves her sister and their group of friends and coyly walks up to the desired boy and his group of friends. She lightly taps him on the shoulder and greets him with a seductive smile when he turns around to see her.

Santana: Jakey, long time no speak.

Jake: It’s Jake, and that’s probably because you’ve never really spoken to me before.

Santana: Yeah? I’m really sorry about that. I just… I just didn’t know how to approach you. I’m not really good at talking to people.

Jake: Oh gee, I’m sorry. Well, I’m glad you finally got the courage to come and speak to me.

Jake’s friends have all gone dead silent as they watch their friend talk to one of the most popular girls in school. Suddenly, Santana bursts into tears and falls into Jake’s arms who, despite feeling a bit strange, wraps his arms around her in an attempt to comfort her.

Jake: Santana? What’s the matter?

Santana: Oh nothing, it’s – just – people are so mean these days, don’t you think?

Jake: Yeah I know what you mean. Come on, tell me what happened.

After finally recovering from her ‘emotional breakdown’, Santana and Jake go for a walk so other people cannot hear them.

Santana: It’s Jesse. He doesn’t feel welcome here. The guys here are so horrid to him and I can’t do a thing about it.

Santana bursts into tears again as Jake wraps his arms around the beautiful girl once again.

Jake: Who’s doing this to him? I should teach them a lesson.

Santana: Ben and his crew. They’re so mean.

Jake: Listen, Santana, I will take care of this. Don’t you worry about a thing.

Jake pats her on the back reassuringly. Santana attempts a smile and hugs him, whispering her thanks into his ear.

Jake: Hey, Santana, while you’re here, I was wondering if you wanted to do something later today with me?

Santana: Yeah, maybe. I’ll get back to you. Thank you for listening to me, Jakey.

Jake: No worries. Just leave it up to me.

Santana kisses Jake on his cheek and after giving him a flirtatious smile, turns on her heel and skips back to her sister.

Sage: Done?

Santana: Done.

Santana takes a seat next to her sister and watch as Jake and his friends approach Ben and his crew and after some harsh words between the two leaders, fists are being thrown and bodies are being flung everywhere.

Teacher: Alright! Break it up! Break it up!

The groups are broken up by several teaching staff and soon all of the boys are being taken down to the principal’s office to be reprimanded. Jake walks passed Santana and she winks at him which brings a smile to his face.

Sage: Nice work.

Santana: Thanks.

Sage: At least they’ll be leaving Jesse alone now.

Santana: They better.

Sage: Oh, by the way, since I went to detention last time as you, you have to go as me today. Thanks.

Sage pats her sister on the back and gets up and leaves to go to class. While she is walking through the hallway, she bumps into Jesse who is standing by himself, leaning against a wall.

Sage: Jesse! What are you doing?

Jesse: I don’t want to go to class.

Sage: Me neither. Let’s ditch and go watch a movie.

Jesse: What about Santana?

Sage: She has detention later today. As me.

Jesse: (chuckles to himself slightly) Hey, what happened at lunch with that huge fight?

Sage: Never you mind, little brother, never you mind.

Monday March 5th 2012
Sage and Santana’s Penthouse Suite

On the phone…

Sage: Yes, Mum, it’s a pay-per-view which means you have to pay to see it.

Lola: Well, don’t I get some sort of discount for being your mother?

Sage: No, Mum, you don’t. I have to go now. I’ll talk to you later.

Lola: Okay. Give Santana my love.

Sage: I will. Give Jesse ours.

Sage hangs up her phone and breathes a loud sigh of relief. Santana is pacing around the kitchen with her arms folded tightly against her chest.

Sage: Will you stop doing that? It’s giving me a headache.

Santana: But I can’t stop thinking about it! Urgh! It was so disgusting!

Sage: I can’t even begin to imagine how repulsive you must feel after having that creep’s hands on you, let alone his tongue down your throat. Oh my god, I’m about to throw up.

Santana: That was clearly sexual assault. I can’t believe no one is doing anything about it.

Sage: Don’t worry, we will get him back one day. Actually, if I have things my way – and I generally always have things my way – we will be getting him back in the very near future. Now sit the hell down and come plan with me.

Santana stops, turns to face her sister and sighs with relief. She skips over to the couch and sits next to her twin.

Sage: We need a plan of attack if one of us are going to win this battle royal and I would very much appreciate it if one of us did.

Santana: We’ll be fine. We know the rules of a battle royal and can work around them to make sure we are guaranteed the win. Besides, even if our first plan of attack doesn’t work, we have plenty of allies who would break their backs to defend us.

Sage: Who said I was the smarter of us two? God bless Jonathan King. That man is as chivalrous as he is sexy.

Santana: Don’t forget our Leviticus. He’s so freaking adorable. I’m going to plan a cute shopping trip for us two.

Sage: Quite frankly, I don’t understand why all the men in FMW don’t treat us like they do. We’re beautiful, innocent young women who are extremely friendly to everyone and anyone. They could learn to take a few tips from those handsome GSW men.

Santana: I know we’ve said that we want to keep business and pleasure separate but would you be against the idea of me possibly liking someone at FMW?

Sage: Depends on who it is, I guess. We’re getting off-topic. We need to focus on this battle royal.

Santana: Right, right, sorry. Do we know who’s participating?

Sage: Nope, it’s an open invitation so that could possibly put us off our game.

Santana: Don’t worry, we’ve got this. You’re undefeated in competition at FMW and I intend on being undefeated as well. We’ve got this. Not only are we the most beautiful, we are without a doubt the smartest in FMW and we’ve proven that ever since we’ve made our debut. We can do this.

Sage: You’ve got a point.

Santana: Furthermore, I don’t care if it’s me or you who wins this battle royal, one of us will enter the Full Metal Championship Tournament and will come out victorious. We will make history as the first female champion in Full Metal Wrestling.

Santana reaches up and high-fives her sister as they both yell “Holler!”

Santana: So, tell me what dastardly plan you have for Sugarmuffin Andrews.

Sage: Later. As for now, let’s go to the gym and prep for the battle royal.

Sage and Santana get up from their chairs and head down to the hotel’s gym. They open the door and see a bunch of sweaty men inside lifting weights and doing cardio exercises.

Sage: On second thoughts, let’s just go shopping instead.

Santana: Agreed. We don’t need the gym anyway, I have full confidence in our ability to win this silly battle royal.

Sage: Agreed. For Jesse.

Santana: For Jesse.

Tuesday October 27th 1998
Braxton Household

9-year olds Sage and Santana watch in horror as two strangers bolt into their home, running about frantically and calling out words they couldn't quite understand. Sage looks up and sees her parents, Ricardo and Lola, dashing down the staircase with frightened expressions on their faces. Ricardo is holding their little brother, Jesse in his arms.

Sage: (to Santana) What's going on?

Sage grabs hold of her sister's hand as they step back and let all the action go passed them. Their parents don't pay any attention to them as they speak to the two strangers.

Santana: Daddy, what's going on?

Ricardo looks over at his two twin daughters, attempts a smile and turns back to face the strangers. One of them takes Jesse into their arms and carries him outside.

Sage: Daddy! Where are they taking Jesse?

Ricardo: Not now, Sage; both of you need to get changed now.

Ricardo and Lola run back up the staircase, leaving Sage and Santana more confused than ever.

-
-
-

Guess what? I'm still hot.

I held it in my hands…

I heard them say it over the speakers…

I felt the crowd as they were happy for me…

I felt the pride swell inside..

I was a champion. I believed it, I felt it, I was it. I know what it’s like now. Those forty-seven seconds before Your New Gods came to ruin it… that was one of the shining moments of an entire career.

That moment was surreal…

…and now it never happened. I never won the title, I never was the champion, that pride and honor was never mine. I am not a champion… and I never was.

People will look back at that day, and they won’t remember it like I will. They’ll remember David GS becoming the first Anarchy UltraViolent Champion… I’ll remember the forty-seven seconds where I made history… only to be erased.

~*~

“Why aren’t you more angry?” Krisko’s crackling voice was deliberate, questioning his brother’s demeanor.

“There’s not use in getting angry. I lost, something I’m used to. I can’t sit here and hate Nick Bryson or David GS for me not getting the job done.” Butters’ voice lacked tone. A voice that to an uneducated ear would sound sincere and truly carefree. Butters’ Brother knew better.

“Don’t give me that crap. I was watching… watching you. I looked in and saw the joy… the happiness. I looked down and I saw the relief… relief at the moment that had finally come to you. I saw you happy.” Krisko’s head tilted with each pause in speech; trying to look into his brother’s eyes… trying to make him see into his.

“Just leave me alone. Obviously I was happy… that’s when I won. That moment passed, then I lost… and now I have a chance to make up for my shortcomings. I can’t dwell on what happened… I have to focus on not letting it happen again.” Butters was visibly avoiding any eye contact with his brother. Obviously not wanting to look his brother in the face, even through his red-tinted goggles.

“Hehe… It’s funny… you think I don’t recognize anger and hate… You think you can hide it. Bobby, why won’t you just be angry? This is one time where you should be mad. Look at people’s reactions… they’re mad for you. People are saying you were screwed… people want you to be angry… I want you to be angry…” Krisko was now just a few inches away from his brother, speaking very quietly… trying to stress the importance, of each word as he spoke.

“Anger is pointless. Bobino would’ve been angry… Bobino would’ve gotten mad and called Your New Gods out for their cowardice. Bobino would charge blindly into this championship match wanting to make David GS pay. I am not Bobino. I know where the blame sits. I should’ve been able to stop David on that night. I should have prepared for another match… I should have prepared to fight against Your New Gods. There’s no anger towards them… because this is my fault. Bobino wouldn’t understand that… but Butters does. I am angry… at myself.” Butters tries to step away from his brother, thinking the conversation is over.

Krisko plants a firm hand on Butters’ shoulder, not letting him move, shoving him back a few steps. “That’s the end of it? You messed up, and now you’re done? That’s not what I want to hear. That’s not what happened. These people in FMW are depending on you. They see hope in you. You can’t just fold over and get pushed around. Get mad, Bobby. This wasn’t right… you shouldn’t be ok with it.”

Butters just smiles and brushes his brother’s hand away. “There’s a reason why I’m not angry. Anger isn’t healthy. I’m sorry this isn’t going how you want, but maybe that’s why I don’t take my advice from a mental patient… I’m leaving.”

Krisko steps in front of his brother, blocking his exit. “You need to be angry. You can’t beat him with this self-loathing and pity. You need fire… You need anger.”

“You may need those things, Kris… but I’m not you… I’m upset I lost, but I’m going to be the healthy one here… and I’m going to make it right by beating David GS. I don’t need anger… and I don’t need your advice.” Butters shoves his brother out of the doorway and steps past him, trying to leave.

Krisko just stares in disbelief. “Hey, one last thing, Bob.”

Butters stops in his tracks and turns to look back at Krisko. “What?”

“You may not want advice from a crazy person… but when you’re down and out… when you’re about to be beaten… just remember this…” Krisko’s body suddenly swings and he plants his hand across Butters’ face, slapping him so hard there’s a red outline of his hand on Butters’ face.

A few quiet tense moments pass as Butters holds his face and looks back at his brother. Finally Krisko finishes his thought. “When you’re about to lose… remember the anger… remember the pain… remember to Get Psycho… Ha.. Hehehehehehe….” Krisko’s lips curl into a sick looking grin as Butters steps away, visibly frustrated.

~*~

David… I’d say I was disappointed in you, but to be perfectly honest there was a time when I would’ve done the exact same thing. Your methods may not have been the most honorable… but they were legitimate.

You beat me fair and square to win that title. You came out fought and I didn’t go down easily but you won. At Lethal Injection, you don’t have the element of surprise. You will be the only person I’m fighting that night. I will be fresh and will not have just fought two other men to get to you. We are level ground and then your mistakes will cost you.

I know what you’re thinking… you don’t make mistakes. You think that you’re flawless… but you’ve already made one very large mistake.

You let me hold that belt, David. You let me feel what it’s like to win. You let me hear how happy that crowd was to have me as their champion. You let me taste it, David.

They say you never know what you’re truly getting into until you get it. I knew I wanted to win.. I knew I wanted to be champion. I knew I wanted these things… but I didn’t know what it truly felt like until it happened. I had it in my hand… it was so much heavier than I envisioned. Not just the weight. The pride and joy… I could feel it. I felt the weight of that title on me…

You have what I earned, David… and unlike some people… I’m happy to earn it again. You made a horrible mistake, and now I exploit it. You gave me a taste… now I must have the whole thing. I know you’re good. I know you’re tough… but at Lethal Injection… the new Butters is better… tougher. I’m leaving everything in that ring to win… and once it’s over the answer to the question, "Who won at Lethal Injection?" will be an enthusisatic...

Everybody Knows... IT'S BUTTERS!

We fade into a fairly dark room, with the only light escaping through the gaps in the curtains the conceal brightness of any kind entering. The camera catches the light above flicker, as small sparks rain down from the ceiling to the ground below. All of a sudden, a burst of light illuminates the room, as the silhouette of man becomes evident. The figure of a stool stand underneath the light, as the unidentified man gaits towards it, as he rests his weight upon it. While the rest of his body is stiff, his head droop onto his chest, before the lifts it up, eyeing out something in the room. He stands, and steps towards the object of his desire in the darkness. We hear sounds of conduct, as the shadowy figure steps back into light. He lifts the object in view of the camera, which appears to be a large frame. As the camera approaches, we find out that it is indeed a frame. As the camera comes in closer, the content of the frame becomes evident.

Man: Years ago, this artwork was formed from the inner workings of my mind. This artwork isn’t just smears of various colours and shades. No, this is more than that. This is what defines the meaning of everything in existence. This is you being born. This is you learning to read and write. This is you on your first day of school. This is you having your first kiss. This is you ending your schooling career. This is you living on your own for the first time. This is you falling in love. This is you producing a family. This is you raising your children. This is you growing old. This is you…dying.

The man switches his attention from the camera to the painting, and tosses into the darkness, as the sound of bottles and cans being knocked over is heard. The man sits back on his stool, slouching, as the camera zooms up on his face.

Man: Tonight, I, Wolfbanger, will return. I will return to the place that betrayed the one person who showed them the errors of their ways. The showed them that their minds are only here to escape the persecution that this world is currently going through.

The man, now revealed as Wolfbanger, runs his hands through his hair, as the muffled growl of a wolf escapes his mouth.

Wolfbanger: This is it. This is my chance once again. This is my chance to show you what is wrong with the way your community is governed. And maybe, maybe, something will click inside your half-wit’s brains, and you will help me. And you will help me end the torture that has consumed this organisation. And maybe your higher-ups will realise this too. And they will help rid the tyranny that you all don’t realise is happening. And maybe they will feed some of you, they will feed you to…

Wolfbanger’s head flies up in anticipation.

Wolfbanger: …the wolves.

As the key world “wolves” is uttered, Wolfbanger transforms, with the help of studio magic, into the smaller physique of a wolf. The room the fills with smoke and dust, as the blinds suddenly fly up, letting the moonlight shine through onto the face of the now canine Wolfbanger. The camera captures his exterior exceptionally, as he begins to speak.

Wolfbanger: My mind, it is filled with every colour, every emotion, every sensation that is possibly existence. But only one of each will be follow me into the ring.

The sensation of violence. Violence is what I thrive on. Violence is what gets me high. It is how I express my emotions.
The emotion of satisfaction. The satisfaction of crushing the physical bones and spiritual souls of those who step in my way, which makes them feel one thing, one colour.
The colour of black. The blackness, the darkness, is what I represent, is what represents death.

These qualities are what will help me. These qualities are what will help me win what you all treasure, what you all dream of grasping in your hands.

But you will never have it. You will never have the satisfaction of holding such magnificence in your hands. For your hands will be broken. Your whole body will be broken. For when you step into the ring as me, you will find out what it is like to be a broken down person.

Wolfbanger bows his head again, before letting out a whole, which rocks the room, sending papers flying into the interior walls. Before long, the camera catches the transformation in one fluid motion, as Wolfbanger becomes a mortal once again.

Wolfbanger: Hello, FMW. I’m back.

Wolfbanger stands from the stool, and heads of the door. He grabs the door handle and slams the door, sending splinters flying out of the door. The camera concentrates on the swinging light globe, which slowly fades, before flickering slightly, as we fade to black.

ANNNNNNNNNNNDDDDD CUT!

We cut back to a small area backstage, with the director pointing towards the set. The lights of the set illuminate the previously dark room, as the stage crew hurry on and remove the props from the set. The director turns back to Wolfbanger seated in a special chair. Or, who we thought was Wolfbanger. The wig is removed, as well as the sideburns, to reveal the true star of the show, Christian Parkes. [/i]

Director: Christian, that was magnificent! In my long, long, long, long, LONG career as a director, I have never seen someone with such elegance in front of a camera. You are a star, my son! You are what I’ve been looking for all these years!

The director prances around the room using his hands and fingers as cameras, using his tongue to reproduce clicking sounds.

Director: Click, click, click! This is it, baby! You, boy, are what is going to help me bring in the big money, oh baby! This is what-

Christian, who has spent the whole last two minutes with his phone held to his right ear, removes the mobile from his face and raises his hand and closes his eyes, halting the movements of the over-excited director.

Parkes: Oh, Andrew, I won’t be needing your services anymore. This was only a promo to hype my one-off debut in Full Metal Wrestling. So, this is the last time we’ll be in contact for…well, forever. I have blocked your number on my mobile, my home number, and my office number. If you step within the 100 feet of the restraining order I have had issued, I will have you put behind bars for 3 years, and an additional 5 years for the naked children on your phone. Oh, you didn’t know? You’re a paedophile now. Or, you will be if you ever try to contact me again. Got it? Good.

The director’s shocked is emphasised by tears running down his old wrinkly cheeks. Parkes leaves the room, with two young attractive woman attached to his side. The director breaks down in tears, as Parkes manically laughs, as we fade out.

Ah, the Celt.

What a perfect opponent.

What a perfect title holder.

The real embodiment of Full Metal Wrestling and all it stands for.

Don’t be fooled by Austin and Bryson and Apostasy, oh no! As much as they claim to be, as much as they would like to be, it is not they whose shoulders and back carry FMW. Even at the top of the food chain, it is not them.

It is you, Celt.

You are FMW.

You are the Law.

Ever since I showed up here at FMW, I knew our paths would cross. I knew we would one day duel it out. Mr. Gold Standard and Mr. Full Metal. It was destined that we should meet in the middle of the ring. The best pure athlete GSW has to offer versus the grittiest, toughest wrestler FMW can muster up. And it is finally happening.

I have waited forever and a day for our meeting.

Ohoho, yes, Celt, I have been waiting for this opportunity.

When I look at you, I see the hunger, the drive, the determination that you bring. I see the desire and willingness to prove yourself. I see everything in you that a good wrestler should strive for.

I also see in you everything that makes me despise FMW.

Ah, yes. Simply knowing you exist as the self-proclaimed heart and soul makes me vomit.

You are brash, brazen. Loud-mouthed. Arrogant. Elitist. I mean, only the most egotistical of men would dare claim themselves to be the “Law” of the land. And you’ve done it! You really, truly see yourself as right, as the example all should follow. And those who disagree get punched in the mouth. Isn’t that correct, Celt? Isn’t that what you pride yourself on? Your morals? Being that embodiment of FMW?

Being the protector of the ways of FMW?

You are everything that FMW is. And, on top of that, you hold FMW gold. You are a champion! You are one of the representatives of the companies!

And now you’re stepping between the ropes against me.

A man on a mission to bring ruinous damage to FMW.

Does that phrase ring a bell, Celt? It should. I’m sure you remember HavOc. I’m sure the wars you and your brother fought against Harlequin and his gang are still fresh in your mind. And I know you think that you’ve experienced the worst anyone could bring onto you. Everything that could and would break a man completely, you’ve endured. And hell, you’ve grown by them! It was those experiences that got you that title!

But what you’ve experienced? It isn’t going to match what I will bring unto you tonight.

Ehehehe.

That mindless ruinous damage HavOc wanted to bring? Take that, multiply it by five, and take into account that your foe has something tangible to fight for. He’s not just looking to bring down the established order, no no! He’s trying to bring it down and establish his own. He’s trying to spread the Midas touch. And he’ll look to do that by bringing you down completely. By leaving you broken, battered, bruised, and beaten. Beaten at your own game. By a guy from a different company.

How badly is that gonna eat at you when that happens?

You, Mr. FMW, the Law…how badly is that going to bring you down when it occurs? It’s going to eat at you, I know. Oho, I know, Celt. It’s going to gnaw at you for the rest of your life. The man who embodies FMW losing to the man who embodies GSW. Losing his title and losing in his own environment to the GSW guy.

Man, that’s gonna mess you up!

And that will play into the hands of the Gold Standard.

I need this win as much as you do, Celt. I might need this win more than you. You need this to dispel the threat of GSW and retain your status as the Law. I? I need this to prove the worth of GSW.

The only title we have was handed to us. Given to the person who cares least about the company, even. That motherf*cker couldn’t give a single sh*t, much less two, about the state GSW’s in. No, that f*cking ego of his has to be stroked at all times or else he gets pissy. Doesn’t want to make any sacrifices for the good of the group because he wants wrestling to be “fun” despite the situation. Sigh. And he’s the TV champ.

And then Levi’s losing. Dunn only shows up once in a while when he feels like it’s a good time to care. Not everything is as glorious in the ranks of GSW as you would be led to believe.

But that title? Beating FMW and taking what is rightfully theirs? Not having it handed to us, but physically taking it? And doing so by damn near legally killing the competitor?

That’s right up my alley.

And that’s just what GSW needs right now.

And I shall be the one to make it happen.

No more shall we rely on the weak, the meek, and the inadequate to get the job done for us. No more shall GSW be seen as a joke. When I lay waste to you tonight, my fine foe, I shall legitimize the Gold Standard. I shall make us the threat we should have been since day one. It shall be I, the Truly Talented, to puts us over the top.

Not King.

Not Dunn.

Not Leviticus.

I. Jeff Whitt. The future FMW Ultraviolent champion.

You will fight it, I’m sure. You will do everything in your power to prevent it. Because it will eat at you, Celt, when you lose this match. You will never be the same. You will have failed to uphold the Law against what you perceive to be a criminal in the land of Full Metal. And I shall laugh as I pull off the heist. I shall laugh at you, at your failure, at your inability to be what you say you are.

There is not stopping it. You may try, but my fate shall not be prevented. Not on this night.

We are a Golden company. And this match is for a vital piece of gold. It was destined for us to meet, and it is destined that I shall win this belt. It may not be my favorite belt. It may not be the one I ultimately want. It may not be the one Chris Austin thinks he’ll get in his future.

But it is gold nonetheless.

And it is gold I shall take off of the proudest man in FMW. The one who carries it on his shoulders, the one who wears his love for the company on his sleeve.

I shall take the title, rip your heart out, and then stomp on it.

I am going to ruin you, Celt.

Maybe it’ll be easier for you if you just accept it.

But whether you do or not doesn’t matter. That belt is mine. Your destruction is imminent. My rise is unstoppable.

That belt shall represent GSW after tonight.

And if you don’t like it, you can seethe silently as it happens.

If you have the capacity to breathe after I’m done ripping you apart, that is.

Feel and embrace the Midas Touch.

For it shall be the last thing you ever experience before your blackout.

Lemme' Take You Back

The sun hit the window of the saloon perfectly to catch Henry Cooper right smack in the eyes. A guarded hand went up as the young man stepped out of the light and into the Old Miner. The smell of whiskey and musk seemed to rise up in plumes. Henry, for once, was at least pleased to see a lack of women about the place. No distractions were needed on this day.

Henry brushed from his fine suit some of the stained air that had settled on his clothes, and watched as many of the men inside the saloon turned to stare at him with wary eyes. They were all of various sorts, most of them being credible gunmen in their own right, but only a few were truly notable.

In the back, a few paces between him and the rest of the folks inside, sat Occam's Razor himself, Christopher Austin. Rumor had it that the man's peacemaker had taken more lives than mother nature herself. Austin was calculated in his approach, and ruthlessly efficient with his execution. His affinity for being the best is what got him.

At the bar sat Leon Caprice, his head twisting back every now and again to get a look across the sizable room. The boy was good, if not a bit wild with his spinnin' yarns of vigilante justice. Still, trouble always seemed to give him a wide berth. Justice of the vigilant type scared some people. And that's what got the poor boy, justice.

There were others, as well.

Men like Ole' Doc Derrick, Wild Apo, John Andrews, and Whiskey Jack. Now, the last fella' wasn't an Austin, or a Caprice, but Henry had his eye on 'em all the same.

Henry then flicked his gaze over to the man he came to speak to. A rough, lonesome, shell of a man sitting against the wall looked to be the best bet. The brim of his black hat was tipped down to block out the sun, its rays streaming in from the window he was settled at. A black duster covered most of his sizable frame, except for the pistol holstered at his belt, which drooped from the weight.

With a puff of his chest, Henry maneuvered through the crowded saloon, before taking a seat at the man's table like he owned it.

"Sir, my name is Henry Cooper. Right hand man to Mr. Deveraux himself. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you bare a striking resemblance to Hannibal Frost."

The man shifted to put one, glaring eye on Cooper. "I get that alot."

Henry smiled, expecting the sarcasm. "And I think I know why, Mr. Frost."

"Fine. What is it?" Frost grumbled, giving in a bit more quickly than Henry had anticipated.

"I trust you know why every gunfighter from here to Texas is holed up right behind us, and I trust that's why you're here."

Frost took the glaring eye from Henry and turned to look out the window. "Mr. Deveraux's havin' himself a quick draw tournament."

"So you'll be in it then?"

"No."

Henry nodded, expecting the hesitancy at this juncture as well. "I understand your reasons Mr. Frost, believe me I do, but the winner of this gets two thousand dollars. Not to mention being, what looks to be, the only gunfighter left for miles around."

Frost twisted around to face Henry head on, sniffed with palpable indifference, and twisted again to look into the saloon proper. His eye line was burning a hole into two of the five women in the place. The girls were the Braxton Sisters, twins, and they were lovely decoration.

Henry leaned in so he could lower his voice.

"I don't need to buy women."

Henry waved his hands apologetically. "Hey now, I never said that. I was only saying that I could ah... keep them untouched for you. At least, untouched in this hive of scum and villainy."

Frost co*cked a curious eyebrow. "I ain't touchin' nothin'."

"Women not your fancy? I've got-"

Frost slammed a fist on the table. "I begrudge you not to finish that sentence."

"So..."

Leaning back in his chair, Frost let one hand slip below the table. Henry followed the motion with his eyes, a lump now forming in his throat. The weight of his own pistol seemed to drag him to the floor now, or rather, the prospect of using it did.

"I reckon you came here to sweet talk me into your little circus," Frost said. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it ain't gonna' happen."

"Mr. Frost, please. There must be a way to get you to shoot." Henry was getting nervous now. He'd been sent by Mr. Deveraux either to persuade Frost or... kill him. Why Mr. Deveraux thought Henry could kill Hannibal Frost was beyond him. This plan was goin' to hell mighty fast. "I know you're out here for a reason."

"I'm done, boy. I've had my fair share of gunnin', bein' an outlaw. I'm a spectator, Mr. Cooper. No more, no less."

Henry began to tremble as his hand too now slid beneath the table. Of course Frost saw it, no way he wouldn't have, but Henry didn't really have much of a choice.

He slowly unbuckled his holster, as slowly and as quietly as he dared, while-

Who Shot First? Han or Greedo?

The banter inside the Old Miner quickly died, much like Mr. Cooper, as Frost's peacemaker erupted with a deafening sound.

Hannibal Frost watched as Mr. Deveraux's right hand man crashed to the floor, a hole punched neatly through his left eye. Frost turned to address what had to have been three dozen grizzly, vicious murderers before seeing the Braxton sisters walk to the railing of the balcony that overlooked the saloon.

Both had Winchester rifles pointed into the crowd, with pistols holstered to each hip.

And they knew just how to seize an opportunity.

"Since the commotion's died down, we'd like to make an announcement."

"We're robbing you. All... of you."

The commotion began to rise once more, until the batwing doors of the saloon were blown off their hinges. Frost ducked down, watching as John King, Vendetta Blake, and Mad Man Leviticus stepped in amongst the debris.

John King motioned to the crowd.

Frost sank to his haunches, crouching as low as possible, and waiting for the ensuing gunfire...

...

Gunfire...

...?

Frost was dumbfounded.

Flabbergasted.

Vamboozle'd.

Not one man in this saloon had pulled out a gun, but they all sure as hell pulled out their money. None of them wanted to die, not today and not like this. The hold up artists noticed this as well, and all began collecting.

Frost cursed under his breath, aware that this was completely pathetic. Granted some men looked ready to fight back, but... it wasn't really their place to was it? No one in the damned saloon could see past themselves, to the bigger picture. Frost could, now, but he'd admit it took awhile. Everyone else would get there, sooner or later, but in this moment they were all just worried about savin' their own hides for another day.

That's when Frost found Caprice across the room, staring a hole through him, tryin' to send him a message with his eyes. Unfortunately, Frost couldn't read eyes. He had trouble enough readin' words.

Finally, Caprice mouthed "Let's. Take. Them. Out."

Frost shook his head, but after doing so, couldn't figure out why. All these men were here for the quickdraw tournament, that was their fight to be won. Frost had a different fight, the one he was presently faced with. No one else would take a bullet for money they all thought they'd win back at the tournament.

At least Caprice understood. It wasn't about the money, it was about the principle. And Frost had five of 'em ready to fly in somebody's direction.

Getting to his feet, Frost discretely holstered his gun.

Being a few tables away, both had to search for Frost's general direction. Their faces told a story of curiosity as they found him, rather than something a bit... darker. "And why is that, darlin'?"

Frost's gravely voice echoed in the quiet saloon. "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but this just ain't right. I've got a... code, and it requires that I put a stop to things like this."

King, Blake and Mad Man were still keeping a wary eye out, but even they couldn't keep from laughing. The Braxton sisters did the same, only with a bit more theatrical flare.

Both sisters stepped forward, ignoring the outstretched hands of the "men" at the table.

"Honey, you've no clue who we are, do ya'?"

"Looks like we shoulda' called the undertaker after all, sis."

Frost furrowed his brow, an angry tic of his, as the two striking sisters stepped towards him with barbed quips flying from their tongues.

Frost flicked his gaze to Caprice, the young man still on his bar stool, but with the look of a man ready to shed some blood light on the proceedings. Caprice urged him silently for a signal, but Frost took back to staring down the Braxton sisters.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't come any closer," Frost said gently, his right hand now resting on the butt of his pistol.

"We'd appreciate it if you handed over your money, or, if you'd just kindly lay down and die."

Frost knew that tone a' voice like it'd been seared into his ears. You talked like that to somebody when you were about to shoot.

Looking for a way out, Frost found he had none, and braced for the shot.

...Which came only seconds later, but not in Frost's direction.

Caprice had taken cover behind the bar, and was now firing at the men of the "Braxton Gang". Both sisters spun around, reacting perfectly to the distraction, allowing Frost to move in and disarm them. But of course, in just a matter of moments...

The place went to hell.

Gunshots and expelled powder filled the air quicker than lightning as everyone took up to shootin' whoever pointed a gun in their general direction. This second, unintentional distraction, allowed the Braxton sisters time to break free of Frost's grasp and head for the exit.

Frost moved to intercept, but a familiar face caught him amongst the chaos. Christopher Austin was shouldering his way through the chaos, breaking noses and arms of all those in his path, before pulling his peacemaker on Frost.

Shots were fired, their pops cutting through the commotion, leaving Frost to dive to the floor amongst broken glass and gunpowder. He quickly retrieved his pistol from the holster, before finding Austin only steps away. As Frost took aim, Austin disappeared into the array of gunfighters once more.

"I swear I'm two years too old for this sh*t," Frost muttered to himself, before backing against the wall to take stock of the situation.

The place looked like a madhouse, as expected, but Frost was only searching for the key players. The Braxton gang had somehow been forced back across the saloon, as they were now retreating up to the balcony, and towards the whor* rooms that would serve as perfect cover.

Frost took aim, squeezed the trigger, and caught Mad Man Leviticus right in the back of the knee. The man collapsed back onto the stairs, before taking a vicious tumble to the floor. Frost then tried to take out the rest, but failed as his shots only came close.

Suddenly, Caprice was next to him.

Frost spat. "Not quite."

As the main floor cleared, Frost found Christopher Austin standing in a cleared section of it. His eyes were only on him, with a hand at his holster.

The man wanted a quickdraw.

Frost closed his eyes, knowing it'd been awhile since he'd actually done this. He didn't want to do it, it didn't feel right, but there was no other way to finish it.

No other way...

Frost gritted his teeth, hating the revelation, but it came anyway. Austin was just as much of the problem as anyone in this saloon. He was being selfish, putting himself in a hell of a coffin of harm, and not giving a second thought to anyone else along the way.

Austin was just as much of an enemy as the real murderers, the real crazies.

So Frost stepped out to face Occam's Razor, his shootin' hand at the ready, and watched as the Braxtons and their gang took to the railing to watch.

"So, Austin, comes down to this, does it?" Frost asked, his voice dripping with disdain for the situation.

The man said nothing. With eyes as cold as steel, Austin simply licked the tips of his fingers, and settled into a stance.

Frost did the same, his trigger finger itching with a nervous twitch.

Austin's fingers were like granite, never wavering more than half an inch from his holster.

And of course he drew first.

As I have studied, as I have watched, I have learned. Nothing, however, has prepared me for this. It is my second match in Full Metal Wrestling, and yet here I am, competing for the Full Metal Championship. The fury of the spirit will come out in this match and be known. I will claw the faces off of all of the competitors to win.

I am a warrior. I am the bear. I am Kuruk.

--------------------------------
A candle on the ground is lit. The glow it gives off is astounding, as if this small room has been forsaken by light before now and is drawing all the light it can from the tiny candle. In fact, the room does not look like a room at all. It looks like a room in a large hut of some kind. The walls are formed of a kind of dried mud brick, some of them blending smoothly into others as if they melted together. The ceiling is made of thin amounts of clay lining what looks like various sized sticks, logs, and straw. The floor is entirely dirt. Clay pots line some of the shelves, which are also blended into the bricks in the walls. Two men sit on either side of the candle, their hands on the knees of their crossed legs. The both look down. After a few moments, one looks up: the man named Kuruk, dressed once again in only boots and his blue trunks.

Kuruk: Tell me what I must do, elder. I need to defeat so many.

The other man looks up now. The light bouncing off of his somewhat decrepit face and tired eyes show wisdom, while his long, braided hair and tight cloth shirt exhibit strength.

Elder: Navezgane, Kuruk. This is what you must become.

Kuruk: Forgive me, elder Gurbachan, but I cannot. I have always fought for good reasons, never using more than I must to win and to defeat.

Gurbachan: But it IS, necessary, Kuruk. You must not interpret the navezgane term literally though. One must interpret it spiritually and mentally.

Kuruk: I do not understand.

Gurbachan: Destroy their souls, Kuruk. Be a navezgane so you may destroy them all and not just one.

Kuruk: I have always held back, elder. I have never used more than I must use.

Gurbachan: This world is cutthroat, Kuruk. This is the age of betrayal and destruction. You must use the full force of your spirit. The full force of the bear. You must view them all as nothing but objects of your destruction.

Kuruk: They are elders, though. I can’t just disrespect them like tha-

Gurbachan: But you must! If you are to win, you must understand that they are your enemies, and nothing more. It does not matter if they are elders or not, you are now on the same level as them!

Kuruk: But I am not. They have won titles and more-

Gurbachan: Soon you will too! Assert your dominance! Show them that you do not care if they are elders. They are your enemies, Kuruk. You must get in touch with your inner navezgane! Not navezgane simply for the sake of being, but a navezgane bijii! You must be what you are, Kuruk! Vicious, angry, and ready to kill.

Kuruk: I… I don’t know.

Gurbachan: No, you do not. You must learn to overcome the elder barrier. You must be ready to strike. Strike swiftly, and strike hard, Kuruk. Do not let them know what hit them as they collapse to the ground, helpless.

Kuruk: I must ignore the elder barrier?

Gurbachan: Yes! As I say, you must!

Kuruk: I must become a navezgane to win. Otherwise, nothing can come of this. That is correct?

Gurbachan: That is absolutely correct! Forget the elders, forget the respect, use your spirit and destroy! Be the-

And suddenly, Gurbachan is cut off, as Kuruk has swiftly and roughly Bear Claw Swiped him across the face, knocking him outcold, with several marks on his face from Kuruk’s nails. Kuruk stands and walks to the door of the hut.

Kuruk: I know. Navezgane. Thank you.
--------------------------------
My case has been made, as they say. I have shown my strength and I have shown my intelligence. I am ready to take the ultimate prize from clutches of the elders of the profession. Beware, my enemies. Beware, my friends. Beware me.

Because you see, opponents. Navezgane means “killer of monsters”. You are all monsters on the inside, to me. For this match and this match alone.

I am a warrior. I am the bear. I am Kuruk.

November 16, 2011
Death Row 4
Houston, Texas

Knock, knock, knock. A few seconds and then the door opens inwards, revealing the smiling suited figure of the one and only P. Thurston Deveraux.

Deveraux: Ah, Mr. Striker! Welcome! Come in, come in, you’re right on time – my previous appointment with Mr. Michaels ended a little early.

Striker: How about that.

Deveraux: Oh, don’t worry, it had nothing to do with you. Andrew makes his own enemies. But no matter, that’s a discussion for another time. I believe you’re here to discuss a new contract, and that’s a proposition I’m very interested in. Take a seat, why don’t you? You are, after all, my guest.

Striker takes the seat offered him by Deveraux and looks around the office. It’s a peculiar set-up, very minimalistic, although the Pay-Per-View taking place here tonight is probably of more concern to Deveraux than the appearance or design choices of an office he’ll only spend a day or so inhabiting. He does notice a scribbled post-it on the desk with the words ‘Bryson/Michaels?’ but the big boss covers it up as quickly as Skyler puts his eyes on it. Sitting in his chair, Deveraux pours himself a half-glass of wine and offers the bottle to Striker.

Striker: No, thankyou.

Deveraux: Suit yourself.

Deveraux takes a sip and swirls the glass a little, savouring the taste. He then sets the glass down carefully and directs his full attention to Striker.

Deveraux: I can’t offer you a job.

Striker: What?

Deveraux: I said: I can’t offer you a job.

Striker: Why not?!

Deveraux: Risk factor, mostly. I wasn’t sitting in this seat when your… incident, are we calling it? When your incident went down a year or so ago. However, I was made fully aware of it. Your name rings a lot of bells, Skyler. Our ratings have gone up since you left. I’m not linking that to you, but what it means is that we haven’t lost viewers, which means a significant percentage of our viewership – adult and child alike - know who you are and what you’ve done. It’s tough to hire someone who could revert to addiction at any time; it appears to viewers – and sponsors – as if we support drug abuse. It’s unfortunate, but that’s the way it goes. On top of that, we’ve also got a fantastic bunch of rookies with potential and with heart – for you to take a place that could be occupied by them would just be wrong. I’m sure you understand the position I’m in.

There is a pause as Striker looks off to the side, temporarily lost in thought. When he does speak a few seconds afterwards, his voice is confident and full of bite.

Striker: That’s all a load of bull if I’ve ever heard it.

Deveraux: How so?

Striker: For a number of reasons. First, if you were worried about risk, half the current roster would be without a job. Have you seen the people you employ? There’s far worse on the roster than me. And subsequently, the only sponsors we have don’t really seem to care about what goes on during our shows; that’s why we get the sponsors we do.

Deveraux: Everyone has limits.

Striker: And yet I don’t remember reading about any of them dropping out when we started airing Electric Chair matches or Pit of Needles matches or EVER. Full Metal Wrestling has name value when it comes to the extreme. Therefore, as I’ve been saying, you can afford risk.

Deveraux: Touché, but you’re still a risk to our workers and yourself – a liability. If you were to fall into old habits-

Striker: I know this is probably unconvincing coming from a former addict, so listen to the conviction in my voice as a father and as a husband instead: my addiction is behind me. That’s the whole point of rehab, and your company wouldn’t be paying for it if they didn’t believe it worked.

Deveraux: Publicity is a powerful thing. Whether or not rehab works is irrelevant.

Striker: Ironically, publicity is what forces you to care whether or not rehab works – FMW doesn’t want a death on its hands. That’s a tough stain to wipe.

Deveraux: Still-

Striker reaches into his pocket and opens his wallet, unfolding an A4 sheet of paper from within and placing it firmly in front of Deveraux, who picks it up and reads it intently.

Striker: I spent less than a month in rehab. The reason for that is because I was clean before I went in. That sheet of paper is a medical certificate signifying that I, Skyler Striker, have been drug-free since before I entered rehab and continue to be as of yesterday. The doctor who conducted the examination is one of the few recommended by this company’s medical and legal advisors. Any questions?

Deveraux: Not as far as regards your sobriety, no.

Striker: Good. Any issue you have with me taking a rookie’s spot is also a load of crap, because as you said yourself, I have name value, and more importantly for you, you know that my merchandise sells.

Deveraux: And who’s to say that an up-and-comer wouldn’t become a bigger star and sell twice the merchandise you do?

Striker: Who’s to say they will? Unless you can accurately predict the future then you’re committing a logical fallacy. Lawyered.

Deveraux: Touché again, Mr. Striker. You make a good case.

Deveraux reaches into one of the drawers on his desk and brings out a paper, sliding it across to Striker with a pen on top of it. Deveraux’s voice becomes quick and methodical, speaking in a very legal fashion – a definite change of tone from the conversation so far.

Deveraux: Sign here, here and here. This is a provisional contract. In summary, it provides for two matches, which would be at our next two consecutive shows, Ammunition 15.1 and 15.2. If your performance is satisfactory, and after the second of these dates you are able to be proven fit and healthy by an FMW approved medical examiner, you will be offered a new contract as a full-time FMW wrestler. Any questions? No? Good.

Striker: I thought-

Deveraux: You thought what?

Striker takes a few seconds to shake off the sudden turnaround from Deveraux and then speaks as he signs his name on the dotted lines.

Striker: What happened to ‘I can’t offer you a job’?

Deveraux: I had to know how much you wanted it. I was kept informed during No Holds Barred, Mr. Striker. I know that you were not present for your match against Drew Michaels, and for whatever reason that may be – from animosity to fear – I can’t have it happen again.

Striker: You never intended to refuse me a job?

Deveraux: Only if it appeared as if you were in a similar state of mind to No Holds Barred. Not everything I said was a complete lie. You are a risk, for the reasons I’ve just mentioned. You do have name value and as you said yourself; you sell merchandise. And one more truth – we do have a lot of hungry and eager rookies in this company, waiting to become the next Skyler Striker. I’m eager to test whether some of them are ready. You’re going to be a very useful measuring stick.

Striker: Fine with me. I came to get in the ring and fight, no matter who my opponent is. But if opportunities arise while I’m here, I’ll take them. I want to fight the best, not spend the next few years being a teacher. Just because I’m old doesn’t make me Hardcore Holly.

Deveraux: That’ll be up to you then, won’t it?

Striker stands up and offers Deveraux his hand. Deveraux takes it and shakes firmly.

Striker: I guess it will.

With that, Skyler Striker departs, an FMW employee once again. Once the door is shut, Deveraux smiles and sits back in his chair, putting his feet up on the table and enjoying his glass of wine. He has a few seconds worth of peace before his cupboard door opens from the inside, revealing a flustered and furious Jade Striker.

Deveraux: Quite a man, isn’t he? Very determined.

Jade: What the hell, Deveraux? I thought we had a deal!?

Deveraux: Remind me again?

Jade storms over to the chair in front of Deveraux’s desk and stands on it, her voice forceful and angry.

Jade: I will NOT remind you! You know exactly what I asked of you and you failed to deliver!

Deveraux: You’re right, Miss Striker. I did fail to deliver. But that’s a price I’m willing to pay, for unfortunately, your father seems to have passed on a natural intelligence for argument and critical thinking. His points were all extremely valid.

Jade: You think I am unaware of that? I recognise a coherent and thorough argument when I hear one. Clearly that is a concept you have not grasped, however.

Deveraux: Maybe not to the extent that you and your father have, no. But in its place I have something you lack – an incredibly keen business sense. And when it comes to this business, it’s far more profitable to employ Skyler Striker than it is to not employ him.

Jade: You can still tear that contract up here and now.

Deveraux: I could, it’s true. But as I just said, it’s far better for this company – and thus myself – if I do allow this contract to go through. And besides, you have no logical base to stand on. You’re incredibly intelligent, Miss Striker, astoundingly so. But the argument you’re putting forward is based purely on emotion. You’ve got something against your father, or he has something against you. Either way, you’ve let that get in the way of any logic and as such, I doubt there’s much you could say to deter me from employing Skyler.

Jade: But-

At this point Deveraux stands and slams his hands on the table, noticeably impatient. His voice too becomes forceful and more authoritative.

Deveraux: JADE. Skyler is an asset. You are not. End of story.

Jade is silent, although clearly still angry about the whole situation. Deveraux sits down, composing himself.

Deveraux: Now, if you please, I have an important event to run tonight, meaning I no longer have time for either of the Striker family this evening. The door is behind you.

Without a word, Jade exits. Deveraux returns to his wine and breathes in and out deeply, his eyes closed and his office silent - for now.

March 2012
Lethal Injection 4
Seattle, Washington

The curtain is all that separates Skyler Striker from the crowd. A video package airs in the arena as the ring is prepared for the C4 Championship match about to take place. Anwyl’s entrance is scheduled first, although Striker cannot see him in the vicinity. Instead of worrying, though, the seasoned veteran rises to the surface in Striker and he begins a series of breathing patterns designed to relax him and prepare him for action. This fight is one he has done many times before. How strange, however, that he is now an elder statesman of sorts – an old man compared to the majority of the roster. There is a part of him that enjoys it, but another part that detests it equally as much.

At that moment “My Curse” begins to play and Anwyl walks past Striker, C4 Championship around his waist and a smug grin on his face. He stops before entering the curtain and motions to the belt before spinning on his heel and entering the main arena, where the crowd boo him vociferously.

Striker: Newbies.

Doc: You know, I recall you being new once.

Striker turns to see John Derrick standing behind him, sitting on an empty equipment crate. Doc looks as relaxed as ever; it’s a face Striker hasn’t seen in person in a long time.

Doc: And a pain in the ass you were, too. Don’t be trying to hide who you once were.

Striker: Well, thanks a bunch.

Doc: I’m only saying the truth. You know it as well as I do. I can remember the day you first walked down this ramp, fighting off killer clowns from Hell itself and the like. You were eager as a beaver and annoying to boot. But no-one stopped you doing what you were doing, did they?

Striker: I’d like to think some people pointed me in the right direction.

Doc: That’s the key, right there. They showed you which way to go; they didn’t send the signals through your nervous system to manoeuvre your legs. You made the decisions and you suffered the consequences when you made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

Doc stands as Anwyl’s entrance theme begins to fade out.

Doc: It’s immaterial whether or not you like this guy. Personally, I think some people are lost causes. But if you’re determined to change him, do it by being an example and not by way of telling him how to live his goddamn life.

“We Owe This To Ourselves” hits and the cheers begin. Striker turns back to the curtain, breathes in, and walks through.

Things were getting better between David and Rachel. They'd hit a bit of a rough patch following the New Year's Eve party Y.N.G had put on and the fight they'd gotten into directly after, when she'd questioned his motives for joining Y.N.G and he'd blown up at her in response. It had led to a good two months of tension in their penthouse apartment - they hadn't been speaking to each other more than was absolutely necessary for them to function as husband and wife, and there had been a brief time when David had entertained the very real fear that the end result was divorce.

Luckily - thankfully - it wasn't meant to be. Just recently, over the past week or so, things seemed to be getting better between them. They'd been talking more frequently, some of the intimacy of their marriage was returning, and David had begun to wonder if Rachel had come to terms with the new approach he was taking to his wrestling career - she'd actually been excited when he'd returned home with the Anarchy Ultraviolent Title.

Now, as they sat across from one another at the dinner table, he couldn't help but cast the occasional smile in her direction and note that she was doing the same to him. He glanced back down at the macaroni and cheese she'd made him (from scratch, no less), and silently praised his good fortune.

Rachel: ... so?

David glanced back up from his plate, looking at her questioningly.

David: Hmm?

Rachel: How is it?

David: What? ... oh. OH.

He slapped a hand to his forehead and took another bite of the mac'n'cheese, smiling broadly at her as he chewed and swallowed. It was damn good, easily the best he'd ever had - she'd put bits of diced ham and tomato and green pepper in it.

David: It's fantastic, I love it. How come you've never made it before?

Rachel: Oh, I don't know ...

She shrugged, looking down at her own plate and picking at the remaining foodstuffs with her fork.

Rachel: I'd never made it before tonight.

David: No?

Rachel: Nope. I was looking for something to make online and I stumbled across the recipe. It looked like something you might like, and I thought I'd give it a shot.

David: Huh. Well, it was a shot worth taking. This stuff's delicious.

David picked up another bite of the mac'n'cheese and jammed it into his mouth, barely taking any time to chew before letting it slide down his throat. Rachel didn't respond, instead merely nodding as he continued to eat, picking up forkful after forkful until his plate was damn-near spotless. Finished, he leaned back in his chair and sighed in contentment. It was only then, with no more food to divide his attention, that he noticed something was wrong.

Rachel had stopped eating altogether. She had set her fork down and was leaned back in her seat, shoulders slumped, watching his empty plate in silence. She seemed ... David didn't know. She seemed sad about something.

David: Rayche?

Now it was his turn to pull her from her reverie. Rachel looked up, blinking a few times before realizing her name had been spoken.

Rachel: Hmm? Sorry, what?

David: Everything okay?

She didn't answer right away, and that told David all he needed to know. He leaned forward in his chair, sliding his plate and silverware out of the way to make room for his forearms, which he rested on the table as he looked her square in the face. Rachel cast her eyes back downward in response, actively avoiding his scrutinizing gaze.

David: Come on. Talk to me, Rayche.

Rachel: It's ...

She shook her head.

Rachel: ... it's nothing. Really.

David: Rachel, we've been married for a few years now. I can tell when something's bothering you, and I can tell when you're lying to me. Now I know it isn't "nothing" - do you want to tell me what it is?

Rachel: ... you're right. It's not nothing. But it's not something I want to talk about, either.

David blinked and sat up straighter, taken aback. Rachel pushed her chair back from the table and got up; David did the same and followed her as she went over to the black-leather sectional that partially enclosed the apartment's living space. She plopped down, folding her arms over her chest and staring at the floor as David sat down beside her.

David: C'mon, babe. I'm your husband - you can talk to me about anything, you know that.

Rachel's stone-set expression softened a little, and she shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye. David saw that he was getting through, and his resolve strengthened; they'd just got done patching things up after their last argument, and he'd be damned if he was gonna let another wedge be driven between them. He got up off the sofa and knelt down in front of her so he could look her in the eye.

David: Rayche ... I don't wanna be like this anymore.

Rachel: Like what?

David: Like this, like ...

He made a vague gesture with his hands that was supposed to include both of them.

David: ... like how we've been. I know that I've changed a little, joining Y.N.G and all that, and I know you don't like it, and I'm really, really sorry you don't like it. But that argument we had on New Year's, I thought we were starting to get past it, and I just ... f*ck, I don't even know what I'm trying to say.

David bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

David: I don't want things to get bad between us again. Not over something like this.

Rachel: I ...

David looked up to see Rachel's mouth moving, struggling to form whatever it was she wanted to say. A thousand different sentences passed through his mind in the space of a few seconds, the most terrifying among them involving the words "divorce" and "pregnant".

Rachel: I'm sorry.

David: ... what?

Rachel: David, I ...

Her voice cut off, and from what seemed to David to be out of nowhere, she suddenly teared up.

Rachel: It's my fault.

David: Hold on a sec, what's your fault?

Rachel: This, all of this - the argument we had on New Year's, us not talking - it's all my fault. I was the one who put you on the spot for what you did in FMW, and I never should've done that, and now ...

She was crying now, and buried her face in her hands as the tears flowed freely and her shoulders quivered. Not saying a single word, David got up from his knees and sat back down next to her on the couch. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, and Rachel immediately responded by burying her face in his shirt. They stayed just like that for a few minutes, neither moving nor saying anything. David gently stroked his wife's hair, whispering sweet nothings to her in an attempt to calm her down; on the inside, he struggled to contain a love and affection for her stronger than anything he'd felt in recent memory.

David: Ssshhhh ... it's okay ...

Rachel pulled her head away from his chest right then, sitting back up and looking him in the face. David waited patiently while she wiped her eyes.

Rachel: You said you had a good reason for what you did, jumping from SoA to Y.N.G like that. I shouldn't have questioned it. I shouldn't have doubted you, but I did. That argument drove us apart, and I was ...

She put a hand for her eyes, and for a second David thought she was going to break down again. Rachel proved stronger than that, though, and took her hand away from her eyes a moment later.

Rachel: God, I was so scared we weren't ever going to come back from it.

David: Rachel, listen to me. You can't blame yourself for this - I was a part of that argument too. I had no right to lash out at you like I did.

Rachel: Yes, you did. You had every right to. I just ... I just didn't want to bring it up again, y'know? Like you said, I thought we were getting past it, and I didn't want to undo all that by opening it all back up.

David nodded slowly. He understood it all quite well, as a matter of fact. The recent mending between them had apparently felt as fragile and fleeting to her as it had to him. That wasn't okay, though - fragile wouldn't do at all. David wanted permanance. He wanted his wife back, wanted his marriage back.

David: Rachel.

Something in his voice - it might've been the fact that he used her full name instead of "Rayche", or the force with which he said it - made her turn to face him.

David: If we want to get past this - and I mean really get past it, not just sweep it under the rug - we need to just acknowledge that it happened and move on. For that to happen, though, I have to know: are you okay with what I'm doing in FMW? Are you okay with me in Y.N.G, and Anarchy, and what I did to win the UV Title? Are you ...

He knew what he wanted to ask her: "Are you okay with the man I've become?" But for some strange reason, he couldn't form the words. It didn't matter, though - though water was still pooling beneath her eyes, Rachel managed to smile and nod.

Rachel: Yes. Yes, I am.

David didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he let it out in a sudden sigh of relief. He hugged Rachel again, pulling her close to him and planting a kiss on top of her head. He felt great, happier than he had in a long time - things had been pretty rocky with Rachel for a while, even before their argument on New Year's, but he finally felt like he'd brought an end to it all. Things were okay between them. Things were golden.

Rachel pulled away from him, laughing lightly as she fanned her wet eyes with one hand. David couldn't help but smile as he watched her cheeks turn red from embarrassment.

Rachel: Sorry, I've, uh ... I'm gonna go wipe my eyes. This no-run mascara only lasts so long.

David chuckled as she got up and headed for their bedroom, which had the apartment's only bathroom attached to it.

David: That's fine, take your time.

Rachel disappeared into the bedroom, leaving David alone in the apartment's main living area. He adjusted the way he was sitting on the couch, and was about to reach for the remote control when his phone went off in his pocket. Wondering who it could be, he pulled it out and unlocked the device, flipping through the smartphone's many menus until he saw who had sent the text message. His brow furrowed, and a frown twisted his features - it was Anna. Again.

She could not, for whatever reason, take a hint and leave David alone. He didn't want to see her, didn't want to talk to her, didn't want to remember the horrible, awful transgression that the two of them had embarked upon together. It had been an accident - a stupid accident that neither of them had intended to happen, brought on by exhaustion and adrenaline and maybe a bit of fear. He wanted nothing more to forget about it - now more than ever, after he'd patched things up with Rachel - but Anna could not, for whatever reason, take a hint.

She'd been texting him ever since that night, at least once a week. They followed a pretty linear form - that she wanted to see him, that they needed to talk about what had happened, that he couldn't ignore it, couldn't ignore her, and so on. Thus far, he'd been more than happy to ignore her, but that was then. Now he had a reason to want to end it, a reason to want to put a permanent stop to it. So he hit the "Reply" button on his phone and began typing.

He would end it. Things were going too good for him not to.

David stepped up to the door and knocked three times - hard, loud, and crisp. It was late, after midnight; he hadn't been willing to meet Anna until after Rachel had gone to bed, and while he had made the perfectly clear in his reply to her text, there was a part of him that still wondered whether or not Anna would be up when he got to her apartment. His worry ended up being for naught - he heard movement on the other side of the door after a few seconds. The deadbolt turned, and the door swung open to reveal Anna Ortega, in black yoga pants and a soda-orange tanktop.

The two of them just stood there for a moment, drinking each other in from opposite sides of the threshold. David had no idea what to say, and it was evident that she didn't either. Part of him was glad that she was wearing something more casual - she hadn't gone and dolled herself up for him, which was a damned good sign.

David: Um ... hey.

Anna: H ... hey.

An awkward silence followed. Anna folded her arms over her midsection and, clearing her throat nervously, stepped to the side of the doorway and nodded her head inwards.

Anna: Come in.

David hesitated for a moment, but stepped inside all the same. He'd been to her apartment before - everything was exactly as he remembered it, but it all still felt foreign with Anna herself present. He walked over to where a few pieces of furniture were arranged around a television, Anna following at his heels; he picked an armchair to sitdown in, and Anna took her place on a loveseat, sitting with her legs folded beneath her on the end closest to David.

The silence had followed them to their seats, and it was really beginning to get on David's nerves. He sat and fidgeted, twiddling his thumbs until the sudden sound of her voice made him look up at her.

Anna: Why'd you decide to come?

David: ... what?

Anna: Why, after ignoring me for so goddamned long, did you finally decide to answer my texts and meet me?

David: Because this needs to stop.

Anna seemed like she had an answer prepared for whatever reason David could give except that one; her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked several times, taken aback by the bluntness with which he spoke.

Anna: It ...

David: Yeah, you heard me. All this - you texting me all the time, trying to get some sort of response, to get me to admit to what happened between us - it's gotta stop, Anna. I know what we did, and I know how we feel about one another -

Anna: So you do admit it! You do feel something too, I knew it!

David: Oh, come on. Of course I feel something. That's not the point - Anna, I'm married. I'm Rachel's husband, and she's my wife. No matter what you and I may feel for one another, Rachel and I are married and more in love than we've ever been. That means that this ...

He gestured from Anna to himself and back again.

David: It's not gonna happen. It was never going to happen.

He stopped right then. Anna was no longer looking at him - well, she was, but it was a different look. It was like she was looking through him. Her expression had become one of shock and despair, and she'd begun shaking her head incessantly.

Anna: No ...

David: I'm sorry.

He was surprised to find that what he said was true - he was sorry.

David: But you need to get over whatever infatuation you may have with me and move on. It's something we both have to do.

David closed his mouth, waiting for a reply. He didn't get one, though - Anna had, for all intents and purposes, become unresponsive. She just sat there, staring at nothing and shaking her head, muttering the word "no" to herself over and over again. As David got up to leave, he noted that she'd crossed her arms over her stomach again. He went over to her and put a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her; when that did nothing to break her apparent trance, however, he gave up and headed for the door. It wasn't until he was there, with his hand on the doorknob, that her voice stopped him cold.

Anna: You can't leave!

David turned back to the couch, his eyes wide. The words had come out as a shriek, almost manic in quality, and the face he saw upon turning matched the sudden cry exceptionally well. Anna's eyes were wide, her teeth were bared, and as David watched stupidly, she got up off the couch, power-walked over to him, and pinned him backfirst against the door. Once there, she screamed at him again.

David: Anna, what the hell -

Anna: You CAN'T!

David didn't say anything. Right then, he couldn't. He'd been stricken dumb by the sudden flare of anger behind Anna's eyes, but it wasn't just anger he saw there. There was also fear, fear born of desperation that bordered on madness. His mouth worked, but it was a long time before he could get any words to come out.

David: Anna ... what's wrong with you?

Anna: I ...

She broke right then. Backing away from him with jerky, staggering steps, Anna clapped a hand over her mouth and began sobbing into it. David watched, more confused than he'd ever been in his life, as she sank down to her knees and buried her face in her hands. Part of him couldn't help but wonder what he did to make all the women in his life cry.

David: Anna, I ...

Not knowing what else to do, he went over and got down on his knees next to her. She responded in a manner eerily similar to how Rachel had, throwing her arms around him and crying loudly into his chest. David was less than comfortable with Anna doing it, however, and pulled her away from him before she could fasten her hands behind his back. Holding her by the shoulders at arm's length, he looked her in the eyes and spoke, loudly and sharply.

David: Don't do this, Anna. Talk to me - what's the matter?

Anna: I ... I ... I ...

Her breath was coming hard and fast, and it took a long time for her to finish.

Anna: ... I'm ... I'm pregnant.

David could see himself screaming. He could see himself fleeing from the apartment without looking back, without slowing down until he had gained the safety of the bed he and his wife shared. He could see himself doing so, but he couldn't actually do it. He couldn't actually do anything; he thought he'd been stricken dumb before, but that was nothing compared to this. Pregnant.

David: Pregnant.

Simply saying it seemed to have calmed Anna down a fair bit, and she nodded slowly.

Anna: Yeah ... pregnant.

David: Is ... is it ... ?

Anna: Is it yours? Yeah. It has to be - you're the only one in the last year or so.

She wrung her hands together, no longer able to meet David's gaze.

Anna: David ... I'm scared. I know what we did was wrong, and I know that Rachel can't find out about it ... but I'm scared. I don't have a whole lot of people I can turn to with this, and the thought of you just walking out on me made me lose my mind. I'm really sorry I flipped out on you, but I just ...

She said other things. Some of them were important and some of them were not, but they were all the same in that David didn't hear them. He stopped hearing what Anna was saying, stopped seeing her sitting in front of him; all he could see was the life that he'd worked so hard to build, come close to losing, and saved again as it spiraled down, down, down into an oblivion from which there was no coming back. He could hide many things, but a child wasn't one of them.

Things were not golden. Things were not golden at all.

BEYOND THE WALL

Devereaux: Come in

Abel stopped mid motion, shook his head in disbelief, took a deep breath to compose himself and stepped through the door.

Devereaux: You’re late.

Abel nodded agreement, careful to avoid eye contact with the man inside the room. He hadn’t deliberately set out to be late but he knew subconsciously it was no coincidence that he was and he suspected Devereaux understood that as well. After all they both knew what this meeting was about and neither of them was happy about it.

Devereaux: How’s the wrist?

That P. Thurston Devereaux didn’t even look up at Abel as he asked the question wasn’t surprising, after all he already knew the answer, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it.

Abel: Much better.

Devereaux: Sure it is.

Abel shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Although he knew that this meeting had been a while coming, now that it was here, he just wanted it over with.

Abel: How about the Knicks?

Devereaux: Abel, we are not here to discuss basketball.

Abel: So what are we going to discuss?

Abel managed not to blink once as Devereaux stared him down after the question.

Devereaux: We are going to discuss your future Mr Smith.

Abel blinked now. Devereaux had never called him by his real name before. Maybe this was more serious than he realised.

Abel: Please, not so formal. Abel will do fine.

Devereaux: Okay Abel, we are going to discuss you’re future.

Abel: Sure.

Devereaux: Well….?

Abel: Well What?

Devereaux motioned to the seat by his desk, before grabbing up his own chair and bringing it around to Abel’s side of the table

Devereaux: Listen Abel I’m not your enemy, you know that right?

Abel: Sure.

Devereaux: Sometimes it gets hard to separate the character’s we play from the men we are.

Abel nods agreement

Devereaux: But the truth is Abel I consider you a very talented performer who has lost his way.

Abel nodded along, silently agreeing. He had known himself that Abel Steele had got lost in translation somewhere between the concept and what had gone to air.

Devereaux: Abel Smith is one of the hardest working, most team oriented and deserving men in this company. Period.

Abel: Thank you sir.

Devereaux: But Abel Steele is not.

Devereaux grabs up a few sheets of paper from the tray of his printer.

Devereaux: Look at these charts Abel.

As Abel glances at graphic after graphic he begins to understand where this meeting is headed.

Devereaux: The thing is no one believes Abel Steele anymore and to be frank I don’t blame them.

Abel reeled under the information. He knew his star had fallen but this was diabolical.

Devereaux: The focus groups all say the same things… “Abel Steele doesn’t make sense”

As Devereaux points to one quote

Devereaux: “Abel Steele is not a good bad guy”

And another.

Devereaux: “I just don’t buy Abel Steele as a villain. He doesn’t have it in him”

Abel: Okay so I need to sell the villain more.

Devereaux shakes his head.

Devereaux: I don’t think that will work at this point Abel. The damage is done there and short of you actually murdering Doc at Lethal Injection I don’t think the audience is going to buy it

Abel looked back inquiringly

Devereaux: You’re not murdering Doc. You have no idea the comments we still get from Crucifying Drew after all this time.

Abel: So what then? I make another turn?

Devereaux shakes his head quickly

Devereaux: Nope, it is too soon for that. Besides we set you up against Drew for your turn and Doc since then. Those are two of the most beloved faces this company has ever had. Not to mention that the sentimental support for Drew’s character right now is sky high.

Abel looks glumly at the man sitting beside him.

Abel: So what are you saying? I can’t sell heel and I can’t turn back…..

Devereaux: The problem Abel is the believability. No one believes you can be a bad guy. When Chris Austin turned he was already slightly despised so the jump was not that great. Imagine if we’d tried that with Drew. I would have had death threats.

Abel: So?

Devereaux: So you are of the same ilk Abel. You made your name taking it to the man. You were the little man’s hero. You gave them hope. Watching you turn bad came across as us spitting in their face.

Abel stands up emotion starting to stir despite promising himself before he arrived that he would remain calm.

Abel: Hang on, this was all done on the say so of the creative team. It’s not like I asked to be turned heel. Now I’m being shafted for a decision I had nothing to do with. I won’t let that happen!

Devereaux smiles in spite of himself.

Devereaux: You really do make a good face Abel. Listen I can admit the company made a mistake. I wasn’t in control then but the reasoning from what I understand was rational.

Abel: Yeh I know, I heard it all at the time. The quality of heels was at an all time low with Jaro & Harlequin departing. Not to mention Smitten’s face turn.

Devereaux: Exactly. How could we have predicted that the vacuum of heels would fill so quickly. Harlequin came back, Anwyl rose up far quicker than anyone could have hoped and then to top it off David GS the poster boy of our face stable turned out of nowhere.

Abel: f*cking Bryson

Devereaux: f*cking Bryson indeed! That man has caused me more headaches than you’ve had hot dinners.

Abel: How about I murder him at Lethal Injection?

Devereaux: Hmmmmm…. Nope creative won’t allow it

Abel: I wasn’t talking in character.

Devereaux: Oh… I see. Well I still don’t believe that will solve your problems and I really don’t need a full police investigation into the backstage of FMW. That would make the things we put to air seem like children’s fairytales.

Abel: Right… well you’re not really giving much to work with here.

Devereaux: Sorry, I was getting to that.

Abel: Please do….

Devereaux: Believability.

Abel: What?

Devereaux: That is the key Abel. Like I said no one believes you as a heel because your whole character is based on the little guy who fights alone. People want devious villains who gather subordinates and run roughshod over the business like Bryson or out and out evil characters that don’t care about the fight as much as the pain of others like Harlequin.

Abel: Hey, if Jack can get himself a Pack of groupies I’m sure I could find some help.

Devereaux: I’m sure you could, but you are missing the point. You’re character has been built on the Lone Ranger concept. I could sell you in a tag team maybe but I can’t sell you in a stable.

Abel: OK so then I go crazy and start hurting people.

Devereaux: We tried that remember. You put Doc and Tyrant out of commission, but no one bought it.

Abel: So what can I do that people will believe.

Devereaux: I’m not sure Abel. Looking at these focus group results no one seems to believe anything much about you anymore. Hell they don’t even believe the things that are real, like your injuries

Abel: But hang on we sold that as a scam on air.

Devereaux: Only the wrist. They don’t believe any of the other injuries either.

Abel: To be fair they are not as bad as we sold them though. The “Dementia Pugilistica” is barely noticeable unless I play it up on camera.

Devereaux: Regardless, no one believes in you Abel.

Abel: So that’s it? I’m finished in FMW. Do I just job out my contract after this match at FMW.

A half smile creeps across the face of Devereaux.

Devereaux: No Mr Smith. Like I said earlier, I like you. I want you around because you keep things together backstage unlike some of the flaky characters around here.

Abel: So tell me what do I do then?

Devereaux: Well…. There is one thing that the focus groups did believe. They believe you as a torn individual.

Abel: A tweener?

Abel almost spat the word

Devereaux: Yes I know., it rarely works. Still I think the contradiction that we have somehow built out of Abel Steele might actually be able to pull it off.

Abel looked at him doubtfully.

Devereaux: And I believe Abel Smith is a man with the talent to sell that puppy so hard he can have the audience eating out the palm of his hand.

Abel: Do I have another choice?

Devereaux: You could job out your contract on the lower card.

Abel: You could have just said no.

Devereaux: Okay, NO.

Abel: So how do I sell it?

Devereaux: Well the focus group shows that they like the Magic 8 Ball™ gimmick and it just adds to the tweener image. But we need to get smarter about it.

Abel: How so?

Devereaux: Well I think we made it to trivial. We need to stop you using it for the pointless decisions. It cripples your action too much if you stop every five seconds to shake that dam thing. Instead we have you go through your day and just shake that Magic 8 Ball™ when you are faced with a moral dilemma.

Abel: Okay

Devereaux: Then we can shape up your music and finisher to fit in with that “fate” idea you’ve been running. Something like the “Fate-ality Driver”

Abel: Sounds kooky.

Devereaux: Yeh, well that needs some work I know, but what do you think. Can you sell tweener Mr Smith.

Abel: Maybe, but just wait a second. What do I do tonight? We can’t sell that before the show.

Devereaux: It’s too late for Lethal Injection Mr Smith. You haven’t built the base we hooped when we decided to push you into this match and tonight you will job to one of the finalists.

Abel: Really?

Devereaux: Yes really. But what I really want to know is can you, Abel Smith put this “fate” gimmick to work and sell me “Abel Steele; The best ’tweener’ FMW has ever seen”?

If I embrace this “fate driven tweener” gimmick do you promise that I have the full backing of your creative team to make it work?

Devereaux: Absolutely.

Abel: Starting tonight?

Devereaux: What do you mean?

Abel: I mean I’m going to carry that Magic 8 Ball™ out to the ring tonight and make a star on it. Then I’m going to play out Abel Steele how the Magic 8 Ball™ tells me to.

Devereaux: Oh sure. As long as you get your job done that’s no problem.

Abel reached into his pocket and grabbed out the Magic 8 Ball™ that the prop department had let him keep.

Abel: Seems you have given me a dilemma Mr Devereaux. Maybe I should let “fate” decide for me?

Abel shakes the Magic 8 Ball™ and looks down waiting for the result. He quickly looks back up at his friend across.

Devereaux: Well?

Abel delivers a mysterious smile and lifts up the Magic 8 Ball™ to show Devereaux the answer. As the camera zooms in the screen fades to black with the words of the Magic 8 Ball™ for all to see

They say that when a man is about to die, he sees his life flash before his eyes.

I’m kind of used to it by now.

It starts off slow. My first memories.

Drawing on the wall of my parents’ living room, stubby fingers curled around the red and yellow crayons in the palms of my hands, the early nineties’ décor a canvas for my magnificent three-year-old artistry.

Throwing up at school on a teacher’s shoes. I’m never really sure why that memory stands out as much as it does, but I guess if you want to get all existential, then it’s a metaphor for my anti-authoritarian streak. Not that I ever wanted to actually throw up on the teacher’s shoes; I just felt ill and that was where I hung my head.

Receiving my very first System Of A Down CD when I was seven. I remember I used to love that band. They defined my teenage years and inspired me when I first came to being a wrestler. Don’t get me wrong, their music is still fantastic… I guess I’ve just outgrown the shackles of youth now.

Being taught the life lessons, so to speak, by my father. I was nine. That kind of messes a kid up, you know. There’s a distinct line I say to myself in my head, over and over; I’ll never want to have sex.

Shows what you know as a kid, huh?

Secondary school. Getting into fights. A lot of fights. There’s this one kid – Adam – who annoys me as we’re leaving maths class so I just turn around and punch him in the chest. Satisfying, you know what I mean? The feeling of flesh on flesh – and I’m not going down a velvet oasis route so bear with me – when you hit someone, choke someone, kill someone – I think we all feel it. Our bodies cry out for any sort of physical contact, one way or the other.

Birthdays. Sixteen, eighteen. Getting drunk. Getting slaughtered. Sitting around a fire drinking cheap cider and thinking you’re a hard man. At least, that’s how I see everybody else, their faces aglow from the last embers before we all go to our tents for some sloppy, rough teenage sex. I know I’m hard. I know I’m tough. Sitting around with friends who will go on to become bank managers and accountants and office drones.

I know I’m different.

And then it changes.

I surround myself with an environment where I’m not different. Where my only notoriety is my failure.

Where my only intelligence is the words of other, greater men.

Where my strength is my weakness.

I lose Estelle.

I lose my friends.

I lose myself.

And I become the puppet of a certain Jason Roy, a tactical fiend whom to this day I wish nothing less than the most skull-crushing pain upon.

And it stops. I am whole again.

Or am I? Where’s my positivity, where’s my motivation gone?

Where is my mind?

And that’s the last thought I have as I die.

Forgive me for wanting to change that.

Tuesday, 21st February
2116 PST

Jack walks out of the HP Pavilion in San Jose, a look of grim determination set on his face. His kit bag, slung over his shoulder, quakes as he walks, bashing his neck like the fists of a child. With a sigh, he reaches one of his collection of black SUVs, driven to and from the airport at both ends of the journey by a member of his Pack. As he approaches, the door swings open. Nothing unusual about that.

He slings his bag onto the back seat and clambers into the passenger’s door. Again, nothing unusual about that.

What he doesn’t expect is, instead of a run-of-the-mill lower-end Pack member in the driver’s seat, is Daniel Prideman, his face a furious shadow. Jack co*cks one eyebrow slowly, wondering what the other’s move might be. Daniel turns his head, eyes wild, piercing and for the first time in a long while, Jack genuinely is afraid. But he has to maintain appearances.

Eastwood: You move fast.

Prideman: Cut the bullsh*t. What the f*ck was that?

Jack sighs, reaching into the glove compartment for a can of lager.

Eastwood: Beer?

Prideman: No.

Eastwood: puss*.

Prideman: Are you literally trying to get me to f*cking punch you or something? I’m getting sick of your crap, Jack.

Eastwood: You want to punch me? Then punch me.

He closes his eyes as he takes a swig from the can, waiting for the knuckles to hit his face. They never do.

Eastwood: I’m waiting.

The punch comes, but it doesn’t hit Eastwood. Instead, Prideman’s fist goes sailing through the driver’s door window, shattering the glass around it. Crimson blossoms from lines that immediately form along the length of his hand and wrist.

Eastwood: Jesus f*ck!

Daniel says nothing, just roaring in both fury and pain. He pulls his hand back, clipping the broken glass and bringing shards down on the pair. Jack shields his face with his free arm as more bloody marks appear on Daniel’s exposed skin.

Prideman: You see that, Jack? That’s what you make me do! I f*cking trust you and all you ever do is give me sh*t!

Eastwood: Do I, Daniel? Do I really? Have you never considered that this is all part of one grand master plan?

Prideman: I guess that’s what it is anyway but you never tell me anything, so how am I supposed to know what you’re planning?

Jack just sighs, looking down at his beer.

Eastwood: I can’t tell you.

Prideman: Why the f*ck not? Don’t you trust me?

Jack takes another drink, awkwardly.

Eastwood: …I don’t know.

Prideman: …you don’t ...you don’t f*cking know!?

Eastwood: No, I-

Prideman: Oh no no no, Eastwood, don’t try and backtrack now! It’s out in the open, isn’t it? You don’t trust me because I’m not good enough in your eyes, right? I’m never going to be somebody you can rely upon? Well look at the pot calling the motherf*cking kettle black. You’re a piece of sh*t Eastwood.

Jack has remained silent throughout this episode. He takes a swig of his beer, thinking.

Prideman: …you gonna say something then? Or just sit there like a bitch?

Eastwood can’t help it. The laughter starts slow at first, under his breath, small vibrations in his nose. But it soon starts to turn into a more full-bellied laugh, until Jack is howling with mirth.

Prideman: What’s so funny? What’s so f*cking funny?

After a few seconds, the chuckling dissipates and Jack regains control of his breath.

Eastwood: I have… been waiting… so long for you to say that to me.

This new tactic pauses the anger momentarily.

Prideman: …say what to you?

Eastwood: That I’m a piece of sh*t. Because, finally, you’re starting to understand the world from my point of view.

Prideman: What do you mean?

Eastwood: let’s be honest, Daniel; ever since we met, you’ve sort of idolised me. Maybe that’s the wrong wording… you’ve looked up to me as a mentor. But what you said, what you said just now… is that I’m a piece of sh*t. Do you still think that?

Prideman: …yeah.

Eastwood: Good. Because I am a piece of sh*t. We’re all pieces of sh*t. Each and every one of us, no matter what our social or fiscal or relationship status is, is a piece of sh*t. Everybody is on the same playing field. I can’t trust those who don’t see that. You know what? I f*cked up tonight. I’m sorry, but I f*cked up. The onus is entirely on me there. What I think we need to do now is move forward, put that behind us and look to the future. Is that acceptable to you?

Prideman: …alright.

Eastwood: Good. Let’s drive. What happened to the regular driver, anyway?

Prideman: He took one look at how angry I was and legged it.

As Daniel starts to pull away, Jack leans his head to one side, closing his eyes and pondering.

Wednesday, 22nd February
0034 AST

The pair are now sat in the lounge area of the Asylum, having a few drinks and smoking during a card game. They are momentarily joined by Seth, who sits down at the table. Jack deals him a hand, talking with a cigarette between his lips.

Eastwood: So how’d it go?

Rotunda: Pretty good. Picked up the win. What about you and yours?

Jack glances over at Daniel, who shakes his head. Seth picks up the cards, tutting slightly.

Rotunda: What happened?

Eastwood: I happened. Enough said.

Rotunda: …fair enough. I fold.

Prideman: Lightweight.

He yawns, slowly.

Prideman: I’m off to bed.

Rotunda: Now who’s the lightweight?

Daniel stubs his cigarette out as he rises from his chair.

Prideman: Shut up, prick.

He wanders out of the lounge. Jack and Seth wait until he is gone, then release breath they weren’t even aware they were holding.

Rotunda: He’s pissed.

Eastwood: Oh yeah.

Rotunda: What happened? Really?

Jack starts to deal cards out as they talk.

Eastwood: I had to f*ck it up, Seth. If we’d have won it would have spoiled the grand scheme. I think he knows I’m lying… your call.

Rotunda: Fifty. I don’t understand. You want those feelings that Daniel has to be supressed, right?

Eastwood: Raise twenty. I do, but, I have to wait. The trigger has to be released at exactly the right moment, otherwise…

Rotunda: Otherwise… match… it could all go wrong. Exactly.

Eastwood: It’s getting close though. I know it is.

He deals out the flop, both men pausing for a moment to analyse their next move. A six of diamonds, three of hearts and an ace of hearts sits on the table.

Rotunda: …raise eighty. So what do we do?

Eastwood: Raise one hundred and sixty.

Seth co*cks an eyebrow, but there is no sign of a tell on Jack’s face.

Rotunda: If you want my help, just ask.

Eastwood: I don’t want your help. Make your bet.

Rotunda: I’ll match. Calling your bluff.

Eastwood: Your money you’re wasting.

He deals out the run. A two of spades hits the table.

Rotunda: Check. Can you at least tell me what’s going on?

Eastwood: Raise two hundred. I wish I could, Seth, but I really don’t want to drag you into this. Especially since you have-

Rotunda: Yeah. Raise one hundred. Look, don’t get me wrong, I know that’s important. But ultimately, we’re a team. If there’s any way I can help, let me know.

Eastwood: Match… I will. Thank you, Seth.

Rotunda: Don’t mention it.

Jack deals the final card, a six of hearts. Jack motions for Seth to show his cards and he smiles, broadly.

Rotunda: An ace flush. Three, six, eight, ten and ace.

He moves to take the pot but Jack simply flips his cards onto the table. Seth pauses, brow furrowed.

Rotunda: …no way.

On the table are four sixes, the heart and diamond in the line matching the club and spade in Jack’s hand.

Rotunda: …but …I …you…

Eastwood: I’ll take this.

He pulls the money towards him, grinning.

Rotunda: …how did you know?

Eastwood: I didn’t. That’s the thing. I have to gamble everything in order to gain a modicum of self-respect.

Rotunda: …you’re either really brave or really stupid.

Eastwood: It’s hard to know the difference sometimes. Anyway, I’m off to bed myself. It’s been a long day.

They both rise, leaving the mess where it is and walking to their respective bedrooms.

Rotunda: How’ve you been sleeping lately?

Eastwood: As well as can be expected, with my insomnia. I drift, you know? But I get about one or two good hours of rest a night and it’s enough to keep me going.

Rotunda: I guess we should enjoy this peace while we have it, huh?

Eastwood: Yeah… I guess we should.

Wednesday, 22nd February
0518 AST

Lying naked save for boxer shorts in his room atop the Tower, Jack rolls around on his bed, in a half-conscious state. In his mind, he hears screaming and pain and death, but he knows that the Asylum is at peace. His eyes drift into his restful place…

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Panther: Sir! Sir! Wake up!

Jack mumbles and rolls over in his sleep, eyelids flickering.

Panther: Jack!

His eyes snap open. A scroll lies on Jack’s bedside table which he snatches up, before he grabs a t-shirt off his floor, throwing it on as he grasps the handle of the door and flings it open.

Eastwood: What?

Panther: Sir, it’s… it’s… I don’t know what it is, but it’s Lion. He’s gone crazy.

Eastwood: Daniel? Oh, sh*t!

He pushes past Panther, thundering down the spiral staircase towards the sounds of the ever-growing ruckus. His Pack members run around, screaming, some clutching onto others, their wounds atrocious. Jack grits his teeth and slips past them, running towards the horrible noise. The scent of smoke catches his nostrils and he growls slightly under his breath, breaking into an almost bounding run, his arms swinging wildly in front of him.

He turns a corner and stops sharply, flames making their way up the hallway, past a barricaded door. Pulling his t-shirt over his face, he sprints forward, raising his shoulder at the last second to burst through the door. The smoke blinds him and he coughs, tears streaming down his face. When he brings his head back, he is confronted by a shocking sight.

Wrath: Helloooo… brother…

The figure that was Prideman stands before him, surrounded by fire, head co*cked at an impossible angle. He seemingly floats as he turns, as though Daniel has hung himself. His hand is raised forward, pointing at Jack’s head as though it were a gun. The ring on his finger glows red-hot.

Eastwood: Daniel, don’t do this…

The figure laughs, gruesomely.

Wrath: Daniel is gone, brother. You waited too long. Tempted the fates. And now I shall end your little charade!

Flames burst from the ring, shooting down Wrath’s hand towards Jack. He sidesteps, but the fire trails him, running up his body and catching his shirt alight. He screams in agony as the flesh on his chest begins to blister.

Wrath: I have waited so long for this moment, brother. To finally have you at my mercy. You always were a petulant nuisance.

Eastwood: No, Wrath! I won’t accept it. It’s not your time!

He charges, catching the demonic figure in the chest. Ordinarily, Jack would overpower Daniel. But this wasn’t Prideman he was up against. The suspended monstrosity easily tosses Jack aside, the ring grazing Jack’s leg, leaving a white-hot scar across his right ankle.

Wrath: You are pathetic, little brother. Such a waste…

It drifts forward, gun hand co*cked towards Jack’s head.

Wrath: Now submit!

The blast is deafening in the enclosed space. The gout of flame envelopes Jack’s head, melting the skin from his face, causing his eyeballs to burst in their sockets. He screams with no lips or tongue, a flaming skull with its teeth wide, milk-white bone blackening from over-exposure to the flames. At last, the body collapses towards the floor.

Wrath: And to think that We had such high hopes for you… how very disappointing.

It turns towards the door, the flaming hand outstretched.

Wrath: And now to desecrate the rest of your little rabble…

The body behind it rises, turning to look with no eyes. The flesh springs anew, brain first, then eyes, before lips and tongue regrow on Jack’s face.

Eastwood: I don’t think so.

He stands up, cracking the newly-reformed muscles in his neck.

Wrath: But how? This is impossible!

Eastwood: Your problem, Wrath… is that you aren’t fully integrated with your host. If you were, you would know that I’m currently in a state of flux regarding my application for Heaven.

Wrath: You? An immortal?

The last of the skin manifests itself on Jack’s face. He stands there, teeth wide.

Eastwood: In the flesh, bitch.

Though the being at first looks perplexed, its mouth opens impossibly wide, flames lapping at the corners of its mouth as it laughs.

Wrath: It makes no difference. I can kill you as many times as I need to. You can’t stop me. You don’t even have your symbol of power!

Eastwood: No…

He pulls the scroll out of the back of his shorts, brandishing it forward.

Eastwood: I do have this though.

Wrath: The Oculus!?

Eastwood: Ah, so glad you recognise it… brother.

Wrath: This is pointless. You know you can’t seal me within its walls! I would feel our brothers’ presences within!

Eastwood: Seal you? That’s not my aim.

He co*cks the Oculus forward, pointing at Wrath’s head.

Eastwood: I just need to control you for now.

He fires. A shimmering ray emanates forth, paralysing the demon. It yells in agony as the force is gradually dissipated, back into Daniel’s body. When the deed is done, Prideman lies unconscious on the burnt floor, his hand covered in red welts. Jack gasps, lowering his arm, trying to suck as much of the filthy air into his lungs as possible.

Eastwood: We need a doctor down here now!

Medical staff rush in, attentive towards Daniel with a simple flick of Jack’s wrist. He slumps to the floor, back to the wall, breathing heavily.

Eastwood: He was right… I left it too late…

Sunday, 25th February
1325 CST

A tall man knocks on Damien Inferno’s door, desperate. The thuds echo around the house as he approaches the front door.

Inferno: Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’…

He opens the door to find a roughshod Jack standing there, a sh*t-eating grin on his face.

Eastwood: You owe me a favour.

Sunday, 25th February
1603 EST

The twosome pull up outside a nondescript residence in Philadelphia. Jack motions for Damien to join him and they both get out of another of his SUVs, Jack taking the lead as they walk up to the door. With fingers crossed, he rings the bell.

Eastwood: I’m just praying to the gods he accepts…

Inferno: Let me do the talkin’. Once I explain it’ll be fine.

Eastwood: You’d think so, but…

He stops as the door is opened by a woman, who looks at the pair with a glimmer of recognition. She turns, calling for her husband.

Eastwood: Thanks.

They wait awkwardly for the man of the house to approach. When he does, his face contorts into a half-snarl.

Michaels: Leave.

Eastwood: Drew, look-

Michaels: Did you not hear me? Leave.

Eastwood: Listen, we-

Michaels: Now.

He slams the door in their faces. Damien turns to Jack, smirking.

Inferno: Whatever happened to me doin’ the talkin’?

Eastwood: Oh, f*ck off. You try.

Damien steps up to the door and quietly raps on it. This time the door flings open and Drew has his fist raised, only lowering it when he sees Damien in front.

Michaels: This is obviously important if you’re with this lowlife.

Inferno: To say things were bad would be sellin’ it short.

Eastwood: Can we come in?

Damien turns and mouths ‘what the f*ck’ to him; Drew simply looks disgusted.

Michaels: I think you can say what you need to say out here.

Eastwood: Fine. The world’s coming to an end.

Michaels: You really don’t believe that the Mayans were right, do you?

Eastwood: Do I believe it? No. But it’s going to happen one way or the other. I need your help.

Michaels: You want my help? After everything you put me through? You can forget it, sinner. Besides, there’s already somebody around who can assist with that.

Eastwood: You’re not the Chosen One anymore, Drew, I know-

Michaels: I was referring to Wagner, actually.

Eastwood: He can’t get involved on this one. It’s a Hell issue. Not a Heaven issue.

Michaels: And what should I care for Hell’s plight? Surely this will be a good thing.

Eastwood: You’re missing the point. If Hell falls and disintegrates into nothing but dust and wind, then where do the souls of the departed go?

Michaels: …enlighten me.

Eastwood: Those unlucky enough to not receive enlightenment will bleed into the universe, Drew. As more people die, the cracks will be filled and over-filled, jammed to the brim, until it causes ruptures. These ruptures will fracture, causing a multiverse collision. And when one universe hits another universe…

Michaels: Both of them are destroyed. I see your point.

Eastwood: And then it’s like a nuclear fission reaction. When two universes collide and destruct, they splinter, shooting off, hitting other universes. Four. Eight. Sixteen. Thirty-two. Sooner or later, the point of infinity will be reached. And then there will be pure nothingness. Think about it, Drew. An endless nothing, from which you can watch from Heaven and think that you had the power to change-

Michaels: Stop! Stop. I get it. But why you? To not put too fine a point on it, the likelihood of you getting into Heaven is somewhat slim.

Eastwood: I agree. But even I’m not stupid enough to think that the entirety of creation isn’t worth saving. Plus it sort of… has to be me. It’s destiny. All the pieces fit. Something I’m sure you can understand.

Michaels: You finally say something I can agree with. So why Damien and I?

Inferno: I’m here because of my sin-eater abilities. What Jack needs to do is to tap into the reserves of his manifestation to open a portal to Hell.

Michaels: A portal to Hell? Do you understand just what that will do?

Eastwood: I know. Damien’s here to help me close it. Once it’s open and we’re through, Damien will knock me out, closing the gateway. When we come back we’ll do the same.

Michaels: And myself?

Eastwood: This is slightly trickier. I need to find somebody very specific. One of the beings who was there for the birth of Sin. From there I hope they’ll be able to help me track down the remaining manifestations and bring them in.

Michaels: …you may have a problem there. The only beings there at the creation of sin were the LORD Himself and the rebellious angels who fell to Hell. And most of them are dead.

Eastwood: Most?

Michaels: One remains. Do you know Ethan Black?

Eastwood: I know of him, yeah. Hoping to follow in his footsteps someday.

He sees the look Drew gives him and quickly elaborates.

Eastwood: I mean, and yours, and Scorpio’s and the like. Full Metal Champion.

Michaels: You? You’ll have a job.

Eastwood: Tell me about it… so what about Black?

Michaels: Well, Black took on another form during the Exodus crisis, that of one Jacob Mobius. He disappeared at the end of those events. It’s likely he returned to Hell in a bid to gain station within it.

Eastwood: So we’re headhunting the ruler of Hell?

Michaels: Potentially.

Eastwood: Well, what are we waiting for?

Michaels: You realise this is incredibly hazardous?

Eastwood: Oh, I know. But it has to be done. If I can do this… Hell, I can do the impossible. Let us know when you’re ready and I’ll begin the preparations.

Sunday, 25th February
1926 EST

The sun has set over the western horizon. Three men, each a radical and an icon, stand on a cloudy night in a field in the state of Pennsylvania, tied together by the bond of a journey together. Jack stands at the forefront, feeling the air currents for any potential openings. He stands, poised, fingers constantly searching. Damien stands next to his elbow, ready for the moment he has to incapacitate him. Drew waits on his left, prepared, eager. Finally, his hands come to rest on a point.

Eastwood: Here.

Keeping one hand on the point, he reaches up; sliding a visor over his face and shuddering softly, the horrendous entwining rocking his every fibre. But he perseveres, using his fingertips to pull apart the very fabric of the universe, opening up the gateway to Hell.

Envy: Inside.

Drew and Damien forge on ahead, the sulphuric scent washing over them as they enter. The last man enters, his fingers barely across the border before Damien reaches across and touches him, violently taking them both down. The gateway closes and Drew sets to work immediately, removing the visor from his face and hiding it in Jack’s bag. Eventually, the pair come to.

Eastwood: Oh man, that is not a nice feeling…

Michaels: My hands feel repulsive.

Eastwood: How come?

Michaels: That… thing… is pure evil.

Eastwood: I know. It’s vile.

Inferno: Are you ready?

Eastwood: Yeah. You?

Inferno: As I’ll ever be.

The trio make their way down a sharp embankment, towards a vast expanse of muddy water.

Michaels: This isn’t the Hell I’m used to seeing.

Eastwood: That’s because we’re on a different plane to what you normally visit. This is Elysia, home continent of the sin of Envy. We need to go to where Mobius last was on our plane of existence. It’s the equivalent of North America. Drew will be used to it there.

Inferno: A home away from home?

Michaels: Don’t be ridiculous.

They continue down the embankment until they reach the water, where a boat lies in wait.

Eastwood: You boys got the money to pay the ferryman?

Inferno: I seem to have left my wallet on another plane of existence.

Eastwood: Don’t worry, I have the money.

From his bag he takes out six silver coins and approaches the ferryman, money in hand.

Eastwood: Three, there and back. To Amaranth please.

Silently the ferryman lets the three into the boat. The ride is bumpy, but fast, the wind whipping through them as they make their journey to the continent. As they step off, Drew takes in his surroundings.

Michaels: Now this is more like it… so to speak.

Eastwood: Yeah, not really a place you want to come too often, is it?

They walk into the area, towards the centre of Amaranth; the Lake of Fire.

Michaels: If Mobius is anywhere Eastwood then it will be here; at the heart of Hell.

They walked for what seemed like minutes, hours, days; time is an immaterial prospect when life echoes for eternity. Before they know it, they stand above the Lake of Fire, at the heart of the Amaranth continent.

Eastwood: …that’s hot.

Inferno: You think?

Michaels: Ahem, children…

He has turned away. A slender man in a suit approaches them, carrying a scroll, similar to the Trinis Oculus. He nods politely at the trio.

Mobius: Gentlemen.

Michaels: Mobius. How did you know we would be here?

Mobius: I tend to keep up with current affairs in my world. I knew you would be here and now and so I brought along this.

He proffers the scroll to Eastwood, who takes it.

Eastwood: What is it?

Mobius: It’s the lid of the box.

Eastwood: …is that it?

Mobius: Take a look.

He unclasps the scroll and rolls it out, his eyes widening with excitement.

Eastwood: This is… this is…

Mobius: Yes.

Eastwood: sh*t, thanks, um…

Mobius: Don’t mention it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take care of business while you and your brothers are away.

Eastwood: See you.

The other two look quizzical.

Michaels: So what is it?

Eastwood: It’s… the secret to life itself…

I’m not stupid.

I know that tonight, the deck is sorely stacked against me.

Not only do I have to go through numerous opponents in a battle royale, I then have to defeat three more in order to become Full Metal Champion.

That’s a tough task for anybody, let alone me.

Do I think I can do it? Honestly, probably not. It’d require me to be superhuman.

Although, I guess I’ll have a little help in that department.

All I’m asking is, do I want my last memories, as I pass off this mortal coil, to be of abject failure?

What the f*cking hell do you think?

I'm awesome, and will win the battle royal. Then the tournament. Go me. Boo-yah.

Battle Royal for Final Tournament Spot:
Slegna

Anarchy Ultraviolent Championship Match
David GS (c) vs Butters

Corruption Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt (c) vs Jeff Whitt

C4 Championship Match
Anwyl (c) vs Skyler Striker

Full Metal Championship Tournament
Winner: Apostasy
Winner: Slegna
Loser: Adam Smith

Battle Royal for Final Tournament Spot:
Paul Brooks

Anarchy Ultraviolent Championship Match
Butters

Corruption Ultraviolent Championship Match
Jeff Whitt

C4 Championship Match
Skyler Striker

Full Metal Championship Tournament
TO WIN: Paul Brooks & Apostasy
TO LOSE: Chris Austin

Lethal Injection
LIVE from Qwest Field in Seattle, Washington

Battle Royal for Final Tournament Spot:
Slegna

Anarchy Ultraviolent Championship Match
David GS (c) vs Butters

Corruption Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt (c) vs Jeff Whitt

C4 Championship Match
Anwyl (c) vs Skyler Striker

Full Metal Championship Tournament
Apostasy, Leon Caprice, Chris Austin, Hannibal Frost, Abel Steele, John 'Doc' Derrick, Adam Smith and

BR Winner
*Vote for 2 winners and one loser. To vote for the winner of the battle royal, use "BR Winner"

[/quote]

Battle Royal for Final Tournament Spot:
Jack Eastwood, Jonathon King, Kuruk, Christian Parkes, Sage Braxton, Paul Brooks, Slegnadamnus, Kraven Whiskeyjack, 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Anarchy Ultraviolent Championship Match
David GS (c) vs Butters

Corruption Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt (c) vs Jeff Whitt

C4 Championship Match
Anwyl (c) vs Skyler Striker

Full Metal Championship Tournament
Apostasy, Leon Caprice, Chris Austin, Hannibal Frost, Abel Steele, John 'Doc' Derrick, Adam Smith and ???
To Win: Chris Austin
To Lose: Apostasy

Lethal Injection
LIVE from Qwest Field in Seattle, Washington

Battle Royal for Final Tournament Spot:
Jack Eastwood, Jonathon King, Kuruk, Christian Parkes, Sage Braxton, Paul Brooks, Slegnadamnus, Kraven Whiskeyjack, 'Outlaw' John Andrews

Anarchy Ultraviolent Championship Match
David GS (c) vs Butters

Corruption Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt (c) vs Jeff Whitt

C4 Championship Match
Anwyl (c) vs Skyler Striker

Full Metal Championship Tournament
Apostasy, Leon Caprice, Chris Austin, Hannibal Frost, Abel Steele, John 'Doc' Derrick, Adam Smith and ???
To Win: Chris Austin, Apostasy
To Lose: BR Winner

Battle Royal for Final Tournament Spot:
Christian Parkes

Anarchy Ultraviolent Championship Match
David GS (c) vs Butters

Corruption Ultraviolent Championship Match
The Celt (c) vs Jeff Whitt

C4 Championship Match
Anwyl (c) vs Skyler Striker

Full Metal Championship Tournament
Apostasy, Leon Caprice, Chris Austin, Hannibal Frost, Abel Steele, John 'Doc' Derrick, Adam Smith and BR Winner

Battle Royal for Final Tournament Spot:
Christian Parkes

Anarchy Ultraviolent Championship Match
David GS (c)

Corruption Ultraviolent Championship Match
Jeff Whitt

C4 Championship Match
Skyler Striker

Full Metal Championship Tournament
To Win: Chris Austin, Hannibal Frost
To Lose: Apostasy

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