You can always turn it into a rose garden.

The blood and chaos helped, of course.

While the Last competitor in the three team Eliminate Match for Team Flatlined, Frank Minio, lost when he and Token Weed found themselves toe to toe in a over verse one battle to the end, Flatlined still proved powerful.

Token Weed was arguably one of the Asylum's best fighters. He had been inside that cage countless times over the years. This was Frank's third match, and the first match for a few of Flatlined's ranks.

Joe Campbell, representing his team, Team Campbell, rooted against Flatlined, which was his side project. He Jeered when a Flatlined member was victorious. The seperation of Campbell and Flatlined had come prematurely, but he hadn't quite felt the full extent of his own greed.

Frank Minio, Chester Ramis, Umaga, and Damon D Jackson sat in opposite ends around a circle table in the empty cafeteria. For the past ten minutes, they had been discussing a plan of action against Joe Campbell.

"So thats it. We make demands. If he doesn't agree, we fuck him and this shithole." Damon said, obviously comfortable around his teammates already.

"Fuckin' A. I know exactly how too. Campbell is a cocky bastard, but he'll know a warning when he see's it. So, should we all go in at once?" Frank asked, watching his friends around the table.

"Hell no. We'll give him a fair chance to change his mind after he says no, which he will." Umaga growled... He turned looking at DDJ, who idly patted his own nose as they made eye contact.

"Yea, we'll go in one at a time. Plus, I have other things to attend to." Chester said, leaned back in his chair looking somewhat distant.

"Alright. Thats the plan. Who is first?" Frank asked.

"ME." Umaga said deeply, punctuating his remark with a large fijian palm across the table.

"I'll snake in after him." Chester nodded.

"I got some good ideas to throw at him, I'll go then. Frank, you can threaten him when you go last, if he hasn't already crumbled." DDJ added, grinning proudly.

"Sounds great guys. Lets do this. We bleed, they bleed. We're professionals, but that doesn't mean we would fuck this place up for fun." Frank said, punching his fist into his palm, calmly.

"Fuck yea boy, Holla." DDJ laughed. They stood up, a quick since, then a quick nod, and they all moved into seperate directions. Did Joe Campbell have any idea what he was in for tonight?

The backstage official, who was smoking, turned around and coughed as he saw the person that greeted him ever so sweetly. After an unprecendented's week break from action, theAsylum returned with what was promising to be a blockbuster edition of The Show, and surely, he didn't expect Karen Pembridge to greet him like that. Karen had always been one who roamed around in the back with a massive scowl or a nefarious sneer on her face.

Today, she was beaming from ear to ear. The victory at Everything Or Nothing was too sweet for her, and the memory of that night remained etched in her mind. And would remained etched for as long as she would live. Sure, the aftermath of the fight was something quite unexpected, but it saw the coming of age of the Lassie, and the fans were definitely appreciative.

Karen, donning a black t-shirt with blue jeans and black sneakers, continued to stroll about in the back, not in any rush to find her locker-room. She could have actually decided against coming to work, and continued to rest, while focusing on her own personal matters. But reading up on transcripts of all Asylum shows of the year up to Everything Or Nothing, the girl from Manchester was reminded of one 'project' of hers that been started in April.

So, with absolutely nothing to do on the night, Karen told herself that by the end of the night, the exorcision would be complete. Reaching her locker-room, she quickly opened the door and tossed her black Nike duffel bag inside, before closing her down and striding down the hallway. The Lassie, although eager, had to ensure that she was actually ready. A week's break can make you rusty, especially if you've been celebrating rather wildly.

And the preparation, coindicidentally enough, would come in the form of unfinished business as well. Hank Earl Hoskins was scheduled to do battle with Karen Pembridge on The Show prior to FIGHTH3LL, but the little business between Karen, Lucinda Scott, and Mercy ensured that the fight never went down. No skin off Hank's nose, but Pembridge herself felt that she'd been discredited due to the fight never materialising. Of course, nobody really cared except her.

But the occasion proved to serve two purposes.

And as she entered the catering room, there was a cheeky glint in Karen's eyes, as there Hank was, staggering about like a drunkard, with a ham sandwich in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. You see Hank, you see a bottle of beer in his possession. It was as simple as that, and Karen admired the redneck for being able to attach a symbol to himself to make him stand out the way it did.

Besides the stench of alcohol that followed Hank wherever he went, of course.

"Hank Earl Hoskins?" Karen queried innocently.

Hoskins promptly turned around, took a huge bite out of his sandwich, and washed it down with some of his beer... before nodding, to acknowledge the Lassie. Karen smiled and slowly advanced towards Hank, trying to come off as cool as possible. Hank just stood there, staring at Karen, unsure of what her motives were.

As long as it involved sex, he was happy.

"I want you.

Now."

Hoskins got hard. He dropped his sandwich, threw his bottle of beer at the Dr Zoidberg lookalike that had walked into the catering room, and started panting like a cat on crack. Karen was instantly freaked out but retained her composure, realising how her words must have sounded to the intoxicated Hoskins.

"In a fight, you cunt."

Hank's panting got taken up a notch. Surprisingly enough.

"Shure thin', sweetcheeks. And after, maybe yer fine ass will do mye teh honour of retirin' to mye abode?! We could be rockin' teh casbah all night long, ya hear?"

Karen stifled her laughter and smirked, as she backpedalled. She'd gotten her fight, it seemed, along with an offer to sleep with the redneck. Of course, the Lassie wasn't too keen on the latter offer, but she figured if she could get the guy's hopes up, it'd be much more fun shutting him down and seeing the look on his face after.

But the main thing was, she'd gotten the fight confirmed.

"Yeah. If you win."

And the Lassie was hellbent on making sure the preparation would unfold smoothly. A defeat would...

... kill her.

“Oh, so you finally decided to show up, you useless motherfucker. Where’s the other one?”

Joe Campbell welcomed Slapnutz back with as nice as the Scotsman could have hoped. In fact, it went a lot better than he had envisaged, Slapnutz thought there would be many more expletives. He guessed Campbell was saving the big guns for someone a lot more important. Maybe someone that bothered to make appearances at shows and Pay-Per-Views.

“You even missed the fucking Pay-Per-View! I mean I pay you a huge salary, because you were tied to some other fighting group and what do you do to repay me? You miss a month of shows, turn up looking like shite and don’t even say a fucking word to me. Tosser.”

Slapnutz felt nothing towards the man standing in front of him. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; he was just too tired to even have an emotion. Instead, he muttered the only word he could…

“Sorry.”

And that was all the came from the mouth of the man in the tartan hat. Campbell looked bemused.

“Sorry? Sorry? I have a fucking Russian army trying to fuck me up the arse and all you can say is sorry? Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck Splink and fuck you one more time. What’s going on in that tiny Scottish head of yours? Are you imaging a world without haggis? Maybe you want to go home and take in that pathetic shite you lot call a Festival. Well fuck that sunshine.”

Campbell was in full flow now but Slapnutz still didn’t care. Standing in front of his boss was sapping the little energy he had. What he wouldn’t give to have some sleep right now. Yes, sleep, that would be wonderful, but it wouldn’t be happening any time soon. Not a chance. Throughout his fantasy of sleeping, Campbell was still continuing his rant but it was all lost on Slapnutz, sleep was pre-occupying his mind now, not the ranting of a madman.

“And one last thing, just so I’m getting my money’s worth out of you, why don’t you get your fighting gear on and have a little scrap with Sebastian Thompson. He should fuck you up nice and proper. I’m sure you can manage that, can’t you. Oh, and if you see your Polish friend, send him in my direction because I want a word with him too. Now fuck off. Cunt.”

Slapnutz caught a few word of that. Basically what he heard was: You. Fighting. Sebastian. Polish. Cunt.

Slapnutz was a big confused since neither him nor Sebastian Thompson were Polish. Yes, he was a cunt, but he definitely wasn’t Polish. Slapnutz sighed and went to find his locker room.

It was going to be a long day.

"Come on where the fuck...." Jakob stopped staring down the hall at a figure.. "Hey! Where the fuck is Damon! Hey I'm talking to you!" Jakob took off in the direction of the figure and as the camera drew closer the figure turned around to reveal Frank Minio.. Jakob stopped mid run and stared at Minio with rage filled eyes... "Hey Minio where the hell is Damon" Gianni eyes followed Frank's every move as he simply shrugged.. "Why the fuck would I tell you again?"

Gianni face slowly turned red as he began to shake in rage. "Listen 'Little Man'.." Before Jakob could finish his thought Minio got right into his face staring up into Jakob's reflective black glasses... "Little eh?" Gianni smiled sarcastically.. "Aww did I offend you lil' Frankie... Are ya gunna 'Beat me up'" ... Gianni took off his glasses.. "Fuckin' A!" Frank and Jakob stood staring at eachother for a few more minutes.

Jakob takes a step back to swing at Frank but his hand is caught in mid air a huge dark skinned hand.. Frank simply smiles as Jakob turns back to see Umaga Reihana staring at him eyes furious and nostrils flared.. Fijian Lion smiled sadistically before whispering "You're one of the ones who eliminated me" Jakob's eyes widened a bit as hes stepped back and aimed a kick for the lion's head only for Umaga to block the kick and send Gianni into the nearest wall. Gianni's body broke away the brick and he slowly slumped forward falling to the ground.. Umaga smiled with satisfaction before heading into the Team Flatlined locker room.

As the door closed the camera zoomed in as blood dripped from Gianni's lips.. Lips curled into a sadists smile.. "Next Week..."

Mercy’s locker room door swung open without so much as a knock. She didn’t rise from her chair, didn’t move a muscle, when ‘Nasty’ Nick Brandish walked into the room. “Okay,” he said as he looked down at her. “I talked to Joe. It’s set up.”

The redhead stared at the skull mask that was resting in her lap. She studied it, every crack, every chip had a story. Once upon a time Dawn Van Dammage wore it in her battles in the Asylum. But Dawn wasn’t around to wear it anymore. Jenna Dammagia, Dawn’s own cousin, was the one who took care of her. Even Jenna was slowly disappearing from view, leaving more and more of the hellcat known as Mercy.

“Good.” She lifted her head and looked into the cold, emotionless eyes of Nasty Nick. “You ready for this?”

Nick’s smile was chilling. “Oh I’m always ready. Business is business, just like it was at Everything Or Nothing. We’re both professionals.”

“I’ll see you out there.” Mercy looked down at the mask.

“It’s your funeral.” Brandish turned and left the room, leaving Mercy alone.

Always alone, with only pain to keep her company.

Her body was one dull throb as long as she didn’t move. Standing up sent barbs of pain shredding through her legs. Mercy set the mask down on the chair and almost felt naked without it in her hands. “I’ll be back for you soon,” she said quietly. “We’ve got some business to take care of tonight.”

Every step Mercy took felt like she was walking over a bed of white-hot nails. Her pain threshold was slowly reaching it’s limit, and she still had a fight to face tonight. A fight that she didn’t think she could win. But if she had to have surgery to repair her back, she had to be able to pay for it. With the bets she had her bookie place on her fight, she’d be able to do her rehab on a beach in Mauii.

Of course, that meant she had to do the impossible.

With a bottle of Vodka in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other, Mercy walked into her small phone booth-sized bathroom. “Take one tablet every four hours to alleviate pain,” Mercy read. “Do not exceed six per day.” She tipped the pill bottle and emptied a small mound of tablets into her hand. “Guess I’ll be good for about four days after this.”

She popped the handful of pills into her mouth and choked them down. Her eyes watered as she gagged, before washing it all down with several swigs of Schmirnoff. “Better,” she wheezed as she stared at herself in the mirror. She’d get through this fight. She’d kick the ever-loving shit out of the man who broke her back, and she’d make a shitload of money doing it. Two weeks from now, she’d be getting steel pins set into her back. Three weeks from now she’d be having crazy-hot monkey sex somewhere in the Tropics.

Mercy saw her mask resting on the chair. “We’re gonna have some fun tonight,” she said to it with a smile. “A whole lotta fun.”

"I don't mean to sound discriminatory, but that crackhead really gets on my nerves." Chester said to Frank, who was filling his palette full of water at the fountain. "He was a punk at Everything Or Nothing."

"But didn't you eliminate HIM right after?"

"It was a dirty move on my part," Ramis said, "I should have known better. We're here to clean up the Asylum and all, but my actions seemed to resemble something that they would do," Chester explained with disgust.

"Yeah, don't worry about it," Minio said as he straightened up. The two walked down the hallway and continued their conversation. "There are bigger fish to fry. You or me could easily take him out and win the T.V. strap..."

Chester nodded confidently.

"But if he bothers you that bad, do something about it. Make him an example."

Ramis nodded, and jotted the notion down in his mental notebook.

"I think I'll do just that. Catch you later," Ramis said, and shook Minio's head. The two separated, and the Show continued...

That resulted in a rather rollicking fight between Thompson & Salvatore, which marked the latter's official debut. He came up short, however, and found out the hard way just how different theAsylum was from his previous places of employment. Angry with himself for the case of mistaken identity, Salvatore swore to himself to learn on how fighters in theAsylum actually operated, and already had three people scouted.

The main man, however, was proving elusive.

Surging down the hallway, Sal's eyes darted around the backstage area, for any suspicious characters or Ty Hughes himself. Deep inside, the Brazilian-born pit fighter had a feeling that he was going about things the wrong way and was attracting unwanted attention. Especially from the lady with a massive scowl on her face and dreadlocks for her hair, seemingly. Puzzled, Santos politely smiled at her, but Jade wasn't in the mood. For some reason, she hated Santos to his core.

So, when she produced a lead pipe and began running towards Salvatore, the latter's eyes almost popped out, and he quickly turned around, making a mad dash for safety. He wasn't about to get involved in a backstage brawl with a lady, much less an official fight. The whooping Thompson had inflicted upon him still had its adverse effect on Sal, who was now desperately thinking of a way to hide from the crazy lady that was chasing him.

Suddenly, he spotted a broom closet.

And with Jade lagging behind, not able to quite see Santos from the position she was in, Salvatore frantically scrambled towards the closet and shoved himself inside, just as Jade turned a corner and growled, having lost sight of her target. Noticing that a backstage official further up was looking at the carpark weirdly, Jade thought that maybe Santos had escaped towards the carpark, and the chase was on once again.

Inside the closet, Santos Salvatore came face to face with a dirty rodent.

And an actual rat.

Who was the dirty rodent, then? Banderas, who was drunk off his ass.

"I callling..... to sayyyy..... I love cheeeeeeeeese!!!"

Of all the places to hide, he had to choose THAT broom closet, Santos thought.

What luck.

This was a dungeon. She was a prisoner.

Mercy was slow to rise, the thick metal plates bound to her body doubling her weight. “How did I get here?” she asked out loud, hoping her echo might have the answer. No answer came. She stood up and pressed her hand against the cold, moist brick to balance herself. Her armor was weighing her down more than she’d like, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember how to take it off.

On the other side of the door came a knock. “Why would someone knock to come into a cell?” Mercy asked herself. “Do they want to make sure I’m awake?” She tried to formulate a plan of escape, charging the door as her captor opened it, but her mind was still in fog and her body felt like it weighted a ton. “Come in,” she said cautiously.

Terry was a little surprised when Mercy invited him into her room. Normally he just banged on the locker room door to let the fighters know it was time for them to head to the cage. But Mercy was one hot number, so who was he to not accept her gracious invitation?

When Terry opened the door, he was a little taken aback. Sure enough, Mercy was leaning all sexy against the wall, just like those girls did over on Eighth Street. But the front of her top was covered with bloody vomit, more like the girls over on Tenth. She looked like she was messed up pretty bad, but he wasn’t any doctor. It wasn’t his place to say anything.

Mercy watched the guard as he made his way into her cell. He was young in the face, but strong and able-bodied. Not so strong that he could stop her if she tried to get past him, but until her own strength returned she’d have to play it cool.

For now.

“You’re up,” he told her. “Time to go.”

Something about this seemed right to Mercy. She knew she had to go… somewhere… to do… something. “Where am I going?”

The guard looked at her like she’d suddenly grown two heads. “Your fight.”

The fight. Yes! It was coming back to her. She was fighting someone - something - tonight. But her armor was so heavy. Maybe too heavy. She hoped her strength would return soon.

As Mercy walked towards the door, the guard stopped her. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Mercy turned back into the cell. She saw a mask, a skull mask, sitting on a small barrel. It felt right in her hands, and natural on her face. Fully equipped, Mercy couldn’t help but smile. “We’re gonna have some fun tonight,” she said as she stepped into the hallway beyond her cell. “A whole lotta fun.”

It had been a while since he had slept and even longer since he had been part of a show. This could turn out to be a long day.

He knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep but Slapnutz shut his eyes anyway. That was when he heard the sound of footsteps. He tried to ignore them as they approached but something told him that those weren’t the kind of footsteps you wanted to be ignoring. It was Campbell again. Slapnutz let out a sigh and stood up to face his employer.

“Look you Scottish fuckwad, I don’t care what you’re doing out there but you have a fucking locker room and I want you to use it since I’m paying good money for it.”

Campbell and money. The two things went together hand in hand. Like Sonny and Cher. Like Sonny and Skiing. Well, like Sonny and trees. Yeah, that works. Although, most people would have you believe Campbell cared more about money than Sonny Bono cared about trees, well, until he bumped into one, I guess.

“You and your bunch of merry faggots can all do whatever the fuck it is you all do in there. Just don’t go around cluttering up my hallways or the next thing you feel in your arse won’t be TMM’s dick. No, it’ll be my foot.”

Slapnutz was ready to leave the scene of his misdemeanour but he had forgotten one thing, he hadn’t found out where his locker room was.

“Where is it?” Slapnutz slurred almost incomprehensibly but Joe was used to dealing with slurred speech and retards so he actually made sense of it.

“For fucks sake you in-bred piece of shit, down the hall, second turning on the right, 3 doors down on the left. Piece of piss, really. Now get…the fuck…out…of…my…sight. Comprende?”

As he finished his last sentence, Campbell grabbed the chair Slapnutz had been sitting on and threw it at him. Luckily for Slapnutz, the chair broke in mid-air. It was probably made in Canada.

So, Slapnutz set off down the hallways, hoping to find the room where he could rest-up before his match.

Easier said than done.

"Everything or Nothing. Remember me now?"

Eddie Cheno bit his lower lip and pondered the thought. Chester construed his pose and expression as sarcasm, so Ramis pulled back and shoved him right back into the wall.

"Stop shakin' me yo, dat shiznit ain’t funken kosher..." Eddie said as he pushed Ramis away. This time the TV champ was fuming, but Ramis refused to back down to just an angry expression. "Ya ‘member E-o-N?" Cheno asked angrily, pushing Chester away.

"I hardly think it was an accident when you made me your focus during that elimination match." Ramis remarked through deep breaths; his raging emotions were getting the best of him.

"My funken focus be on funken winnin’ yo, it wudn’t funken personal, but yer funken arse hatta funken take it so." Cheno said boldly as plunged his index finger in Ramis chest. Chester looked down at the hand, then back up, into Eddie's almond colored eyes. His expression shone utter disbelief as he observed the TV champion's daring.

"Look, man, do you wanna go?" Chester asked in an emotionally-charged voice, which cracked with pure hatred. He backed up and buried his fists in his jeans pockets, so he couldn't attack Cheno's beaming face with them.

“If ya funken mean ta get funken ice cream, funk no yo. I ain’t be likin’ yer funken ass,” Cheno Cheno purred as he patted Ramis's shoulder and walked off. Chester growled and planned to follow, but he looked as if he was restrained by some type of force-field he could not escape. He merely took a few steps and his body -- refusing to move-- caused him to shout at the retreating fighter:

"I got my eye on you, Eddie!"

“Yah mang, and I be puttin’ my bloodshot eyez on ya ta mang!” Eddie shouted, turning around and walking backwards, away from Ramis.

“Enter.” Campbell sneered.

The door creaked into motion, slowly opening up releasing refracted sunbeams into the office. A dark skinned man gripped the door handle tightly, as he applied more pressure onto the door. Campbell’s smirking ceased as he saw the looming figure enter the room.

Umaga Reihana.

The one man wrecking machine, the Fijian Lion, Umaga Reihana stood tall as he entered Campbell’s office. The silence slowly sucked the air from within the room, ceasing all activity. Umaga’s glare was immense, and directed solely at the eyes of Campbell.

Campbell, slightly uneasy with Reihana’s presence, grabbed reassuringly at his pistol.

“What do you want?” Campbell hissed slightly.

A wry grin crept over Umaga’s face. The large Fijian made his way over to a chair near Campbell, and rested his bulk on its frame. The rather over domineering Fijian brushed his mane of dreadlocks from off of his face, and began to speak.

“Campbell, we, are very displeased at the way we are being treated.” Umaga nodded.

Campbell smirked and laughed half heartedly, “You don’t feel things Umaga, you destroy, now get the fuck out of my office.”

Umaga laughed slightly, before a stony look invaded his face. “You think this is a joke?”

Campbell nodded sarcastically.

“You think this is funny?” Umaga laughed manically, “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.” His voice took on a harsh tone.

Campbell ceased laughing, “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

Umaga leant forward in his chair, causing Campbell to become uneasy once more, “We want title shots. We want recognition in this hell hole.”

Campbell smiled, “You want title shots? Shut the fuck up, you on them drugs again?”

Umaga leant forward bringing his face inches from Campbell, “Don’t make us angry. I’m warning you.”

His callous stare induced Campbell to clutch his gun tightly.

“Get out, now!” he bellowed.

Umaga’s eyes were filled with animosity, and Campbell could sense it. Umaga slowly backed away from Campbell and stood up. Umaga walked towards the door, before stopping slowly. The large Fijian turned slowly, his whole back flexing with his enormous physique.

“Don’t fuck with us Campbell…”

Umaga turned on his heels and left the room with a smirk on his face.

“What the fuck was that about?” Campbell sat confused.

Who knows Joe… who knows?

Hank Earl Hoskins Vs Karen Pembridge

And out came Karen Pembridge, attire unchanged, to a brand new theme song. It was a new era in her Asylum career, so a change in song only seemed like the right thing to do. The fans immediately got to their feet and cheered their hearts out, as the British Lassie walked down to the steel structure she was victorious in on July 26. The very same structure in which her ties with Lucinda Scott were severed once and for all.

Stepping inside the cage, Karen raised her arms up in the air to acknowledge the crowd and their flattering reception. As far as she was concerned, this fight was hers to win. It was against an absolute drunkard, there was no way she could lose. And if she did, Karen would have to... go to bed with HeH. A thought that immediately repulsed the girl from Manchester. Complacency wasn't something she couldn't afford here.

So, she closed her eyes and concentrated. Blocking out all distractions.

Until, of course, "East Bound And Down" by Jerry Reed began to blare over the speakers. Out came Hank Earl Hoskins, wearing only his blue jeans and black shoes, with a pool stick in his hand. He staggered down to the cage as all the slack-jawed yokels in the crowd began spanking each other and cheering for their champion, Hank. Karen, meanwhile, simply stared at the man that would decide whether or not she was ready.

As Hank stepped into the cage, the official signalled for the fight to begin, and the man nicknamed 'The Hammer' threw down his pool stick, as the methodical circling began from both combatants. Karen kept her eyes firmly fixated on Hank, who was making bedroom-ish eyes at his opponent. Grossed out, Karen attempted to draw first blood as she lunged forward and swung at Hoskins. Who swiftly sidestepped to his right and connected with a rather sluggish punch of his own. Karen was hardly fazed and struck back with a real punch, before ramming her knee into Hank's gut, and finishing off the attack with a forearm smash to the face!

Hoskins was sent sprawling to the canvas, but scrambled up to his feet within a heartbeat, gasping for air. Karen quickly advanced and again swung wildly at The Hammer, who once again evaded via ducking this time, and surprisingly connected with a snap belly-to-side suplex, seemingly out of nowhere! Karen herself was surprised by the move and the speed her drunk opponent seemed to possess. As Hank brought Karen up to her feet, still in the waistlock, the latter waited until Hoskins attempted another suplex before letting her right elbow travel toward's Hank's face. Amazingly, he ducked AGAIN, and promptly drilled Karen with a belly-to-back suplex!

Or at least, tried to.

Karen landed on her feet and instantly used her hands to grab hold of Hank's head, smashing it down to the canvas in a falling spinning neckbreaker! The fans popped loudly for the move, and as Karen used the mesh of the cage to assist her to her feet, the official started up the count;

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Hank Earl Hoskins had defied the odds and made some gamblers highly pissed by recovering, but Karen thought nothing of it. She waited until Hoskins danced the circle completely and turned to face her, before she ran towards the cage wall, jumped expertly onto the rim in a single bound, and leapt off with a flying scissors kick, that was absolutely spot on and devastating in its execution!

"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"

Hank Earl was down for the count yet again, and Karen raised her arms in the air, confident that she'd pulled off the victory by now;

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

...

Do you believe in miracles?

...

Well, if so, you're a dumbass.

10.

Hank Earl Hoskins had actually began to stir, but as he looked upwards, at the figure of Karen Pembridge cowering over him, the pain finally set in completely and a wave of unconsicousness meant that he remained plastered to the canvas. The British Lassie punched the air and made her swift exit from the cage, satisfied with the workout. It was a fight that had progressed as expected.

Now, was she ready?

"I'm ready."

It bloody looked like it.

“What the fuck, man?” Keegan shouted as the lumbering Scot fell through the door of his locker room.

Luckily for Slapnutz, this was friendly territory. You see Splink and Keegan often shared a few beers when on the road. In fact, more than a few beers but that’s not the point. These men are professional fighters so they can handle their drink. Remember that: All pro fighters can handle their drink. Except the Flatlined boys but that’s not the point.

Now, this was unusual for Keegan, he was on his own in his locker room. No associates and no groupies asking to relieve him. Will wonders never cease? After the initial shock of seeing a 256lbs man fall through his door and not attacking him, Keegan directed the stumbling Slapnutz into a chair on the opposite wall to him.

“God, you look like shit Scott. You feelin’ alright?”

Slapnutz couldn’t muster an answer; the effort of opening the door had taken it out of him. He simply slumped in the chair he was in and tried to understand what his Geordie friend was saying to him.

Sensing there was nothing much he could offer in the way of advice to his friend, Keegan tossed him a bottle of Newcastle Brown. This is the way both men preferred to get rid of their problems, with a nice beer. Slapnutz ripped off the bottle top and drank it down in one. He let out a giant burp and beckoned for another from the Geordie.

“Whoa, man, you must’ve been gaggin’ for that. Might wanna take it easy, pal.”

Slapnutz shook his head and threw 50 Euros at him, making sure that what he drank was covered for. Sure, they were in America and Euros were useless but it was money none-the-less. Keegan picked up the money and threw Slapnutz a few more bottles.

You see, Keegan kept himself well stocked on beer wherever he went. He had a lot to choose from too: Kronenberg, Guiness, Stella, Becks, Budweiser, Miller and of course, Slapnutz’ favourite, Newcastle Brown Ale. That was the stuff of champions, plus it came in a larger bottle so it was crackin’ value for money.

After 15 minutes, the collection of bottles at the feet of Slapnutz was starting to take shape, however, something was bugging him, he knew he had to be somewhere, he just couldn’t remember where. Then it hit him like a Ferrari 360 going into a cow.

Slapnutz rather gingerly got onto his feet then crashed through the door of Keegan’s locker room. He mumbled a quick ‘thank you’ to his buddy and headed off to the Asylum for his upcoming match.

"Karen! Karen, Baby. It's me, Reggie."

Karen just simply looked up at him as if to say "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Reggie got uncomfortable.

"Umm… Hi?" He stammered.

And Karen grunted at him.

"Animal noises, eh? I bet you like it real dirty. Well some claim my style of fighting is dirty at times, but quite honestly I'm just a perfect fighter. I have the right bled of brawling tactics and holds to get me right to the top. Don't you think I'm the closest thing to perfection?"

"Look, lad, just go, I'm not interested in you or what you have to say." Karen calmly informed Reggie with her hands on her hips.

Reggie paused a second. Not many people had said that to him before, especially not women and even if they did he conveniently forgot about it. Wait, it must have been a joke.

"Ha!" Reggie giggled. "Good one. But seriously, you look hungry, you can have a taste of my jumbo hot dog if you want." Reggie boasted as he slammed his crotch forward.

Karen did not respond, she just blinked.

"Ummm… I'm implying I've got a big dick."

"So your knobber is made of meat, you put it in a bun and dress it with mustard, tomato sauce and relish? Is that it?" She mocked him.

"Yeah." Reggie replied mindlessly while he stared at her chest..

"No, listen carefully this time. Is your penis actually a hot dog?"

"Oh… No." Reggie stuttered, as he re-entered the earth's atmosphere.

Karen just walked off.

And Reggie... well, needless to say, he was pissed.

"I've got to get her!"

"O…Or…Ordell." Ritchie said and then paused, making sure that his younger brother was giving him his attention. "I….I….I really me…me….miss our jackets." Ritchie said with a slight tone of sadness in his voice.

"I know Ritchie, when we get to the arena. I’ll make sure we ask the owner Joe Campbell if he knows anything about our jackets." Ordell said, trying to be as comforting as possible.

"Those….ja…..ja….jackets even had our na…..na…..names on em, Ordell."

"Ritchie, I promise you, we will get those jackets back!"

She walked past several backstage workers, who were drunk of their asses and basically doing nothing, and proceeded towards the male toilet. One of several in the building. This one was the nearest to her locker-room, however, and The Lassie had a feeling in her tummy that Willis -- out of all the toilets in the arena -- would go to that one. True enough, as she came to a halt and folded her arms, out stepped the man formerly under the moniker of 'Spawned Terror'. He was rather surprised as he found the familiar face of Karen Pembridge in his way, and sniggered.

"You may look the part, lassie, but you don't exactly have what it requires to go inside there..." Willis muttered as sardonically possible and his grin grew wider, noticing that Karen didn't take too kindly to the insult.

In her mind, suddenly, rumours of the big man being gay that ran rampant backstage in tFZ came to her mind again. Of course, nobody actually dared to confront Willis about whether he was really gay or otherwise, but still, the rumours were being circulated like wildfire.

"Surprising, innit? Around this time last year, Tapestry was kicking my arse and effectively ran me out of tFZ for good. Now, she's out on the streets like a destitute, while I came face to face with the man that waged three battles with the person who trained me. Who shaped me. Who moulded me to become the fighter I am today.

He won the first two of the three battles, but the one he lost... it was for the big prize. The biggest bloody catch in the land. The title YOU held so dear to your heart. I'm not sure why, your relationship with Keegan was and is too bloody arsed up for me to bother. Fact of the matter is, defeating Sikanah the way you did made sure that I would have a little date with you in the future."

”I think I’d rather fuck your brother than go on a date with you,” he crudely commented but rather than having her suspicions confirmed Karen was boiling with rage, but she kept her cool. As far as she was concerned, she had Willis where she wanted him, and the Lassie wasn't about to let comments from a butt-ugly freak get to her so easily.

"Nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth? Wait, my apologies. Your mother abandoned you, didn't she? My, what a traumatic experience that must have been. But why oh why did she leave you, I wonder?"

Sniggering, Karen watched as John clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He didn't like the way the conversation was progressing, and was now also wondering why exactly was the gypo named Karen Pembridge confronting him. They were not friends in tFZ. This couldn't be a reunion. Of course, Karen had made it a point to talk to Tapestry & Keegan since arriving in the Asylum... so there was a point behind everything.

”I was the man in The Fighting Zone and you’d better not fucking forget it. Keegan may be my brother and we might be getting on better than we were but he knows as well as I do that I owned him that night and the best fucking Fighting Zone Champion of all time is me. As far as Sikanah goes, he was lucky. When it mattered, who won? Tell me who fucking won? So look here you fucking ugly cunt. Work this one out if you can. Tapestry ran you out of The Fighting Zone and I ran her out of The Asylum. Can you do the math? If you can, then you’d better fuck off now because you don’t me. You really don’t.”

"I want you," Karen started, "in a fight. This isn't about me avenging Sikanah's big defeat to you. No. Consider it a preparation of sorts on my end. I'm aiming to simply prepare myself. See, with so many memories enemating from the likes of you, imagine the hatred I have for Splink. The arseholes who almost paralysed me."

John folded his arms and bit his lower lip. A fight, with Karen? He'd only disposed of Tapestry, another tFZ cunt, a few weeks prior at Everything Or Nothing. And he still didn't have a direct answer as to why the girl from Manchester wished to messed around with him. But if it meant that he could shut Pembridge up...

He was definitely up for it.

”Okay. You’ve fucking got it you bitch. I was trying to be nice for a change and this is the fucking thanks I get. If I can get rid of Tapestry when it matters then I can do the same to you. Well look at it this way. She was business and you’re pleasure but not in that fucking way. You’re not that good-looking or lucky. The nearest you’ll get to this prick’s prick is when I’ve got you down on your knees and you’re screaming for me to stop. Just like most women then,” he smirked and obviously quite proud of his little speech.

“Whatever you say Willis. We’ll see. I’m a lot better than I was then and you’re a lot worse than you were. And I’m better than that twat Tapestry and she nearly beat you. So what am I going to do to you? As you like to say yourself do the math,” she warned him prior to leaving the scene and the seething behemoth to ponder and wonder how his upcoming encounter with Karen would pan out…

John C. Willis Vs Karen Pembridge

And don’t you get sick of it when people reminisce and remind you about the past to the extent that they no longer look forward. “You kids have it easy these days. You don’t know you’re born. We could come straight out of school and get a job. We didn’t have computers in those days.” Christ, I’d better stop or you’ll mistake me for being one of those people that I’m actually referring to. However, on that note, let me give you an example of an individual who does indeed fall into that category.

John C. Willis.

Willis? Well he’s not old is he? No he isn’t. In fact, he turned twenty-six just over a month ago. On the other hand, he’s nowhere near intelligent enough to be considered a computer expert. Surely, that’s now what you mean though?

No it isn’t.

Nonetheless, let me explain by giving you a quick History lesson. Nearly a year ago, when The Fighting Zone was still open and enjoying its second stint since its unfortunate farewell in 1997, Keegan Carrahar and John C. Willis were set to stage a rematch to follow the first fight they’d had in May and lock horns for the trophy that Willis had stripped Special K of in their original affair and still held after overcoming Uncensored, a common nemesis the bickering stepbrothers had.

That tie never arrived despite what Salvatore Di Maggio said. But I’m not bothered either way. Yet, one thing that most people did not argue with is that the Englishman and the Indian native had more influence on the singles division in the illicit organization than anyone else with perhaps the exception of Pat Walsh, who was also a two-time titleholder.

What matter is that was then and this is now.

Neither Keegan or John are the finest Fighting Zone exports. No Sir. In terms of impression and impact, Brian Fenn-Grail, otherwise known as The Freak, has carved out an infamous reputation for himself in the world-famous Asylum while the stepsiblings have been left lagging behind. They don’t argue about it and do actually accept that The Freak is red-hot at the moment and that’s not even mentioning his hair. But there is a but. There had to be didn’t there?

And that’s how Willis, and Keegan for that matter, are whiners. They refuse to forget the past. It’s all good admitting they’re disappointed with what Carrahar calls a ‘dismal start’ and that Brian is better than they are at the moment. They have to mention the past when they probably were superior to the Crimson Crippler.
Lads, nobody cares anymore. It’s what you do in front of a wider audience that counts and you haven’t. Period.

As for Karen? This thing with John C. Willis was something she had been planning for a long time. Since April, what with the meeting with Keegan on the day that Manchester United whooped Newcastle United 6-2. It was all about exorcising the ghost of the mentor, Sikanah. At the same time, a victory over the beast known as the Kokomo Colossus would definitely be a step forward for the Lassie, especially in the aftermath of an excellent victory at Everything Or Nothing.

"Here Comes The Pain" by Slayer blared over the speakers, and out walked Willis, wearing his black jeans. He was without the company of Keegan, D'Alessandro, and Lharn. Willis was aiming to take care of Karen alone, and it would be two in a row as far as he was concerned. He didn't like Karen at all, partially due to the fact that her mentor in FZ had shamed him twice, and was a thorn in his side.

As he entered the steel caged structure which housed many a fight over the past years, John was well aware of the fact that although this wasn't a Loser Leaves bout, the punishment he would dish out to Karen would probably cripple the Lassie so bad, she'd never want to step foot in theAsylum again. And in the process, he'd be doing Splink a favour -- the only ex-tFZ groupies Karen had yet to kick up a storm with.

And for those who were aware of the history of tFZ, Karen Pembridge would definitely enjoy beating the crap out of Splink.

With Keegan's sibling inside the caged structure, looking out at the crowd that were generating a rather undecided response for him, "Unreal" by Soil began to play over the system, and the fans were immediately to their feet, once again welcoming Karen Pembridge out. The earlier brawl with Hank Earl Hoskins had just been a preparation; the appetiser, to the tantalising main course. She stepped out from the back, and the grin on her face grew wider.

The main reason she was present on the night stood in the cage. All 6'7", 315 lbs of him.

Quickening her pace, Karen soon found herself jumping over the rim and into the cage, eager to get the fight on. Her blood was pumping with newfound adrenaline and excitement, and she was shivering from top to bottom. The Lassie was considering this to be her biggest test yet... and on some level, she was slightly afraid by defeat. That had never been the case before.

But with nothing to lose, Pembridge knew that she could throw everything at Willis. Like she did at Everything Or Nothing. Only, with more intensity, this time.

The bell rang, and Karen quickly rushed forward, ramming her right fist into the upper-body area of Willis. The Kokomo Monster had a massive height advantage over his female opponent; almost one whole foot. That didn't mean that Karen's wild punches weren't having some kind of impact, however. Willis was rather surprised that Pembridge could pack so much power, before the Lassie rammed her knee into John's gut, making the latter double over slightly. Just enough for Karen to take a step back and jump into the air, smashing the same knee into John's face!

The crowd went wild over the intensity & viciousness just displayed, as Willis staggered backwards, somewhat stunned himself. Karen kept her eyes on her massive opponent and took another step back, realising that John was very close to the cage wall. A single kick with tons of power would be able to knock him out of the cage, Pembridge reckoned, as a smile crept onto her face. And with the fans urging her on, Karen rushed at Willis, lashing out with a perfect running sidekick! There was just one problem, however.

The head of the Kokomo Colossus was jerked back due to the sidekick to the extent that it almost rolled off his shoulders, yes, but it hardly achieved the goal of knocking the 6'7" monster out of the cage. Instead, all it did was made Willis even more groggy. Karen was quite frustrated that her early efforts, as much as she was putting into them, wasn't quite looking effective. Willis only took TWO steps backwards; he hadn't even crashed into the cage wall. Growling, Karen took another step back before letting fly with a Mawashi Geri, a variant of a roundhouse kick. Somehow, the Lassie managed to get her leg up high enough to legimately threaten Willis, but the latter ducked and jolted into life, retaliating with a wicked kidney punch, that sent the girl from Manchester sprawling to the canvas! That single shot was enough to see her remain rooted to the canvas, and John C. Willis grinned.

He was imagining what was going to happen once he got into his stride;

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2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

As expected, Karen Pembridge was back on her feet, but she had a hand on her kidney. The tingling and reveberation of her organs following the powerful shot from Willis still existed, and completely distracted the Lassie. So much so that when she turned around, there was nothing she could do to prevent getting completely manhandled by the Kokomo Monster... courtesy of a ferocious clothesline that sent Pembridge somersaulting in mid-air before crashing to the canvas in a heap. A large section of the crowd, pro-Willis fans, went completely nuts.

The girl from Manchester was down again;

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3.

4.

5.

6.

Once again, the count had been quashed at 6. Karen got to her feet, shaking her head. Her early momentum had been crushed, and there was evidence that Willis was intending to dish out much more punishment, as he advanced on Karen with a sneer on his face. Raising his arm in an attempt to club his smaller opponent, the Lassie suddenly -- out of desperation -- scored with a deft and swift sidekick to John's lower-abdominal area, before forcefully smashing her toughened right shin into the jaw of the former tFZ Champion. The latter was taken aback by the attack, which had actually stung, before being subjected to a snapmare takedown by Karen! A wrestling move, which didn't quite go down well with half the crowd. Especially since it didn't have much of an effect, as the Kokomo Colossus was back to his feet within a heartbeat. The move HAD dazed him, however.

And moved him closer towards the cage wall, which was Karen's aim. Now, she rushed at him, sending both her feet crashing into the back of John's knees in a flying double-footed stomp, resembling something out of a game of footie. Willis was sent crashing down to the canvas and his head barely grazed the steel mesh of the cage. Yet again, the attack hadn't really done much damage to him, and within a few seconds, he was to his knees.

Unfortunately, that was the intention of the Manchester girl. She sent her right knee hurtling into John's spine, before grabbing a headful of her opponent's hair... and forcefully pushing his head forward. Into the rim of the cage.

*SMASH*

*SMASH*

*SMASH*

*SMASH*

*SMASH*

Karen Pembridge was unrelenting, and her eyes gleamed everytime she sent John's head crashing into the rim of the caged structure they were battling in. Already, blood started to seep out of the Kokomo Monster's forehead, and his eyes were glazed over. His awareness was at an all-time high, though; basically, he knew that he had to do SOMETHING before he got punked out with repeated shots against the rim. So, as Karen reared her opponent's head back for the 15th time, Willis retaliated with a uppercut, one that packed enough venom to knock the British Lassie off her feet.

And as John C. Willis got back to his feet, his tongue tasted blood. His eyes boiled with rage, and he waited patiently for Karen Pembridge to pull herself up, before charging at her like a steam train. The girl from Manchester had the situation well-scouted however, and she knew exactly what she had to do. So, she turned around and continued to fake grogginess, until Willis was near enough for her to spring into action and wrapped her right arm around his waist.

Before grounding him with a judo hip takedown, by the name of Tsuri Goshi. A powerful move, as Willis landed with a loud thud. The fun wasn't quite over for Karen, however. Looking down at John, Karen jumped into the air and came crashing down to the canvas on her knees, as her right fist travelled at an alarming speed towards John's face! If he wasn't already ugly, the superpunch made sure that John C. Willis had another reason to hate The British Lassie.

"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"

Because, the former tFZ Champion was down for the count.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

And then, he was up.

What? You'd expect him to stay down? He's 6'7", 315 lbs, you bum.

Pacing around the cage cautiously, Karen watched as Willis picked himself up and wiped the blood off his face. It was beginning to look gruesome; John's face, that is. As if it already wasn't grotesque enough. He looked up at the crowd and blinked, the pain of the superpunch of Karen's still having its effect. As he turned around, the Lassie came running at him, and her left leg was soaring through the air, dangerously aimed at his chest. Willis somehow managed to catch the leg before impact was made though, causing Karen to hop around on one leg, as the Kokomo Monster grinned sinisterly.

But with the crowd's excitement growing, the fight having been one heck of a slobberknocker so far, Karen simply threw her right leg into the air, in a sweeping roundhouse fashion. Trouble was, Willis was quick enough to duck it. He also held on to Pembridge's left leg, and almost broke it in half with as the Lassie's right leg touched down on the canvas, clubbing it with his massive forearm. Pembridge dropped to the mat on her knees and winced, the pain searing through the whole body.

"Playtime's over, cunt."

And with those words, Willis pretended he was Alan Shearer of Newcastle United, and malevolently kicked out at Karen's head, like he was taking a penalty.

Game, set, match?

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

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8.

Not quite. Karen somehow found the strength to recover.

But as far as John C. Willis was concerned, the fun was just beginning for him.

Rather than be disheartened by Pembridge’s persistence, the ex-Spawned Terror merely smirked. His logic, yes he did work this one out for himself, was that the longer Karen refused to succumb the more punishment he would pour and pour onto her prone and fragile figure until she could no longer continue. To him, it was a win-win situation and Karen was giving him licence to lacerate her. If she had any sense, she would surrender or submit.

We’d been down this avenue before. The behemoth was gradually getting ahead of himself and becoming over-confident if anything instead of keeping it simple, which mirrors his personality, and ending proceedings as soon as he could.

He effortlessly hauled her up by the hair and was now sporting a toothless smile now that he seemingly had her where he wanted her and, on that note, he showed the sheer strength that he possesses in abundance by elevating her into the air and negotiating a Gorilla-Press stance before he brutally brought her back down to earth by dropping her onto his right knee where you could almost see all of the air disappear from the Manchurian’s midriff and esophagus area.

From there, he stood over her and began a barrage of boots to her neck and spine. The beast wasn’t known for being technically sound and he probably didn’t even realise that he was on to a good thing but attacking the upper body when Pembridge was blatantly gasping for any amount of air due to the two previous high-impact moves was a shrewd ploy, advertent or inadvertent, on Willis’ behalf.
The large specimen laughed at the carnage he had already caused but that was nothing compared to what he could do and yet he was in no hurry to do it. He was going to drag this out and enjoy himself and make an example of her not only because of the ‘cheek’ he had received earlier this evening but battering her also reminded him of the reverses, shocking in his opinion, that he had experienced at the hands of Sikanah, once a partner of Pembridge.

Just as he reverted his focus back to the former Fighting Zone female franchise, she caught him off guard with a left and a subsequent right to the ribs that took him by surprised but Willis, who can play extremely dirty when rubbed up the wrong way, nipped Karen’s counter attack in the bud pretty quickly with a thumb to the eye and another callous kick that rocked her head back and forth as if it were a see-saw and now she was, as you would say about a drunk, well and truly out of it as the assigned official initated another count…

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2
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8

Once again, the referee repeated himself and didn’t get past eighty per cent as Karen showed courage, or stupidity in the eyes of Willis, that was rightfully applauded by the onlooking observers who preferred her over the tweener, only good when he was by the side of his British brother or when chasing away invaders who threaten the Asylum. And, that I’m afraid to say, only happened once with Willis’ involvement. Other than that, he was a faceless face or a less-than-scary heel if you looked beyond his horrible looks. To be brutally honest, he had as much sex appeal as a constipated Killer Whale. Not that this was a beauty contest…

The giant had a glint in his eye as he kept his promise and had her between his knees but she certainly wasn’t begging and he would have to wait with bated breath for that to happen. Notwithstanding, she wouldn’t have the energy or ability to do that if the imminent plan was successful.

Yes, Karen Pembrdige was poised to become one of many, or so hoped Willis, Lambs to the Slaughter just as Tapestry had three times on Pay-Per-View at Everything Or Nothing during her all-important Loser Leaves contest with the Kokomo Colossus. Surprisingly, even though she was almost eight feet in the air as he now seemed intent on ending it here and now, she shocked him with a stunning spinning backfist that took Willis by absolute shock and Karen decided that the time was as good as any to save herself and possibly pull out a victory from out of nowhere. A swift kick to John's right knee was followed up by an uppercut, that sent the big man staggering backwards, as a combination of sweat & dried blood slid off his body. Karen breathed heavily, as she ran up towards the man she'd been dueling with for what seemed like eternity, and sprung into a cartwheel.

Before both her legs hit Willis in the face, sending him crashing into the cage wall. The big man growled out in agony, as his lower spinal area burned in agony. Still, the impact behind the rolling cartwheel double-footed kick wasn't enough to knock the former tFZ mammoth out of the cage, and Karen was none too happy about it as she charged at Willis with her arm primed for action. Mainly, the overthrowing of John over the rim and out of the cage.

But, John sidestepped to the right and watched as Karen herself almost got toppled over the rim due to her own momentum. Foolishly enough, Willis cinched in a waistlock and grunted, making fans wonder why he didn't just knock Karen out then and there. Would have been too easy, the Kokomo Colossus thought, and he promptly threw Pembridge over his head in a release german suplex, that almost broke the Lassie into a million pieces! Surprisingly enough, she wasn't knocked out, and was actually scrambling to her feet.

This appealed greatly to John C. Willis, who cracked his knuckles and slowly advanced towards the recovering lifeform of Karen Pembridge. Just as someone who was rather tanned and wearing a flashy mask jumped into the cage, having appeared from nowhere.

That same person swung Willis around and drove his knee into the big man's gut, three times in quick succession. Before pulverising him with a side DDT-esque move, literally almost snapping John's neck!

And as quickly as he appeared, the mysterious intruder jumped out of the cage and disappeared into the darkness of the night. Before Karen could have even seen anything that went down. As she finally managed to regain her vertical balance, John Willis himself started to struggle to get up, his head throbbing wildly. The fans, while going ballistic over the wonderful fight they had been treated to, were still confused over the intruder who had come and gone like the wind.

That wasn't of much importance now. What was, however, was the two combatants in the fight on their feet, and facing each other. Karen was the quicker of the two, striking with her trademark Windpipe Smash, a move that caused John to stumble back and grab his neck, as breathlessness engulfed him. The British Lassie didn't quite care.

Instead, she grinned.

And lunged forward, as her heart raced uncontrollably.

Near enough, she jumped up.

*THWAAAACKKKK*

Hurricane kick.

John C. Willis was out. Down on the canvas, his eyes slammed shut.

"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"
"KA - REN PEM - BRIDGE!"

And thus, the count began.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

...

What do you think?

...

...

...

10.

The girl from Manchester slumped to her knees and raised her arms in the air, as exhaustion finally overwhelmed her. She'd done it. Karen Pembridge had claimed an amazing victory over a determined John C. Willis, and in the process, exorcised the ghost of her mentor, Sikanah.

She'd claimed the victory, in part thanks to an assailant. Whether she wanted his or her help, The Lassie might not have won in all probability, had it not been for that interference. But right now, Karen wasn't too concerned about that. In theAsylum, the means doesn't really matter. How you win doesn't make a damn difference.

As long as at the end of the day, you stand tall...

That's all that counts.

He looked to the floor and mumbled back the arguement to himself. He was about to give his request, which went along with the substantial list of Flatlined demands. His demand wasn't very spectacular, but he knew it would make Campbell fume, which would make his teammates and himself satisfied for now.

Ramis didn't have much appreciation for privacy, and barged into Joe's office after a few knocks. Chester was amused at first sight, because Joe's cocked head reminded him of an alert dog. He quickly erased his smile and took a seat in Campbell's shoddy excuse for an office.

"I believe Frank's been in here to talk to you already," Ramis said blankly as he looked down at a small steno pad in his hand, "...And my demand, basically, is any rights to use the Asylum name should I write a movie about what we do around here. I did make about a quarter million selling my last script, but I want you to hand over the rights should I make an Asylum one."

"I know it's not much, but hey, I figured it might give you a headdache or make you mad." Chester rolled his eyes; his arguement turned out to be a lot weaker than he had projected earlier.

Joe knew this as well, and started laughing his pale ass off. He extinguished his jublience shortly after. At least Ramis was honest.

"Piss off," Joe said snidely, with a whining tone. He shook his head as he looked at some pieces of paper on the desktop. Ramis glared sternly at him, but he quickly calmed down. What could he do? He knew that his arguement was worth next to nothing, so he did the only thing he could do. He rose to his feet, and exited the room with a smug expression on his face.

"'At's the most peculiar bloke I ever met," Joe murmured to himself after the door shut...

"WHERE ARE MY JACKETS! WHERE ARE MY JACKETS!" He yelled kicking and stomping his feet, all in front of the owner of the Asylum….Joe Campbell.

"Jesus Fucking Christ, someone get this idiot out of my god damn office!" Joe screamed, not knowing what the hell a 250 pound retard was doing storming into his office screaming about jackets.

When Ordell realized what was going on, he quickly darted into Joe’s office, before any of Campbell’s goons to harm Ritchie. But as he entered the office, he recognized Joe as the punk they had ran into the night their jackets were stolen. Ritchie of course, had no idea what was going on, but Ordell began to see the big picture.

"Ritchie!" Ordell said in a firm tone, as he grabbed his brother’s arm to try and get him under control. "I’m sorry Mr. Campbell, you’ll have to excuse him. He’s a little, well ya know."

"Well that fucking ape almost gave me a god damn heart attack, fucking guy." Joe said, as the mood in the room, changed to quite an ackward one. As all three men stared at each other, not knowing what to say.

"Well……." Joe said breaking the silence.

"Mr. Campbell, my brother and I were here because we heard about an opening you have for tag teams." Ordell said, as Ritchie was tugging on his shirt and whispering "Ask him about the jackets Ordell, ask him about the jackets."

Joe leaned back in his chair and gave Ordell a cold stare. "Tag Teams? I got tag teams, gramps… ever heard of Splink? I don’t need anymore tag teams…. ucking tag teams."

"Ok, I’m sorry to waste your time then."

"Yeah, you better be sorry… should I call the nursing home and let them know your gonna be late? Get the fuck out of my office!" Joe said, waving both Ritchie and Ordell out.

But before The Brothers Brown would go, Ordell knew that he had to ask Joe one question, he needed to ask about the jackets. "Hey Mr. Campbell, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about two jackets being stolen would you?"

Then it hit Joe, he knew who these two were now. Everything about the night flashed before his very eyes. Ordell could see him remembering the whole incident. Then a light bulb went off in Joe’s head, revenge.

"You two old timers want contracts to fight in the Asylum huh?" Joe said.

"More than anything Mr. Campbell, more than anything."

"Well here is what I’m proposing. I know the guy who stole your jackets and mugged you. His name is Matthew Karst. If you two, wheel chair riding geriatrics can have Karst lying in a pool of his own blood before the show ends tonight. Then you two can consider yourselves the newest members of the Asylum." Joe said, marveling at his genius plan.

"Thank you so much..." Ordell was trying to say, but was then quickly cut off by Joe. "Yea, how about you just get out of my office? Sound good? Yea I thought so… GET OUT!"

Ordell knew he and his brother had just been given a golden opportunity.

“John.”

“Before you fucking say anything, let me talk. Just let me fucking talk Joe. I had that match won. The bitch was lucky. Fucking hell, how does this also happen? Let me have another match with her right now. It won’t fucking happen again. I’ll go right back out there and splatter her brain, if she has one, all over the pissing building. What a cunt. Just say the word Joe.”

Campbell wasn’t interested in Willis’ well-being nor did he wish to cater for the Kokomo Colossus’ needs. Instead, as always, all Joe was bothered about is what could be done for him and if he remembered rightly, the brainless behemoth would very familiar with Thailand and have no problem in going there as he had lived out there for a few months between The Fighting Zone’s closure and signing on the dotted line for the evil genius that was now grinning at him.

“What the fuck are you smiling at? Oh. You think this is funny? Maybe I should fuck you all over the office instead of cleaning Karen’s clock. How would you like that huh?”

Asylum’s Owner tried to reason with him: “John, you’re not going out there to face Karen again. Fair enough, fuck her, you got beat. There’ll be another day. There always is. And tomorrow, you’re off to Thailand.”

John was bemused. Nothing new there then?

“What the fuck are you going on about Joe?”

He produced two tickets: “Just like that John. I can get whatever I want when I want. Somebody brought me those less than an hour after I clicked my fingers and demanded them. Now why would I buy them and then generously hand them to you immediately?”

“Because I need two seats when I get on the plane?”

“No. The other one’s for your Italian bum-bashing buddy Michael Alessandro Del Piero or whatever the fuck the faggot’s name is. They are yours. Completely free.”

The large specimen looked at the slips of paper that would ensure a rapid return back to Asia even though he didn’t want that and then stared at Campbell. Bless him. He was even more confused than he usually was: “How come?”

Joe muttered under his breath: “I thought you’d never ask.

“Victor Thanh.”

On that note, the Boss produced a photograph that matched the name he had just mentioned as the intellectually-challenged competitor obtained it from Joe’s grasp and observed it closely while the Englishman explained the situation: “I don’t know what this twat is up to but what I do know is that it’s fucking fishy. He reckons he’s over there for some family shit that’s gone down and I don’t believe him. Now, as I know that you know Thailand very well and that you’re used to following people away from work and, let’s say, disposing of them without a minimum of fuss I’d like you and that Spaghetti Bender to get your bums over to the city named after Elton John, Bangkok, and spy on my mate Victor. Get it?”

Willis nodded. He wasn’t sure of the purpose it would serve but Joe wasn’t asking just anyone here and, for that, the man mountain was grateful considering that he had just been defeated by a woman, which was a surefire shock to his system.

Thereafter, the Manchurian outlined the aim of this journey and boy it would be a long one. Even the former Fighting Zone Champion knew that much.

“John, listen. I don’t want him killed. Just find and follow him. I don’t care what he does. He is not to be murdered. He isn’t filing a fucking lawsuit against me so you don’t need to get rid of him. Take notes and report back to me at the end of the week. Now I’ve got a limousine waiting for you outside. Follow the man outside John and get in. Michael will join you later on once we can get in touch with him. If you just jot down his home phone number first.”

He hesitated as he tried to remember it but after a few seconds he did and then handed the piece of paper over to his elated employer: “Good. Your flight will be tomorrow at nine o’clock and you’ll be back in time for next week’s Show. Enjoy it over there John and try not to get lost in the Red Light District. And, more importantly, don’t fucking kill him. Do you understand?”

A nod sufficed as the bewildered Willis wandered out of the office and back into the known. He knew Thailand and even if he didn’t know what he was doing, D’Alessandro did.

After all, it would still be another glorified holiday for the close companions and one that wouldn’t be complete without an objective.

John and Michael didn’t know how to separate business and pleasure…

Sebastian Thompson Vs Slapnutz

“FAKE CAPRINO!” *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap*

“FAKE CAPRINO!” *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap*

Quickly Sebastian’s pose deteriorated, his hands balled into fists as he yanked off his leatherjacket throwing it to ringside. He reached up and yanked off the sweatshirt and slammed it outside, while fuming, he wanted to grab a mic and put this crowd in their place, but he had no time to waste, now was fight time. “Fun Lovin’ Criminals” by the Fun Lovin’ Criminals, and out came Slapnutz..

And the crowd….. Cheered? Sebastian paced, as he saw the former Zone member, and one half of the Asylum tag champs, drunkenly make his way down to the ring. Sebastian shook his head knowing how big a joke fan fare was, here he was legitimately fighting people week in and week out, and some buffoon, who makes crap music in his spare time, was getting a rousing response. Slapnutz walked up the steps, slipping on the second, almost losing his balance, he walked through the cage door, and the ref closed it behind him. The crowd died down and began to buzz, as two men who went the distance against the Freak began to circle the ring. Slapnutz didn’t bother to remove his Slick Rick-esque chain, his LL Cool J-esque hat, or his Kool Moe D-esque glasses. The bell rang..

Sebastian Thompson took a strong step forward and…

CRACK!!

Nailed Slapnutz with a hard right to the jaw… And Slapnutz dropped! Thompson’s eyes widened as he held his right hand and observed it in awe, the crowd’s buzzing turned to rampant boos.

1... What the fans didn’t know hurt them….

2... Slapnutz lie on his back, not moving..

3... But was it because of Sebastian’s right hand…

4... Or was it something else?…

5... The boos became more raucous, debris found it’s way to the ring..

6... There’s nothing wrong with a good drink with a friend…

7... Even before a match in a place as harsh as the Asylum…

8... Is there?

9... Someone will ask Slapnutz later..

10... When he finally wakes up.

The bell rang, and the match was over. “Jerk-off” aired over the PA system for the second time in only a handful of minutes, and the grin couldn’t be wiped off of Sebastian’s face as he continued to look at his right hand. Already the self proclaimed “King of the Ring-out,” the Phoenix most likely had another self made moniker for himself. He snatched up his jacket and sweatshirt and headed back up the ramp.. In victory.

BAM!

BAM!!

The hardened cadence of knuckles being driven into the tempered steel door fell upon deaf ears as Joseph Campbell remained more preoccupied with the running taping of the recent Everything or Nothing Pay Per View. As Token Weed’s calloused visage came into view, the hand held remote brought everything to an abrupt halt.

BAM!!

BAM!!

BAM!!!

Cutting his eyes towards the vibrating door, the egomaniacal architect of the world’s infamous pit fighting consortium, opted to ignore the disturbance. It is if he’s already been through enough shit throughout the day without having to listen to yet another fuckhead’s demands or whatever else his legion of sheep would continue to bring to his door.

A healthy sip of bourbon led Joe to flash a slight grimace of forced acceptance as he became partially hypnotized by the horizontal lines, streaking across Token’s ravaged frame. Words of internal angst and animosity vented forth from his alcohol coated lips as the Asylum’s appointed gladiator, continued on with a sneer that steadily bored a hole into Campbell’s twisted psyche…

BAM!!

BAM!!

BAM!!

BAM!!

BAM!!!

“FUCKING CHRIST! WHO THE FUCK IS IT?!!”

“Damon Jackson, Mr. Campbell.”

“Well, come on then.”

The steel hatch slowly swung open and softly bounced against the concrete wall, allowing another representative of Flatlined Fighting to enter the inner sanctum of the corrupt CEO. Still adhering to the principles of the Corps, the 6 foot 5 inch Chicago native turned to personally seal the door shut before presenting himself before his employer at parade rest. Campbell silently took another swig of the liquor before leaning back in his chair.

“Well…Oh, fucking well…Mr. Jackson…Mr. Mad Dog Baby Killer…What can I do ye for?

A calm smirk danced against Damon’s lips before slowly dissipating. He noticed Joe taking a gander at his urban soldier-esque Black military attire, complemented with a bulletproof vest and a plain red sleeveless shirt.

“Just wanted to…”

Before he could continue, Joe halted the conversation with the raise of his dominant drinking hand.

“Now…eh…Before you start running your jib about what’s troubling ya, I’ve got a problem with this proper jarhead jargon type shit….Need I remind you that you’re out of the fucking Corps now so you can shove all of those formalities straight up your hairy arse…For Christ’s sakes, it urks the piss out of me….The name’s Joe…Joe ‘Fucking’ Campbell….Alright?

Left to rub his goatee for a moment, Damon responded with a subtle nod.

“Aight then…So what’s ailing ya?”

“Well, since I am not into making this a habit of running to you for every potential problem or whatever, I’m gonna make this brief…”

Opting to scratch the itch from his nuts before smoothing out his damp moustache , Joe listened with a passively concerning ear.

“The first thing I need to get off my chest is this money issue, Joe. $2500 can only cover so much and plus, you told me that I needed to prove my worth in order to get the rest of my signing bonus…”

“O.k. …I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do…”

“Now hold up, Joe….I mean you no disrespect by interrupting and all but I’m not like any of these other motherfuckers you can sell a hope and a dream to, aight? I like my money up front and that bullshit kept in your back pocket and that’s real.”

Joe playfully raised both hands in a passively defensive manner before chuckling.

“Jesus….At ease, soldier….Hehehe…I got your advance right here.” Reaching into the sliding drawer, underneath his desk, Campbell slid his fingers across the crisp surface of neatly stacked and wrapped bills before massaging the metallic surface of the loaded .38 Magnum nearby. Immediately, Damon had reached back and quickly unfastened the twin holsters behind him and offered a visual sample both of his artillery: 2 identical Nickel plated .22’s with laser sites mounted underneath the barrel. Joe froze yet nodded with a muffled sigh and chuckle.

“A bit testy, eh? This was all that I had in the drawer, mate. Go on. There’s $5000 and your first check. For a fighter, who‘s lost his first match at a Pay Per View, you‘d betta be worth it all…”

The soft thud of Damon’s funds against the wooden table brought about a level of tranquility and put an end to the brief stalemate. Putting away his weaponry, Damon reached forward and tucked his earnings within his cargo pocket.

“I know…You‘ll see…”Damon replied with a unreadable facial expression.

“…The second thing we needed to discuss is when you’re going to be able to book me in another fight. Can’t make any steady money by sitting on the sidelines…That’s not how I work.

“When I know, you’ll know…Been fucking running ragged as of late….” Joe uttered before turning up his glass towards the heavens and gulping down the last remnants of the strong concoction.

“Aight…And the last thing, before I get outta here, is that we need to work something out for some Flatlined merchandise or something…I thought I would bring that to you for the simple fact that if you let us do what we were meant to do here, we could run into some serious money…What do you think, Joe?”

“….”

“Joe?”

Sitting up from his seat, it was if Joe was stricken with a episode of divine intervention. Glancing towards the heavens, Joe stood with his mouth gaping open as Damon’s right eyebrow rose with curiosity.

“You know….You might be right…That’s fucking ingenious, mate…”

A sweeping backhand propelled the half empty bottle of liquor into the air before smashing audibly against the unforgiving wall’s surface.

“Follow me, will ya: Joe Campbell presents ’Flatlined Tampons’…

Damon’s visage assumed a more unimpressed tone as Joe continued to playfully heckle and poke fun at the idea.

“Fuck…You know…It’s for every Flatlined fighter, who see it fit to come KNOCKING AT MY GODDAMNED DOOR TO FUCKING BITCH AND COMPLAIN ABOUT EACH AND EVERY FUCKING TIME THEY BEGIN BLEEDING OUT OF THEIR HIGH SENSITIVE ARSES OR WHEN THEY WHINE ABOUT FEELING SAND, GRINDING IN THEIR UNGREATFUL CLITS!!! NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE!!!

Unfazed by the recent tirade, courtesy of Joe Campbell, Damon began nodding his head. With his tongue, pressed slightly against his cheek, Damon quietly took his leave.

…Fuck you, Joe…

Joe Campbell chuckled as he inked the contracts and looked up at Matthew Karst and Banderas. Now officially members of theAsylum. The Enlightened had been given a chance at Everything Or Nothing to prove their worth, which boiled down to if Banderas could actually defeat Matthew Karst. He did, but Campbell wasn't convinced. He wanted one last shred of evidence that he wasn't going to waste his time and money by signing the fWo Survivor 3 competitors.

So, what did he do? Told the team known as The Enlightened to head over to Action!Wrestling and do some damage. Matthew was all for it, but it seemed that they had bungled the chance, getting caught by security. Thankfully for them, production manager Joe Schmidt had a plan of his own, and he used Karst & Banderas to make the Tag Team Champions happy. All the time proclaiming that he was working under Campbell's orders.

That was obviously untrue, sparking Karst to destroy some property once he & Bandy had lost to The Arcades. Joe found it amusing, and proof that he'd been wise to give the lads one last chance. Now, as he finalised their contracts, Matthew Karst could finally breathe easy, although the tension between him & Bandy was at an all-time high. The Colombian had finally been told of the way his partner had been stringing him along, only for Banderas to inform Matthew that he had known all along.

So, as Campbell looked at the newest team on his roster, he saw two contrasting responses. Matthew was undeniably happy, whilst slightly worried. Banderas, on the other hand, was mega-pissed and relieved at the same time, while carrying a burden of reluctance on his shoulders. theAsylum had never been a place he wanted to be in, but if it meant food on the table and a valid job, there was no arguing against it.

"Yeah, finally. So, when can we expect a shot at the titles?"

Joe sniggered, as he threw his pen down onto the table and looked at his wristwatch.

"Not tonight. You can, however, fight if you can find someone who's willing to. Doesn't bloody matter to me now, because I've given you what you arses wanted. So get the feck out of my hair, and earn your money!"

With that, Bandy & Matthew politely thanked their new employer, before filing out of the office, still happy and relieved over the fact that they were finally OFFICIALLY contracted. They had jobs. Which meant income. Which meant a future. Which meant no way was Karst going to turn out like a druggie in a world that was advancing and being more modernised by the day. As the two men looked at each other, Matthew attempted to ask his partner a question.

But Banderas simply turned away and walked off. He wasn't going to have any of it. Since after the little exercise over in A!W-land, Bandy & Matthew hadn't been communicating very well. In fact, the Colombian had demanded to be left alone. The exuberence and goofiness that embodied and personified Banderas had vanished, replaced by a surly outlook, influenced by deceit and the troubles of life in general. Matt shook his head as he watched his partner walk away, realising that he was the cause of Bandy's moodiness.

Although he really wasn't too concerned. There was the issue of getting involved in a fight. Now that he was officially a fighter, Karst wanted to be involved in a bout. To build his reputation up, and gain some experience in the process. But out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a backstage agent striding towards him, as if his testicles were the size of watermelons. Frowning, Karst had the weird feeling that something was amiss.

"Matthew? You've got a fan here, says he's followed you in Survivor 3, and now here. He would very much like to meet you and stuff, to meet the kid he idolises and envy, and all that shit. You want me to deep six him, or you gonna converse with the retard?"

A tear almost formed in Karst's right eye.

"A fan? Wow. Sure, tell me more about this dude."

And as Matthew & the agent began to talk, there was a slight foreboding of what was to come. If buried in piles of deceit made Banderas a happy camper but willing to get physical, what would happen now that everything was out in the open, and he had the license to... kill, literally?

You'd have to stay tuned, I reckon.

Confidence wasn’t a good enough, word, make that brashness. As he proudly walked down the hall way with his chest poked out, he saw a smaller man hustling to keep up with him, out of the corner of the eye. “Mr. Thompson..”

“What the fuck do you want? Can’t you see that I’m walking back here?” Sebastian continued to take his long strides while the shorter man tried to keep up.

“Where, where are you walking?”

“To my locker room, what you want to go in there and sit on my lap or something?” Sebastian shook his head as he eyed up a female staffer and he winked, “I don’t float that way, go find Christ, for that. He claims to be the son of God, you know what I think? I think he was the Pope’s right hand man, that’s what I think. Jesus’ older brother.. Peh.. Fucken Jesus didn’t exist, doesn’t that fuckbag know that shit? Hell if he existed wouldn’t you think he’d be chasing in right about now..”

“Mr. Thomp..”

“Fuck, if I was that Jesus guy, I’d show up on everyone’s door step who has a Bible, wears a cross, or has any of that damned paraphernalia, and charge them for royalties. Then I’d go to a Denver resort, and rape some girl. I mean, no one would blame Jesus would they? Fucksakes, Jesus is a great guy, he’d never do anything like that.. Everyone knows that.”

“Mr. Thompson!” The shorter man stopped walking as he yelled.

“What? You think Jesus is an asshole?” Thompson looked up in the air, and then back at the man, “You know, you’re onto something.”

“Will you just shut up for a second?!” Sebastian stopped and looked at the man, his eyes narrowed and his mouth opened widely but nothing came out.. He raised his right hand, the victory fist, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.. I’m just.. I wanted to tell you that Campbell wanted to see you right now, he says it’s urgent.”

Thompson cocked his head to the side and looked at the ground, “Campbell.. Urgent? Hell man, why didn’t you say so? Why the hell did you bring up Jesus in the first place? Why don’t you go and swallow a bullet, make sure it goes out the top of your head while your at it.”

“I.. I..” the small man shook his head and simply walked away, as Sebastian began his walk towards Campbell’s office.

Yet ANOTHER team Flatlined member.

"FRANK!" Joe began with interest, until his tone changed to a cold disappointment. "What the fuck do you want?"

"I got demands, Campbell." Frank replied, standing square infront of the desk with his arms across his chest.

"Aw for fuck's sake... What the fuck got into your heads tonight? Come into here demanding all of this garbage, who do you think I am?" Campbell yelled, slamming the bottle against the desktop.

"You've heard them all. Merchandise, Stocks, Movie Rights, Title shots. You better answer, Campbell." Frank grinned through his flat mood.

"Or what, Frankie? Are you gonna rough me up? Do you think my team Won't be around to protect me? Are you going to do something Now, FRANK?" Campbell leaned back in his chair, producing his glock 18c, slamming it down on the desk towards Frank. Frank's eyes follow the pistol and rested on it as it sat.

"Campbell I don't think you're accepting this situation for what it is." Frank began to debate across the desk.

"Safety's off, you cunt." Joe said flatly.

"Alright Campbell. That gun is just out of my reach and I know when I'm beat. I'll leave." Frank began to state, taking a step backwards slowly.

"Yea, you will leave, get outta my fuckin' hair!" Campbell hollared upward at the backpeddling Frank.

"I have to go find Token anyway." Frank said turning.

Joe's ears perked up. Joe knew his hallways, he knew the boundries, and therefore, Joe knew that last sentence was a bad sign.

"Whoa whoa whoa. Why? Why talk to Token? Mad he kicked your sloppy ass last week?" Campbell taunted.

"No, Joe. I'm sure Token could use some help, fighting the good fight and all." Frank said as he turned to face Campbell again.

"Token won't team with you nancy's. He's not a team player." Campbell spoke, obviously feeling out the conversation.

"Fuckin' A, Joe... But he won't turn down the offer I got for him." Frank grinned, feeling the tides had turned.

"Wha... What offer?" Joe asked, his hand over his pistol, comfortably, reassuringly.

"Just a little cockblock, Campbell. The boys and I are going to keep team Campbell busy just long enough for Token to come in here... Beat your ass... And fuck you until you love him." Frank spoke so matter of factly that Campbell was ready to shoot him right there.

"While that won't work... You got your fucking wish. You got your demands. I'm not afraid of your little plan, but it would be a pain in my ass that no ammount of whiskey on this sodding planet could calm my fuckin' nerves." Campbell said, defeated slightly in spirit.

"Have the papers ready before the end of the Night, Campbell." Frank laughed as he left the office.

"Fuck off!" Campbell screamed, reaching into his desk to begin drawing up the papers to hand over to Team Flatlined. Merchandise, Stock Options, Movie Rights, and Title Shots. Flatlined seemed to have big plans for the Asylum.

Joe was to busy deciding on weather to pick up his pen or the pistol.

Ordell told that story to one of the agents backstage, the agent of course bought the story and then went in search of Karst. A few minutes had gone by, until finally Ordell could see the agent coming back with Karst who was carrying a tee-shirt and a few other gifts for Ritchie; even though he was known for being a tough guy or acting like one, he did have a soft side for those less fortunate than himself.

So as Karst and The agent approached Ritchie and Ordell, Ordell excused himself saying he need to use the bathroom, but he said it loud enough for everyone to hear. So as Ordell made himself scares, Karst went right up to Ritchie and greeted himself.

"Hi Ritchie." He said, "I'm Matthew Karst, I heard you were a fan of mine?" He asked.

"Ummmmmm....Na....Na....No." Ritchie said.

Karst chuckled a little, thinking that the forty something year old half wit had a bit of a sense of humor. "You sure sport? I heard you watched a lot of
fWo Survivor?" Karst asked.

"No. Once me and my brother didn't qualify, w...w....we took an an..an...anti-fWo position." Ritchie said.

Karst became aware something wasn't adding up. But before he could sum everything together, Ordell returned by cracking a chair across the back of Matthew Karst's head sending him falling to the ground and lying in a great deal of pain.

"Get Him Ritchie!!" Ordell order to his older brother.

With out hesitation. Ritchie grabbed Karst and held him down in a mounted position and then just laid into him. Vicious punch after punch, each landing harder than the other opened Matthew Karst up like a stuck pig. The blood began pouring out of Karst’s head and began to pool on the ground.

Ordell tried to pull Ritchie off of Karst, but Ritchie wanted to inflict more pain. He finally had the man whole stole his jacket begging for mercy and Ritchie wasn’t going to let him off easy. But Ordell’s screams of mercy finally were noticed and Ritchie haulted his attack.

As Ritchie let go of Karst, his body dropped to the floor as his lips trembled. "Come On Ritchie, lets go!" Ordell said, as Ritchie was now following him out the door, like nothing had happened. Karst lay on the ground motionless, as the two brothers exited the Asylum arena.

The Brothers Brown had made it, and their new life was upon them.

Mercy Vs Nick Brandish

‘Nasty’ Nick Brandish walked towards the Asylum cage with purpose. He ignored their boos; it was background noise, something to be ignored or easily tuned out. Stepping into the cage felt right to him. Natural. As the music of Black Sabbath faded, Nick got ready to go to work.

Mercy stepped through the tattered curtain draped across the corridor. She appeared to be in the central courtyard of the fortress, and judging from the roaring around her she wasn’t alone. There were people here - sitting, watching, cheering. Try as she might, Mercy couldn’t make out a solitary face. The platform she was standing on led down into the center of the courtyard. “I guess my fight is this way,” she said to herself.

The sun shone down on her without any warmth, a feeling Mercy found quite disconcerting. “So much for working on my tan,” she muttered as she continued down the ramp.

Nick watched Mercy walk to the cage. She was as pale as the mask she wore on her face, and it looked like she’d been puking blood. “I don’t know what you did to get up for this fight,” Nick said. “But you’d better have enough left to give me a decent fight.”

The bars of the cage appeared to be stained red, no doubt from previous victims. She cautiously approached the gate leading into the cage, ready for a sudden attack. She didn’t even notice the weight of her armor now. She was in combat mode, and no matter what they threw at her she was confident she’d be able to defeat it.

Mercy stepped into the cage. She didn’t hear the gate close behind her. She didn’t hear the crowd cheering her on. The image of the giant standing across from her, his armor black as coal, his face hidden behind a veil of steel, encompassed her entire being.

“Not good,” said Mercy. “Not good at all.”

Mercy looked terrible. She was obviously on something; if anyone could tell that it was Nick. Her pupils were so large and dilated that her eyes looked like black sockets hidden behind a skull mask. He didn’t know if she knew where she was, or who she was for that matter. “Probably for the best,” Nick thought to himself. “She doesn’t want to see what’s coming.”

The giant came forward slowly. Mercy decided not to wait on formalities and charged at him, rolling to his side at the last second and coming up behind him. Two quick jabs to the steel-plated ribs, followed by a standing roundhouse kick to his head, stopped the giant in his tracks. She spun low, trying to sweep the giant’s legs out from under him. He was deceptively fast and lifted his leg at the last second, then tried to stomp down on Mercy’s head. She rolled backward to evade the blow and rolled to her feet.

A second charge, but this time Mercy went high instead of low. She jumped at the giant, spun in mid-air, and drove her foot into his chest. He staggered backward several steps, paused, and dusted his chest off. Mercy kicked him in the thigh and jabbed him in the throat. She drove her elbow into the side of his head, headbutted him in the face, and kneed him in the groin. Mercy couldn’t tell if she’d hurt him, but by the way he flailed at her as she backflipped out of his grasp she’d definitely pissed him off.

“You cunt,” Brandish hissed. Her technique was all but abandoned and Mercy was fighting on instinct and reaction alone. Nothing fancy from her, but decent nonetheless. When she backflipped out of range, Nick couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. Had she not been so heavily medicated, she probably wouldn’t have had the strength to pull off that move. But she was so out of her tree on who-knows-what that she was outside of the pain.

Nick Brandish was about to change that.

Mercy had backflipped out of his reach, but she had ended up with her back against the cage. Nick moved in, giving her little room to move. She punched at him, but her fist was slower than it had been before. He grabbed her by the wrist and destroyed her momentum with a short-clothesline. She bounced off the ground and struggled for breath.

Was it poison? Magic? What was it that was slowing her down? Mercy tried to think, but her mind was still shrouded in fog. The giant pulled her up by the hair and drove his fist into her stomach, lifting Mercy off her feet. He grabbed her by the throat with his left hand, trapped her leg under his right arm, and flipped her overhead. Mercy slammed into the ground and tumbled across the cage, stopping only when she hit the unforgiving bars.

The giant came for her again, but she quickly got to her feet. Her strength was leaving her, so it was time to open up with absolutely everything she had: spinning backfist to the head, elbow to his face, punch to the throat, knee to the groin, stomp to his foot, and an outside crescent kick.

The giant kept coming, surrounded by spots of light.

Mercy was fading. Nick could see it. Her movement was unsteady, her focus hazy. The drugs were either not working, or working too well. It didn’t matter in any case. He wasn’t getting paid to consider Mercy’s well-being. She did her best. It just wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough against him.

The giant was unrelenting. Mercy started seeing dots. Pills? Had she taken pills? Did the giant want some?

Mercy launched a weak roundhouse kick at Brandish’s head. Nick caught her leg and swung her like a baseball bat into the cage.

”I… I think I overdid it…” Mercy slurred as the giant dropped her to the ground. On her hands and knees, Mercy’s stomach dry-heaved. She was losing consciousness. Nick kicked her in the face, lifting her up and slamming her back against the cage again. Mercy fell to her knees. The giant Nick? grabbed Mercy by the throat again and lifted her up across his back. She couldn’t hear the crowd over the roaring in her ears. She stared up at the sun arena lights? as the giant lifted her high overhead and -

- for the second time, for the final time, Nick drove her down across his knee. There was no snap; there was nothing really left to break. He rolled her off his leg and let Mercy’s body fall limply to the mat. There was no count necessary. Nick simply walked out of the cage without looking back at Mercy’s twitching body. Paramedics rushed past him with a back board and respirator kit.

Nick Brandish disappeared behind the curtain.

It was finished.

Mercy was finished.

“It was the match wasn’t it,” Thompson beamed as he walked to the desk, and took a seat in front of it. “I know, I know.. It was pretty damned impressive, and I think it’s a good move to set me up with a match for the Asylum Championship. I know.. I know…”

“What the fuck are you on about? What fucken match are you talking about?” Sebastian’s head went back like he was on the receiving end of his own power packed right hand.

“The Slapnutz match, I knocked him out, in like twelve seconds, had to be a record.”

“So, what.. You’re the dog’s bollocks now?” Campbell mused, as he folded his arms across his chest, Seb nodded at the statement, he opened his mouth to speak but was cut off. “I didn’t ask for you to come here to talk about your fighting in the Asylum, I want you to wrap up some loose ends..”

Thompson’s eyes bulged out of his head, “You mean Larry Morrison? You want me to kill Morrison?”

Joe’s eyebrows raised quizzically, “Who the fuck is Morris.. No bother, no, that’s not the lose end in question. You see, I’m talking about Carnage.”

Sebastian’s heart beat began to get quicker, “But he’s gone, he left, he’s no bother now. Why the hell would we have to deal with him?”

“He’s not gone, that bleeding twat, is still fucken with my shite! His plan isn’t over, and right now he’s in Vegas..”

“Vegas.. Vegas.. What the hell is in Vegas?” Joe breathed slowly as he looked at Thompson, wondering how he managed to stay alive as long as he did, yet no so little.

“Casinos, tons of things down there, that I have my hands in. I’m going to send you out there right now, someone called me they have him chained down.. I want you to check it out.”

“Why are you sending them, have them wax him right now, get rid of him…” Joe slowly pushed his desk closer to the desk and now his hands sat on top of it and he drummed on the top with his fingers.

“No. I want you to do it,” Joe reached into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a Ruger .45 and pushed it across to Sebastian, “If you can’t do him with that, you’ll have to do it with your bare hands.”

Thompson slipped on his hooded sweatshirt, and slowly put on his leatherjacket while looking at the gun. He grabbed it, and tucked it into his pants. “I’m not going to fuck it up this time Joe, this time, he’s done.”

Joe leaned in his chair again and smiled a chilling smile, “Good that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Sebastian got up from the chair and began walking to the door, before stopping as Joe called him again. “Oh, Sebastian!”

“Yeah?”

“They’ll take you in the jet, don’t worry about finding your way to where they have them, they’ll have someone waiting for you.” Sebastian simply nodded, no words were needed as he shut the door behind him. He felt himself shaking, and stopped and pulled the canister of chewing tobacco out and grabbed a good chunk packing his lip full of it. He breathed through his nose, he knew that right now this course he’s traveling, will lead to very big things. Eight rounds, for one target, a target who’s being held captive..

Shouldn’t be to hard, should it?

The river was only just beginning…