... is that they both eventually die.

But Nicholas Quaid was about to learn that everything has a price, and nothing lasts forever... no matter how much you pay for it, Quaid had paid a hefty price... he'd payed with his soul, and the cheque was about to bounce like a rubber ball.

BLAM.

The door to Quaid's apartment flew off the hinges, he reached for his piece... always by his side because deep down he knew the day would come where he'd need to use it, he'd tapped up too many drug dealers, sent too many innocent men down and made too many deals with the devil for it not to come back to haunt him sooner or later.

"Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air... real slow!"

Quaid slowly placed his firearm down, his eyes widened... for this was not the enemy that he had ever dreamed of encountering.

This was not a drug dealer, a bitter con... a pimp who's hooker he'd refused to pay, oh no... this was his own flesh and blood.

Quaid was swept off his feet, slammed face first into the nearest wall by the first of several SWAT team members that had burst into the room.

"Nicholas Quaid... you are under arrest, you have the right to remain silent!"

Quaid struggled, but the cuffs were slapped on tight.

"What!? What the fuck is this about! I didn't do shit... come on guys, you gotta be joshing me!"

The stern look on the faces of the officers surrounding him, suggested not.

"You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to have an attourney present at all questioning. If you cannot afford an attourney, the court will provide you with one at no cost. You have..."

Quaid laughed insanely.

"Fuck this shit, don't patronize me with my fucking rights boys... I know them like gospel, now get these fucking cuffs off, before I have all of you fired!" Quaid roared at the top of his voice... trying to squirm free.

"Calm down Mr. Quaid, we can do this the hard way or the easy way... it's up to you."

Quaid's eyes glazed over.

"FUCK YOU PUNK, YOU WANT TO SEE THE FUCKI-"

THUD.

A sharp blow connected with the back of Quaid's head and blackness followed.

The easy way, then.

That ominous change finally happened and the traffic resumed, speeding down the roads like a brilliant flock of metallic cattle, not relenting in their journey to their late-night duties. The sky was a perfect black, like ebony bound together in obsidian. The stars were like little white scraps of paper, and the moon watched like a floating, silver eye.

A truck began to pull itself into view, through the car park barriers. It trembled past the wardens that called for identification, and straight through down into the parking area… driving in a diagonal line so that it’s trailer was vertical to its cabin. It was a solid black with a mighty Asylum logo adorned on the door, and the back of the trailer itself.

The wardens ran around the door and clasped at the handle, only for the door to open itself and almost remove the head of one of the car-park attendants. He tumbled backwards as his colleagues looked into the cabin, from which stepped the black, leather, buckled boot of…

The Freak.

The attendants stepped back, as the Red Ripper’s metal plated heels tapped against the steel step-bars of his truck, and he hopped down onto the concrete. They didn’t bother asking for identification. A few of the fans still lingering outside of the building began to charge forwards towards him hurling abuse and obscenities, but a flock of security guards and bodyguards held them back. The protesting spectators began to swamp the bodyguards, and The Freak sighed as they began to chant.

“YOU FUCKING KILLER!!”
“YOU FUCKING KILLER!”
“YOU FUCKING KILLER!”
“YOU FUCKING KILLER!”
“YOU FUCKING KILLER!”
“YOU FUCKING KILLER!”

The Freak ignored them, and walked around to the other side of the truck, swinging open the passenger door to which Oddball stepped out onto the concrete. The Freak then turned, glanced at the fans that screamed abuse at him, and smirked.

“I love you too, folks.”

“FUCK YOU!!” clapclapclap
“FUCK YOU!!” clapclapclap
“FUCK YOU!!” clapclapclap
“FUCK YOU!!” clapclapclap
“FUCK YOU!!” clapclapclap
“FUCK YOU!!” clapclapclap

The Freak slung a backpack over his shoulder, and slowly began to make his way into the arena. The spectators screamed and hurled abuse at the Bulldozer as he swung open the doors and entered.

“They… fucking hate you, Brian,” Oddball said with an eyebrow raised, looking up at the Emasculator. The Freak looked down on Oddball as they walked, and adjusted the strap of his backpack over his trenchcoat shoulder.

“And they’ll hate me even more… when they see the fate that their hero has suffered.”

tap, tap, tap.

squgee, squgee.

tap, tap, TAP.

"Huh?"

SQUISH.

"OBERST!" Joe cried out, his face full of mop.

"SIR!" Chris Oberst yelled, throwing the mop forward -- sending it sailing out of his hands, and into the back of a TV cameraman.

Joe spun him around. Dirty water dripped down his face -- and, of course, what look did he give but the most pissed-off one ever?

"Where the FUCK were you last week?"

"At home..."

"WHAT were you doing at FUCKING home, Oberst? Pumping your mustard bottle?"

"... Recuperating...?"

"RECUPERATING?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oberst, you are a JANITOR. Nobody cleaned up the arena after us last week. That is YOUR job."

"Sir..."

"WHAT?"

"Do you have to accenuate all these words? I can hear you fine."

Joe was now about as red as... um...

"Sir, you're as red as a baboon's ass."

... Oh shit. He just said that.

"THAT'S IT. YOU'VE GOT A MATCH TONIGHT, AND YOU'RE GOING TO GET YOUR ASS COMPLETELY WALLOPED! YOU'RE NOT GONNA KNOW WHO IT IS UNTIL YOU ARE OUT THERE IN THAT GODDAMNED RING, YOU WALLY-EYED POLESUCKING TWERP-BANGING, CUNT-CARRYING DIP DOODLER!"

"... Did you just call me a dip doodler, sir?"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE!"

Oberst ran. Hitting one foot in his mop bucket, tripping, falling. When he hit the ground, the mop bucket launched off his foot, and hit Joe in the sternum.

Joe tripped and fell backward. Oberst got up and ran.

Joe sat up.

"Toad-licker... I'll show him."

“You know,” Slapnutz said to TMM, “it looks as though we walked out in front of the crowd. I told you we should have taken a left to spy on the women’s locker room.”

TMM looked at Slapnutz and then surveyed the crowd. They began to cheer AND boo them. Obviously, the crowd were cheering for the wonderful singer that is Slapnutz. The other half was obviously booing the fact that Splink bothered to turn up this week. TMM didn’t deserve a reaction. He was Polish, which was bad enough.

Polish Fact #1: Poles have, on average, more body hair than albinos.

“I think, Slutnutz, you are right. But, to avoid humiliation again, we should really do something. We can’t hide behind lawyers all of the time. Well, actually, we could and it would be fun seeing them get hit in the face with a shovel, but standing downwind of them would mean having to smell them. Trust me when I say that lawyers smell like a hog. You could say they smell hoggy, but there’s no such word.”

Slapnutz stared at his partner blankly. It wasn’t easy being infantile but Slapnutz managed it with unbelievable gusto. TMM, on the other hand, managed to be so imposing, he managed to scare small children into buying his lollypops and Turkish Delights. TMM was indeed a mean bugger.

Polish Fact #2 TMM is considered a hero in his hometown of Lodz. Other heroes in Lodz include Alvin Stardust, Matthew Kelly and Dave Benson Phillips (note to America, there is a thing called a search engine, find out who these people are THEN laugh).

Team Splink entered the cage via an intricate set of manoeuvres that consisted of Slapnutz rolling about on his arse and TMM kicking him. Ahh, the subtleties of Splink.

TMM, being the elder, therefore also the leader, procured a microphone from a stagehand. He straightened his tie (yes, TMM was in a suit. He was the manager of a star so he did have to look presentable) and began to address the crowd.

“It looks as though we came to a show where they let the first 500 people that turn up looking like 80’s throwbacks in for free. What a shame so many of you tried to take them up on the offer. But I digress, I didn’t come out here to insult you, no, I came out here to tell you about crime and why it is wrong.”

The crowd, feeling uneasy about the impending lecture began to throw things at TMM. Not ordinary things, however, instead of the burgers and drinks that usually end up in the faces of Asylum fighters, TMM was hit by a sink, five shoes, a cabbage and nine mobile phones. It was obvious that these all came from local gypos determined to take their anger out on the man known on the caravan sites as ‘him’.

“A peasants revolt I see. Well, how about I tell you why stealing is wrong. This is especially important for you gypos out there. Stealing is wrong because you take something that doesn’t belong to you. It might be something with little or no value like a traffic cone, yes I’m talking to the students out there. Or it might be the most important artistic creation ever to be made. Yes, stealing the first ever Simon Mitchell Simon produced music video is a cardinal sin. It’s that bad that we actually had to call men in suits in. We NEVER call in the men in suits.”

Slapnutz took the microphone from TMM and the crowd cheered slightly. It wasn’t a might roar. It was a lot less than a Ty Hughes roar but it was a darn sight more than a Team WTF roar.

“Legion of Toss, you have the one thing that is important to the Asylum. Without the promotion of my historic song, Joe Campbell will be forced to close down the Asylum because he invested so much money into me. I hope you understand why we had to do what we did. It’s not like we think you are snivelling cunts or that you resemble the snatch of a pregnant women, seconds before labour is induced. Oh no, we had to do it for the good of the Asylum.”

TMM looked on in shock at what was coming out of the mouth of the Scotsman. This could be a PR disaster if it wasn’t stopped. Grannies across the nation would be up in arms about their favourite singer using such foul language. However, his feeble attempts and getting Mr Holmes to stop, were falling on deaf ears. Slapnutz continued:

“So, nob cHEESE and ummm…egg CUNT, give us back the tape because we want respectable people like The Freak and Villam Ender, to have some financial support. I know we wouldn’t be able to sleep if we thought WE killed the Asylum. But, on your heads be it. Legal action will commence and we will just sue your arses out of the water. I’m sure you know our legal team, especially a Mr Johnny Cochran. He’s no relation to Robbie, but he’s a much better lawyer.”

By now, TMM had given up being nice, he pounced on Slapnutz and shouted at him to ‘Shut the fuck up’. Apparently TMM didn’t mind his image being tarnished. He was a hated man after the Asylum Idol debacle.

Polish Fact #3: All Poles hate Currywurst. This may be because Germans favour it and Poles hate Germans. Romanians hate Poles. The Welsh hate Romanians. The English hate the Welsh and EVERYONE hates the English.

Both members of Splink were rolling around the floor of the cage, when an unexpected figure stepped out onto the ramp. cHEESE. No pyro, no music, not even a fanfare from 12 well-presented elderly men. This was a low-key entrance and one that he wanted to do as quickly as possible.

cHEESE walked down to the cage and coughed, trying to catch the attention of Slapnutz and TMM. However, both men were rolling around the floor and audible swear words were coming from their direction. cHEESE tried again. Still no response from the warring team partners. Finally, he gave up and threw the cassette he was carrying into the cage. He didn’t want to waste time with two idiots rolling about a cage anyway. He had enough on his plate with the rest of LoD, never mind two new fools. cHEESE trudged back up the ramp, knowing in his heart that he had been the bigger man.

Splink, meanwhile, had stopped fighting in the cage and looked up at the ramp. Noticing they had their music video back, both men done a short jib before exchanging ‘secret’ handshakes with each other. The leapt out of the cage and headed back up the ramp. It was going to be a wild party tonight. But, before they partied the night away, TMM had one final message for the crowd.

“The biggest thing in music history will debut next week. Be there or be a shit covered enchilada.”

They headed backstage and TMM turned to his partner.

“Do you honestly care about the well-being of the Asylum?” TMM asked his partner.

“Of course not.” Slapnutz replied. “I’m just here to get myself famous. But when will I, will I be famous?”

“I can’t answer, I can’t answer that,” was the only reply TMM could manage.

Lawyers were bad, but not half as bad as what Splink were going to unleash next week.

“Sebastian Thompson?” Sebastian jammed both hands into the pouch of his hoody, tightly grasping the canister of chewing tobacco that resided within, as he began to power walk by. “Mr. Thompson? Is that you? We have a package for you.”

His footsteps slowed down, and he looked back at the man holding a USPS package, “What the fuck is it?” The man simply extended his arm to hand the boxed items to Sebastian, as the former Smilthy’s fighter made his trek back to him. “Are you fucking deaf, what the hell is in the damned box?”

“I have no idea, there’s no address for the sender, I just signed for it, that’s all.” Sebastian pushed his hood back, revealing his brunet locks, his eyebrows arched as he accepted the package. Still staring the balding man dead in the face, Sebastian lifted the box and put it to his ear to listen, and then he began to shake it viciously. Then with a sudden movement both his hands drew from the box allowing it to crash violently on the ground.

“It’s a fucken bomb ain’t it, you jackass?” He reached forward locking on a vice grip of the poor sod’s collar, “I mean, since when do fucks like you sign for our shit? Look at you, what would make them even think you worked for Campbell?” The man attempted to speak, but Sebastian’s grip tightened, “That’s right, they wouldn’t, because you’re the biggest fattest piece of despicable trailer trash shit, I’ve ever seen in my fucken life. And now you’re gonna try and kill me? No way, fuck you.”

“Sir..” The guy struggled to speak but Sebastian continued on.

“If I wanted someone to kill me with a bomb, I’d rather it be someone like Osumay Ban Loben, got it you waste of..of..of.. Fuck, I can’t even call you anything that is bad as what you are anyway, so get the fuck out of my face, and I better not see you again.” Sebastian shoved the man violently to ground, causing him to crash on the seat of his pants. The man looked up at Sebastian, struggling with his words.

“B..But Sir, if it was a bomb, it would’ve blew up just now.” Sebastian stopped and thought about it, and a smile crossed his lips.

“You’re right aren’t you,” Sebastian bent down grabbing the white box, and he began to walk in the direction of his assigned locker room. He slammed his fist into the box breaking the tape, and as he pried the box open with his hands he saw a generic black digital watch. He pulled it out, and noticed that the time read 8:14, as he threw the box to the side, a piece of paper slowly dropped from it. Kicking the box out the way, he snatched up the small piece of paper, and began to read aloud, “Sebastian, after what happened we have to talk, meet me at 8:35, back around the entrance.”

Sebastian was confused as he strapped the watch on his wrist, and slid the crumbled paper into his pocket. He didn’t know exactly what it all meant, but it was the least of his concerns for now, because before then, all he had to do was burn about 35 minutes before this meeting.. Shouldn’t be too hard should it? As Sebastian arrived to his locker room, he turned the knob to go in his locker room and saw..

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” The words almost knocked Sebastian back a few steps as he saw John C. Willis, and Michael D’Alessandro sitting in HIS room. “Hey, you can’t hear what the fuck I’m saying? Get your pansy ass out of here.”

“Oh you tell ME to get out of HERE, after what happened last week? No, no fucken way, you want me out, you’ll have to beat me out of here.” Sebastian yanked off his hoody and leatherjacket in one motion, and slung it to the side. He balled his fist up and charged forward at Michael throwing a punch aimed precisely at his jaw, but before the blow could land, Willis charged in gripping up Sebastian and throwing him into the wall. Quick as a jackrabbit, Sebastian bounces back off the wall and dives in landing a solid punch to the jaw of John C. Willis.

The mammoth of a man charged forward towards Sebastian, but Michael D’Alessandro jumped in between and held back Willis. “Campbell.” Was the only word that crossed Michael’s lips as he just stared at Willis, and then he turned and looked at Sebastian, “That fucking cunt, set us up to destroy each other. You know what? I’m going to go have a talk with him.” Michael and John C. walked right past Sebastian and out the door headed to Joe’s office. Sebastian stood there waiting for a few moments, and then he followed as his heart finally slowed down. He looked at the time on his watch, it was 8:21.

“It would have been something to have watched the match with Joe like. I can just imagine his fucking face. He’d have been sucking his own dick wouldn’t he? Cocky cunts. Never mind.”

Lharn laughed and seemed to be heartened that his colleague was in a bubbly mood and had apparently got over what must have been a difficult defeat for Carrahar to take. Nevertheless, it was history now. A thing of the past. However, Jeff Garvin wasn’t and he had certainly not been forgotten about, especially in the aftermath of his speech seven days ago.

They were now in the building and passed security before trying to find their designated dressing room. Warwick Hunt was still absent, and would be for a while, but neither individual was complaining. Huscroft was just glad to be back in the Geordie Genius’ good books and Special K was relieved to have his old acquaintance back, particularly with Warwick gone for the foreseeable future. They were rebuilding bridges and while they were nowhere near as happy now as they used to be in their teenage years together, which was understandable given that they’d screwed their most recent relationships up, The Real Deal could sense that if Carrahar could just put a certain Wrestler to be then they could, momentarily, recapture the magic. With that in mind, Lharn had an idea and was about to bring it to the ex-Gangster’s attention but he was intervened as they approached the locker room: “Alright Lharn. Here we are son. Just go in and I’ll get some drinks on the go. No Cherry Coke mind!”

It was a typical remark from The Yardstick that was no longer funny but still Huscroft smirked. Maybe he wasn’t grinning to keep The Prince of Palermo sweet for a change. Although Lharn’s chain of thought may cheer him up…

He was going out there, to the people soon.

The people that despised him.

The people that hated him.

The people that wanted him to fucking die.

He wrapped a thick, dark, mesh tape around his hand and wound it between his fingers like a coil, the sticky backing adhering to his skin perfectly. As he began to weave it further up his arm, he was unaware of a man standing behind his door.

Miles Blunder quivered in fright of what laid behind that locker room door. The huge animal under the name of The Freak.

Miles slowly breathed in and out, trying to calm his nerves down before he entered.

“Nothing to worry about, Mi.” Blunder said. “He’s your property now... and the Order of Blundia starts tonight!”

But in peaking his head around the door, Blunder almost fell over. Because even with that pep talk said, ‘The Germ Gestapo’ was still pretty scared.

Scratch that, really scared.

Taking a giant gulp of his own saliva, Blunder was just going to walk away... but that’s when The Freak spotted him.

Breathing heavily behind the door.

The Freak turned back to the mirror and sighed, before rising out of his chair, still in the process of wrapping the tap around his arm, and his heels tapped against the tiles as he walked to whoever dared to interfere in his territory. He sighed, and reached forwards, twisting the door handle and looking across the hall.

He saw a wall.

He looked down...

And he saw Miles Blunder.

...

“... Can I help you?”

“I- I- I- I-” Blunder just stayed crouched down. He was way too scared to stand. “I- u- w- e-”

The Freak tilted his head to one side, as if to humor Blunder, before reaching down and snapping off the tape that he was wrapping around his fist dauntingly. Blunder jumped at the sound, and a slight smirk became apparent of the Bulldozers face.

“... Do you have something to say at all?” The Freak mused.

Blunder’s blue eye and green eye frantically looked around the hallway, as he tried to speak again. “Y- y- yo- you- you- ar- ar- ar- are- are m- my- bod- bod- body- body- body- bodyguar- bodyguar- bodyguard... r- r- righ- right?”

The Freak rolled his eyes, and closed them. He opened them widely again, and stared at Blunder, The Freak’s red eyes locking onto Blunder’s face. Then, with a deep sigh, The Freak spoke.

“... Supposedly.”

He leaned against the doorframe, casting a huge shadow on Miles, as Blunder quivered uncontrollably.

But just then, Blunder’s quivering stopped. He stood up straight, looked The Freak in the eyes, and walked away...

Leaving The Freak to look down at his taped wrists, and go back into his locker room.

But hey, that's a ramble best saved for another day. We join our heroes backstage amidst the frenzy that has become simply know as "The Show". As expected, the duo from Dairytown are feeling rather blue about their recent string of luck. Now, if you expect that this is the point were something happens and everything is all hunky-dory again, well my friend, you've got another thing comin'.

"Why did we show up again?" egg NOG openly asked with a groan.

"Because," cHEESE sighed, "if we didn't, we'd be getting sued for way more money than we have."

egg NOG leaned back in his folding chair, letting his arms dangle as his head sagged back and his eyes gazed toward the ceiling. "Yeah, but isn't Joe --technically-- just getting his money back?"

"Probably." cHEESE replied, "it doesn't matter now. We gave the tape back, we can go home now."

cHEESE started to stand, grabbing his title belt off the service cart and nodding to NOG. "Let's roll."

"Not so fast, chum. I'd like to have a word with you and your mate."

Silly cHEESE, it seems you've spoke too soon. Low and behold, cHEESE and egg NOG were having their prescience graced by the most notorious man in fighting, Mr. Joe Campbell. He strolled up to the two with a special swagger in his step and a sly smirk on his face.

"Fucking grand to see you two could comply to the court orders so easily. I'd hate to see what'd happen if you two had some reminisce of a fucking backbone and decided to press your luck."

cHEESE snarled as NOG continued his upward stare, seemingly oblivious to what was happening around him.

"But hey," Joe added with a smirk, "that's water under the bridge. Forgive and forget, I always say." he concluded with a chuckle.

"What do want, Campbell?" The God of Wrestling slash Fighting coldly asked his employer.

"Hohoho, suddenly feeling fucking scrappy, eh? Great, that's exactly why I came to see the lot of ya. You two owe me a title shot, I ain't seen one out of your camp for some time now. And I like to pride myself with the fact that I only employ fighting champions. Just thought I'd drop you that little ditty as I was passing by. You know, me being the little sweetheart that I am and all." Joe said with his devilish smile.

cHEESE nodded with a sarcastic smile. "Yeah, that's great. Thanks a lot, Joe. Who, pray tell, might we be defending against?"

"Dunno," Joe said with a shrug, "could be two wankers I throw together for a laugh or might be two of the fucking hardest boys on the roster. It'll just be a surprise, now, won't it?"

Joe started past cHEESE, patting him on the back as he did.

"Good luck, boys. Who knows, you might need it." As was the case will the whole conversation, Joe continued with his fiendish smirk. Now, however, he was making his exit, and cHEESE and egg NOG were left with a fight to prepare for.

cHEESE watched Joe walk off through narrowed eyes and a snarled lip.

"Ass."

“A New Beginning” by Good Charlotte.

The Asylum-Tron turned on, showing clouds quickly running across the screen... as angels flew around them... and then, two words appeared.

“Miles Blunder”.

The Fans booed as Blunder’s image was posted on the Asylum-Tron as the theme song picked up pace, and Miles walked out, wearing a Batman cape, with his half-melted UK Title around his waist... and some form of a scepter in his hands.

The Fans laughed at Miles, but he didn’t seem too nervous at all (no, really), as Blunder ran down the ramp and into the Asylum cage, taking a microphone.

Looking up at the Asylum-Tron, it then turned off as Miles stood there, microphone in hand.

He was going to talk?

He was going to do an interview?

After being in Realm and now tA, together for about a year, Miles Blunder had never addressed the audience. Hell, he only came down to the ring to do battle... and they never lasted past three minutes, considering he only has three career win.

Nevertheless, the stuttering man brought the mic to his face and actually spoke.

“Hi!” He shouted, to the shock of the tA announcers, whom made a constant note that ‘The Germ Gestapo’ actually didn’t stutter.

“I’m Miles Blunder... I’m the UK Champion!” Blunder shouted, to some boos of the Crowd. Yet they were truly shocked. Miles hasn’t stuttered for, like, seven words or so now!

And Blunder still marched around, Batman cape on, scepter in hand, Title on waist.

“And I O- O- OWN The Freak!” Again, the Fans booed... as the tA announcers wondered if Miles actually did that last stutter consciously, and in fact... he did.

“So tonight I’d like to welcome you all to the O- O- ORDER OF BLUNDIA!” Miles paused. “Tonight I take over! Tonight I start brand new! Forget about the past! Realm... tA... it doesn’t matter what has happened... only, what will.”

He paused again.

“W- with The Freak by my side, I will now defend my U- UK Title to all challengers! A- ALL of them! At A- ANY time!” Blunder stuck up his head and grinned through the cape. “And I will be well on my way to becoming the Asylum’s B- BEST!”

Once again ‘The Germ Gestapo’ stopped, as he looked down at his Title and nodded. “Anyone in the back, I’m challenging you to a Title Match later on T- TONIGHT!” He grinned. “First one to come down here after M- MY theme song plays, gets the S- SHOT!”

For a last time, Miles paused, as he started to laugh. “Just R- REMEMBER, that The F- FREAK, is by M- MY side!”

With that, and the Crowd still in shock (more than likely the backstage too), Blunder dropped the mic, exited the cage, and walked up the ramp.

Miles Blunder... making a challenge?

Get out of town.

But with The Freak by his side... Miles was confident.

He was sure of this night.

That is what Karen, dressed simply in a white t-shirt with blue denim jeans and black sneakers, despised the most. Well, not really. There were more things she despised. War, inexplicable weather changes, the homeless taking advantage of the fact that they're smelly and dirty to beg for money, her brother, a certain Cuban, a certain Japanese agent of hers, the Internet, people who only saw things as black and white without realising that a grey area exists, and other non-important things.

At the moment, she hated how tired she felt. Even after having rested for three days straight. But it was time to get back to life. Business. And at the moment, she had a lot of side-projects to work on.

One of which was meeting an old friend and hoping one thing would lead to another. And eventually, a personal point would be proven.

Turning the corner, Karen scanned the hallway. Saw nobody. Well, she saw Poser gyrating his hips, hoping that... the vending machine would be impressed. The British Lassie frowned and walked away. She would be seeing a lot of Poser, seeing how he was Lucinda's bitch and she was somewhat working for her. She tiptoed away silently, hoping Eddie wouldn't hear her, and trudged down another hallway.

Until the target had been spotted. Or so the Manchester girl thought. From a distance, it sure looked like him. Was a different guy, although from the same place.

Gravy, but not quite.

"Keegan," Pembridge muttered loudly as she approached the Geordie Warrior. Keegan looked over his shoulder and gave a surprised smirk.

The British Lassie. An old tFZ mate. Sure, he'd seen her fighting on the recent tA shows and heard some things about her exploits in the IOW. Keegan didn't really pay much attention to it, however. Until now, seeing Karen in the flesh, after a long time. Remembering how she was part of a 3-person group that aimed to take over the FZ for their own needs. They were on course to achieving that, too. Until, of course, internal conflicts began to pop up and the foundation of Skran-Pruk was crushed.

Carrahar hadn’t really cared for the triumvirate at all. He didn’t feel threatened by them, as nobody ever scared him during his spell under Salvatore Di Maggio, but in the same instance he didn’t really get to know them either. However, while he wanted to return to his room as soon as possible, he didn’t want to ignore Karen, particularly as they’d came up trumps in the end. The Asylum, in terms of success and status, was a million miles away from The Fighting Zone and Pembridge appreciated this.

“Hello Karen. It’s been a while hasn’t it? I can’t say I really ever got the opportunity to talk to you in The Fighting Zone but it’s good to see there’s light at the end of the tunnel isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong though. I’ve seen you about. Anyway, it’s nice to see someone who I actually have something in common with do well so welcome aboard and good luck,” he told her as he extended his hand, which she accepted.

"Yes, good to see you too. Been a long time since the shitehole closed. Bloody surprised that everyone decided to come over here. What's the story behind that, eh?"

He chuckled at that: “Aye. Well with Campbell having a bit of bother with The Stranglehold there was a vacancy and we filled it. He wanted people were unknown and after a lot of persuasion, we all put aside any differences we had and here we are. For the cause of Fighting.”

"I see. John Willis is your brother? Big surprise, heh."

“You wouldn’t have thought it like would you? Aye. He is. A fucking Yank an’all. Erm… I mean we’re far from sweet with one another mind, not that we ever will be, but as I said. We put our personal differences aside and I mean while I can’t completely forget I’m willing to try if he is. I think we’re getting somewhere at least. He’ll probably tell you something else though!”

So far it hadn’t been to bad for Karen, but now she needed to try her luck. The Manchester native, seemingly desperate to contact Carrahar’s stepsibling, attempted to use her compatriot in order to arrange a meeting with the Kokomo Colossus: “Where is John? Do you know?”

As The Yardstick leaned over to collect a cup of Coffee for Lharn, he turned to her and smirked as if he didn’t have a clue - and he didn’t: “Fuck knows. I mean I seen her, I mean him, a couple of weeks ago but we only run into each other now and again. If I see him I’ll tell him you were asking after him.”

“Thanks.”

He would have shook hands with her again but he had his hands full with the beverages so he nodded at her: “I’ll be off Karen. Good luck though. I wish you all of the best.”

On that note they parted and as they moved in opposite directions the mutual respect wasn’t so strong…

“Fucking Manc slut.”

“Useless Geordie bastard.”

No love lost between the respective cities, especially after today’s earlier encounter…

Chris Oberst Vs ???

Out came Chris Oberst. Apparently someone took enough pity on him to give him theme music. The boy with the emo all coursing through him turned to his fans, took in their adoration. The pyro that went aglow around him bounced off his glasses, making him look like the huge superstar he already was. He was the king. The emperor. Generalissmo.

... NAH. Actually, he did have the theme music, but that was all he had. Instead, clutching a Dashboard Confessional CD to his chest, he hopped onto the top of the Asylum cage, put one leg over, then the other, and jumped down inside.

He felt infinitely small in these walls.

He stood there for a few long moments... and the lights went out.

Every monitor in the joint went on the fritz. A buzzing sound eminated from every speaker... and a fly crawled across the screen, giant and ugly.

The buzzing subsided as a guitar riff roared through.

"The Fly" by U2.

A spotlight clicked on the Asylum entrance, and out strode Ricky Wasp -- Asylum's very own Fly. Back from the depths of a lawsuit, and apparently still able to carry this strange, enflamed ego.

He got to the Asylum cage.

He took three steps -- and whapped Oberst with his forearm, sending the emo boy flying aside like vermin under a man's hefty hand. Buzzed him right into the cage, it did. And so Wasp followed after him, grabbed him from behind, and tossed him up over his shoulder, sending Oberst crashing neck-and-shoulder first on the mat, rolling across with the extra momentum.

And then Wasp did a little dance. He took Oberst by the boy's short, bristly hair. He hefted him up again, and shook him around, forward, backward, left, right, before throwing him up in the air and letting him fall.

He pulled an Andre, stepping over Oberst and using his chest as part of that step.

This took about all of two minutes.

And then Oberst went for it. The same old move we all know. Probably his smartest move.

NUTSHOT.

Wasp felt woozy, and his grapefruits bounced to a decidedly painful Irish jig. He took a step back, looked down at the fallen janitor.

Oberst had a smile on his face.

So Wasp grabbed him, pissed off. The Fly was gone; the monster was back. His eyes were aflame as they were when he was a racist motherfucker. He picked Oberst off the ground, took him in a bearhug, and rushed towards the cage. He let go at the last second, but his body momentum crushed Oberst between himself and the cage. Wasp backed up, hit a football point stance, and shunned all idea of Oberst's bodily functions with a shoulderblock. He took a few more steps back, and went for an extra point by almost ripping apart Oberst's vertebrae via foot.

Oberst fell down to the mat.

Wasp wasn't done. His eyes were aglow, he was instinctual.

Kill -- Kill -- Kill.

He got on top of Oberst's back and proceeded to bury his elbow on the upper back of Oberst. He grabbed Oberst by his hair again, and slammed his head against the mat.

Twice. Thrice. Blood pouring from Oberst's forehead, his nose, seemingly from his eyes now.

Wasp gets off of him... clutches him up one more time... and throws him out of the Asylum.

Vengeance from a man who has been mopped is vengeance unlike any other. Especially when a pale monster from hell comes to expend the revenge on you.

Nevertheless, Joe Campbell had other ideas. Despite their drab showing alongside one another, which they probably presumed was a one-off and it now appeared that the Boss had paired them together once again and neither individual, plus D’Alessandro, liked it one bit. Therefore, walking at a staggering speed, the trio all trotted off to confront Campbell and, as usual, John and Michael didn’t care to knock. Yet, that is probably the only thing Sebastian would approve of with regards to his designated partner though how long that would last was anyone’s guess really.

“What do I keep telling you fuckers…”

The Italian intervened immediately; “Knock, knock. Yes we know. But what the fuck do you think you’re playing at? Putting us all in the same locker room again?”

Willis, looking straight ahead with his arms crossed as usual, murmured something: “Who’s there?”

Michael started at the Kokomo Colossus who was oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t telling a joke but this allowed Sebastian to step in and talk to Campbell: “This isn’t going to work Joe. I’ve got class Joe. I can make it on my own if you let me. I don’t need Laurel and Hardy over here to help me. They’re holding me back. Tell me. What is it you’ve got against me?”

Joe took his feet from upon his desk and leaned back in his chair: “I mustn’t have made myself clear enough or you twats are all deaf but I’ll fucken’ spell it out for you. You two, not Pasta Prick over there, are teaming together permanently NOW. Got it?

“I’m sick of you. You’re a fucken’ waste of space. But, you still think you can do it so fucken’ prove it to me. You’re meant to be working for me and you’re meant to be on my side. If you’re whining after only one week, then how can you remain loyal to me? Remember, I don’t care if you don’t get along. I’m Joe Campbell and I know what’s right and this is the best thing for both of you right now. If you don’t fucken’ like it you know where the door is so use it and piss off.”

Thompson hadn’t even heard the latter half of Campbell’s conclusive verdict as he glanced at his watch and realised that he needed to be elsewhere at this particular point: “Right. Of course Joe. Whatever you say. Thanks. Bye.”

The Owner was rather annoyed: “Is he taken the piss?”

Michael nodded: “I think so. But, if he gets out of line, we’ll take care of it.”

D’Alessandro then told Willis it was time to go and Campbell shook his head as the duo departed in order to track Thompson down…

“What a fucken’ funny group.”

“After what happened, I’m surprised you aren’t thanking me Sebastian.” The two stared at each other coldly, “Now that the Viper’s out of the way, no one can stop the plan. Can’t you see?”

Sebastian took a hard breath as he folded his arms, and began to look at other places besides Carnage’s face, “No, I can’t see. And I don’t think I will see what you’re talking about.”

“So you’re drinking the Kool-Aid, is that it? I’ll tell you, what, if you fucking turn on me, fuck my plan up, I’ll rip the heart out of your fucking chest you get me?” Carnage was right in the face of Sebastian, and the former Smilthy’s fighter looked past Carnage, “I opened the door for you here, I can sure as hell can take you out with me. If the Captain must go down with the ship, he’ll drag everyone down with him. You’re supposed to garner his trust, but if you jeopardize the trust I have with you…”

“Hey, hey hey.. Will you stop it for a second.” Sebastian said, hushing his voice a little, “The motherfucker knows.. He knows everything, he knows how I got in, he knows about your fucking plan. And if you would pay attention to shit, you’d know that he doesn’t even fucking trust me. So how the hell am I supposed to trust you?” Sebastian paused for effect, “Answer me that.”

“You should trust me becau…”

“No, I can’t trust you, because of this. You had a half assed plan, and now my life is in danger, if Joe finds out that Viper is dead, you’re completely uninjured, I’m the one who’ll be hung out on the shooting range. Not your ass, nigger.” Sebastian spat the word smoothly, “That’s the problem with your kind, can’t ever think about the big picture, it’s you and your crackhead mom, trying to find how you can get the next $10 to get a crack rock. So why don’t you get the fuck off my case, and let me do what I do.”

Carnage began to laugh at the comments made by Sebastian, but as he was about to talk it was another voice that came from over Sebastian’s shoulder, “Hey why if it isn’t Sebastian. Mind introducing us to your friend here?”

Sebastian’s heart began to beat faster and faster, as he turned trading glances with Michael and Willis, who were primarily looking towards Carnage. “Hello,” John C. Willis said while getting no response from Carnage.

“This is really beautiful, you’re the tosspot who never makes things too hard at all. But you know, if you fucking cross us tonight, or dog it out there as a revenge for last week, I’ll just find myself in front of Joe telling him everything that happened. How would you like that?” Sebastian exchanged a cold glance with Michael D’Alessandro before bumping him hard on the shoulder as he stormed off, leaving Carnage and the other two standing there.

“Okay, parties over, you can go now.” Carnage said as he walked between the two, and as he passed Michael and John stopped and looked at each other, and couldn’t hold their smiles back, they knew that we might have seen the end of Sebastian Thompson, as we knew him.

Token Weed walked down a long concrete hallway, he glanced at a few of the names on the wall, before stopping at one that was empty... he knocked a few times, quickly the door swung open and he stood face to face with.... Eddie Scott Poser.

"HE....!!" before Poser could finish a single word, Token delivered a sharp right into his mouth and continued off down the hallway. Occasionaly bashing the chair in his right hand off the wall. Token rounded a bend and looked at a few of the event staff standing around bullshitting back and forth. He walked up, scaring a few of them.

"Hey fellows, you guys seen Providence today?" Token asked, cracking a slight smile as he messed around a bit with his chair to add effect to his words. They looked at each other, none of them wanted to come face to face with that.

"His locker room is down the hall and to the left," an event security member mumbled as Token nodded and trudged down the hallway, he had buisness to attend to.

Finaly Token comes across him sitting taping his wrists for his fight that night. (Say against anyone really.) Token comes into the room and instantly snaps up a chair wacking Providence over the head with it multiple times.

Fenn-Grail pushed him out of the way and continued, walking steadily and not rushing himself as usual. His strides were interrupted by a backstage access fan, whose request for an autograph found him quickly pushed to the ground as if he was nothing more than a toy. The Freak strolled past the doors and lockers, his backpack still slung over his shoulders and his face expressionless.

Then he reached the office that he was after.

Joe Campbell

He didn’t bother knocking, instead just twisting the handle and yanking the door open. He stepped inside, and surveyed his surroundings. Dez Aragon stood by the filing cabinet, leaning back and smoking a cigarette. He nodded at The Freak, who returned the favour, as The Freak turned to Joe, who sat behind his desk reading a document.

“Christ is dead,” The Freak said bluntly, dropping his bag on the desk and leaning against a wall. Joe looked up with his eyes wide, as The Freak glanced directly forwards. “I took him out last night, he was driving a cargo truck. I snuck inside and set it alight. He’s dead.”

There was a long silence, as Campbell looked inside the bag and pulled out a video tape. He placed it upon the desk and glanced back at The Freak, whom was now pacing his room.

“So… the only other Mind Games entrant that we need to eliminate is the Brawler, right? Then you’re the one with the title shot? As Hughes is in no fucking shape to compete…”

“Correct. That video tape was filmed shortly after Christ died. His truck was ablaze and black, and his body was nothing more than ash. He’s gone, dead and buried deep within the Earth’s fibres. Mission completed,” The Freak said. Dez gave him a clap, with a smirk upon his face.

“Worthy of a true hitman, Brian,” he smiled.

The Freak then turned, and left as hastily as he had came. He headed back into the corridor and turned a corner, before picking up a steel chair and snapping it shut, heading towards the entranceway curtains. Oddball appeared by his side as the pair peeked from behind the curtains at the unsuspecting fans.

“Toll the bell,” The Freak said to the sound maintenance crew.

“Who?”

The Yardstick rolled his eyes: “Exactly. I knew you wouldn’t remember her. Probably because she wasn’t anything pretty to look at but they were called Shit-Dick.”

Not for the first time tonight, Lharn laughed and this time it was genuine: “Aw aye. Anyway, how much was she charging? A tenner up against the walls or what?”

“Excuse me, but my name isn’t Huscroft. Christ, you’re that desperate that you’d give her a score for a hand job and you could just go to B and Q for that!”

The Real Deal shook his head despite still being in hysterics: “Keeg, you’re so full of shit man. And when was the last time you had your meat cut you cheeky cunt? Sunderland have scored more this season than you have in the last two years man. That’s how bad you are!”

Carrahar cocked his head: “Now you’re exaggerating! Anyway, what do you think I did with Adele like? Just put my arm around her and sniff her hair all night? Well her pubic hair…”

“I thought she shaved?”

“She did man. Fuck’s sake. Do we need to go into detail? My point is you couldn’t hit the Eiffel Tower from six yards out.”

Huscroft retaliated: “Neither can Emile Heskey.”

Finally, they agreed on something: “Fair point. Howay then. What do you want to do tonight son?”

This was TRD’s opportunity to voice his opinions: “Well I reckon we should go out there and let me do all of the talking.”

“Oh. Right. Really? Trying to get me the sack now are we just because the nearest thing you’ve came to an erection in recent times is when Tony Blair and the Labour bastards got voted back in!”

“Don’t start…”

A bit of banter never hurt anyone and that’s all it was. In fact, it did seem for a few minutes as if they were fifteen again and arguing during English. The Brits were back in buoyant mood, which mean the former Fighting Zone franchise’s form in the steel structure had to pick up sooner or later…

The fans jumped to their feet and pushed closer to the railing, shaking the guardrails and booing tremendously. Their eyes told of their hate that was about to be unleashed on one man as the lights dimmed down to a perfect black… then began to shimmer crimson and claret, scarlet in harmony. The Asylumtron showed a series of red ones and zeroes, which formed a picture ever so slowly…

Of a mutilated corpse. A dead man. A dead woman. A whole nation in fear. Building exploding. Gunshots resounding. Knives slicing, cutting, dicing. Blades slicked with blood. The face of a man.

The face of The Freak.

“Carpe Diem” by Will Haven.

Time how much have I wasted
I never grasped a clock
'Till he passed away
Greed rules what we make of ourselves
From the beggar to the chooser
Who survives at the end of the trail

THE TRAIL!
THE TRAIL!
THE TRAIL!

The Freak pushed the curtains aside to be met with torrential hate and boos, jeers resounding and bouncing from the walls of the tight arena. The spotlights bathed in blood-red shone down on he and his manager, Oddball, as they stepped out onto the stage to be barraged with trash. Chip packets, beer cans, cola cups, and even toilet roll found their way to his feet as the garbage continued to be hurled at them.

The Freak threw his arms into the air, only drawing more boos from the totally turbulent fans, before resting his steel chair at his side and methodically stepping down the ramp, his strides slow and purposeful. He reached the cage and jumped, grabbing the rim, before throwing himself up and over into the mesh. Oddball scurried up the steps and stood on the opposite side of the cage, as the lights returned to normal.

…

“FUCK THE FREAK!”
“FUCK THE FREAK!”
“FUCK THE FREAK!”
“FUCK THE FREAK!”
“FUCK THE FREAK!”
“FUCK THE FREAK!”

“Cute,” The Freak said dully into his microphone, causing the chant to break up and transform into boos. The Freak looked at the arena lights and sighed, before lowering his head back down to the microphone and tapping it.

“Hello America.”

BOOOOOoooooooOOOoooooo

“…Hello America. Once again you join me and my associate Oddball here today for another righting of the wrongs, another moment of sheer lucidity to open your eyes and get you thinking in the correct manner. The manner that you *should* be thinking in. I’m sure you’re all ready to talk to me…”

BOOOOooooooo

“Well maybe not. But I’d assumed that this week, you’d have liked to have known why Steve Christ will not be here tonight. The fact of the matter is… Steve Christ is dead. You may not believe me, but yes… last week Steve Christ claimed that I hadn’t the gall to end his life and only last night, I proved that he was in fact the man that claims to be immortal… is just a farce.”

The fans were stunned momentarily, before making a quick decision.

“LIIIIII-AR!!”
“LIIIIII-AR!!”
“LIIIIII-AR!!”
“LIIIIII-AR!!”
“LIIIIII-AR!!”
“LIIIIII-AR!!”

The Freak dropped his chair and leaned it against the cage, before setting an elbow of his own up against the rim and arcing backwards slightly into a more comfortable position. He shook his head slowly at the fans as they threw insults at him incessantly.

“It’s true. You may not believe me but in fact, it is the pure, unadulterated truth… your hero. ANOTHER of your heroes, has been destroyed by I. Your proclaimed heroes are nothing more than ants under my boot, waiting… waiting for a foot to fall from the sky and smear them across the floor. They’re nonentities. These men that you worship, you worship not because they are powerful… or strong, or worthy of your praise, but because they are like you. Like you people.

“Like… you filth. Living your pissant lives in an artificial world being supervised by a man that can’t add two and three without using the fingers of both hands. You shouldn’t be praising these men, you should be praising me. For trying to bring you a world… of a fresh evolution.

“I’ve had enough of talking, trying to convince you.

“Play the tape.”

The scene faded in with the camera shaking up and down, watching the air above a tower of black smoke smoulder. Pillars of smoke began to shoot upwards, as huffs of deep fog drifted around in the sands. The camera drew in closer, and closer… and looked down over the roadside, the tarmac, to see what lurked in the ditch besides. A truck, it’s mental bent and it’s cargo bay a mass of flaming black, lay on it’s side. The door of the cabin hung open and swung to and fro.

The camera grew closer still, and zoomed in on the door to the driver’s side of the cabin. The plastic steering wheel was melted and hung like thick black streaming string, the cotton covers of the seats were on fire and the radio blurted out garbled static before fizzling into nothing.

Sitting, facing the windshield with his face charred and burned… was the body of Steve Christ.

Steve Christ was dead.

The video stopped, and there was dead silence. Dead silence soon turned to boos, and boos turned to chants. Chants of hatred. Some fans, still determined that Steve Christ was alive, continued to cheer his name and hoped that he’d walk out here and show that the video was fake. But he never came.

“I asked Steve Christ how he wanted to be buried and he didn’t answer me. So I decided that what better way for a man that claims to be the son of God to rest, than ashes drifting on the open air. Maybe he can fly all the way up to heaven, and tell his dad not to fuck with me again. I’m *done* being fucked with, period. If anyone in this federation, this promotion, dares to even think that they have any notion of defeating me.

“They’re as good as dead.”

The fans booed again, as The Freak tossed the microphone to Oddball, who caught it in a single hand and brought it to his lips instantly.

“YOU’REHISBOYFRIEND!!”
“YOU’REHISBOYFRIEND!!”
“YOU’REHISBOYFRIEND!!”
“YOU’REHISBOYFRIEND!!”
“YOU’REHISBOYFRIEND!!”

Oddball laughed slightly, and then clapped the fans’ wit.

“You heard this man, Brian Fenn-Grail, but second ago announce that he’d take on any fucker from the right wing… and fucker from the left wing… any fucker from anywhere in the entire world, and he’d tear them to shreds. Not to be fucked with? Certainly. This man has killed people. Maimed people. Left people for dead and dead people for left. And when he says he’ll take on anyone…

“He means anyone.

“By anyone. He means Villam fucking Ender.”

The fans booed at the mention of the Asylum Champion’s name, but ceased for Oddball to continue.

“Villam. Vee. Vee Eee. BIG OL’ EASY VEE. Each week The Freak, here… the Red Ripper, the Emasculator, has walked out here and he has run you down. He has challenged you, he has asked you to face him… but you’re too fucking scared to even look in his direction. In fact, just glancing at this man, nay, this MONSTER makes your eyes roll into the back on your head and pop out of your ass in fear. The ghost of your cock screams and grows wings before sailing all the way up to heaven… coincidentally where Steve Christ is now.

“The title that The Freak wears around his waist, the Extreme Title… is so much more valuable that the one you have, you know. Your title, the World title? It’s not even the World Title anymore. It’s the *women’s* title. It is worn by someone that has to *sit down* like a *cunt* to *piss*. What does that say to outsiders about this promotion?

“It says that it is a joke. It says that the whole Asylum roster is run by a penis-less black dude that thinks he’s big because he’s got barbed wire tattooed around his head and wears leather pants. SORRY VEE. Aerosmith went out of fashion a LONG time ago and I hate to break this to you, but they weren’t black, bald, and they all had cocks.

“Erm… from what I’m told. I don’t look at rock star’s pricks or anythin’.

“But, Villam… if you don’t answer us with the match my buddy here has been asking for, for so VERY long. We may have to take this into our own hands. Let’s look at the final men left in the Mind Games match. We have; The Masked Brawler. So, once we take him out… it boils down to the three men that were in previously.

“Ty Hughes. Battered, ravaged man that isn’t fit to compete in a trolley race, never mind an Asylum Fight.

“Steve Christ. Dead, died in an explosion of mass proportions that destroyed his truck and all of his mobile possessions. HMM.

“The other entrant? The Freak.

“So.

“Who wants to see The Freak as worlds champion?”

The fans exploded in boos and hisses as Oddball smiled and tossed the microphone back to The Freak.

“No. It’s not just Villam that I want to face… in fact I don’t even want to fight Villam. Villam is weak, useless, and altogether not a match for the likes of myself. I wish not to face our cowardly and skill-less champion, but the TRUE fighter. The warrior. The monster that doesn’t stop until his opponent is dead, and doesn’t feel pain or remorse. I want to face…

“Ender. The machine, the ogre. I want to fight Ender… and prove myself the true one-man army in this promotion. Villam is nothing but Ender… Ender.

“Ender… would be a true fighter.”

The fans remained silent, remembering the horrific acts that Villam’s ID committed… and perhaps thought that The Freak was biting off more than he could chew. But nonetheless, they booed as The Freak brought the mike to his mouth for one last time.

“Live. Die. Die. Die. Steve Christ? Died. Ty Hughes? Gone. Live, die. Eat what you Kill. Goodnight.”

“Carpe Diem” hit the speakers once more as The Freak ambled down the steps and began to walk up the ramp, with Oddball still in tow. The fans booed them all the way up there, making sure to send waves of trash flying at them.

The end.

.

.

.

…wait.

The lights… shut off.

Silent were the fans. Silent was The Freak. Silent was Oddball, as the lights totally cut out and plunged the entire arena into blackness. There was a period of at least two minutes of just… dead air. Then, the Asylumtron flickered on a pale grey.

Like the static of a broken TV set, two words appeared.

F O U R T H C O M I N G

dun dun HEY! dun dun HEY! dun dun HEY! dun dun HEY!
dun dun HEY! dun dun HEY! dun dun HEY! dun dun HEY!

POWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOW

The ten enormous pillars of fire shot upwards like bushy tails. They lit the arena with a dazzling white wall of light, and as the lights dimmed back down and the sting in the people’s eyes wore off…

At the top of the ramp… looking down on The Freak…

…was…

…Steve Christ.

His face was covered in plasters, and one of his arms was entirely blistered over and bandaged with soggy white gauze that was maroon with blood. One of his knees was in a brace and his hair was raggedy and slightly charred. He looked like he’d just walked straight out of the fires of hell…

…In fact, he probably had.

He slowly began to limp down the ramp towards The Freak, who stood in an automated shock that a man could survive being blown the fuck up. Oddball began to back away… but he was too close to Christ.

Steve grabbed Oddball’s throat, and lifted him into the air with a snarl. As the fans went crazy with cheers, Steve hurled Oddball off the ramp… over the guardrail, and into the fans, whom began to beat him vigorously. The Freak looked up at Steve, and Steve looked down at The Freak.

“S T E V E!!”
“S T E V E!!”
“S T E V E!!”
“S T E V E!!”
“S T E V E!!”
“S T E V E!!”
“S T E V E!!”
“S T E V E!!”

The Freak took a single step backwards… as Steve took three steps forwards. He smiled wryly, his cracked and burned lip forming a smile on his face… as he grew closer to The Freak.

They both charged, and they both met. The Freak instantly started to smash his fists into Steve’s face, rocking the AntiChrist SuperStar backwards… but Steve rebounded with a fist of his own straight to The Freak’s nose. As The Emasculator recovered from the blow, Steve grabbed his trenchcoat and pulled The Freak by it… dragging him towards the cage. The Red Ripper had no means of fighting back as Steve slammed him, face-first into the steel, smashing his features into the mesh.

The Freak looked bewildered in his own emotionless way, as Christ grabbed his collar and hair and mashed his face into the ringsteps. Once. Twice. More. Then he pulled The Freak’s now bloodied face from the steps… and headbutted him square in his eye socket. The fans were solidly behind Steve, chanting his name feverishly… as if he was the Son of God.

Oh wait. He was.

He turned The Freak around and jammed the Red Ripper’s head under his own arm, before throwing The Freak’s own arm over Steve’s shoulder. Then he lifted the Claret Crippler up into the air, in a vertical position…

CRACK!!

And smashed his skull to pieces with a brainbuster onto the ringsteps.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!! CHRIST!!!”

The Freak began to stagger to his feet almost automatically, as Christ reached under the cage and pulled out a chair… The Freak turned around into five denting chairshots, each showing a new level of viciousness and intensity… The Freak staggered away and leaned against the guardrail as Christ dropped the chair and walked over to The Freak.

POW!!

The Freak was fighting back. He smashed into Steve with a running variation of his trademark Folha Secca, causing Christ to fly backwards into the ringsteps and bounce from them… as he did so, The Freak simply jumped onto the steps and leaped from them backwards, spiking Christ’s face into the concrete with a brutal Souples Sear Riere.

Bother of The Freak’s boot heels smashed into the back of Steve’s skull, splattering the burned and charred Christ’s blood over the ringmats. The Bulldozer then reached down and grabbed Christ’s hair, bringing him up to his feet and wrapping his arms around Christ’s waist…

CRACK!

Northern Lights Suplex, back-first over the guardrail. The Freak followed up with a spinning Northern Lights from the guardrail back down to the floor… driving Christ’s fragile spine into the concrete. Then… he got to his feet.

“…You’d have been better off staying dead, Steve.”

Then he slapped the back of his head.

BOOOOOOooo

Christ staggered to his feet, clinging to the cage and turning from left to right… before spotting The Freak, who stood in his usual boxer-like stance awaiting a battle. Christ charged forwards, and totally ignored the power of The Freak’s incoming punches… instead grabbing onto The Freak’s waist and powering him into the air, and over the guardrail. The fans began to kick the downed Freak, who looked like he’d been hit by a juggernaut…

Christ pulled The Freak to his feet, and hooked both of his arms behind his back… lifting him into the air and smashing him down again onto a steel chair with a relentlessly powerful double-armed Brainbuster that smashed the seat to bits. Christ then motioned to the fans with his hand…

… “LET ME HEAR IT!?”

“CHRIST!!”

Christ pulled The Freak up and began to drag him, by his hair, towards through the fans… makings sure to deliver a punch here and there for good measure. Christ’s eyes were dead set on the access point, as The Freak finally rebelled… catching Chjrist with a left hook to his chin. The Steve Of Fight tumbled down onto his backside but quickly backward rolled, crawling to his feet to face his opponent.

The Freak spun a foot around, catching Steve just under his jaw with a shocking Buzzsaw kick… and another. Christ’s burns turned to gashes and his gashes turned to blood… as Steve began to struggle to his feet.

“I am the only immortal in the Asylum, Christ… I. You are expendable, whereas I… am the indestructible warrior,” The Freak hissed, before snatching up Christ’s head and pushing him backwards into the glass doors to the access point.

“No… motherfucker. You. Are a red-haired goatfucker. I. Am the bad-ass son of God… and that means that by default, I can kick you ass,” Christ snarled, as he ducked to one side… evading The Freak’s fist. He then caught The Freak’s head over his shoulder…

O

M

G

And hit the Save Yourself Half-Nelson Suplex… through the glass doors, causing The Freak’s face and chest to smash through them and then… he fell down the fifteen steps leading to the back of the access point, each one jutting into his spine like a message from the devil. Steve smirked, as “HOLY SHIT!” chants broke loose in the arena… and walked down to The Freak.

Steve picked The Freak up… and hauled him over one shoulder. He then stormed through the fans, all two-hundred-and-sixty-pounds on his shoulders, and headed towards the back of the arena access point. He disappeared up the stairs…

And when he re-emerged, he was standing on the top of the second tier. The balcony of the second tier. With The Freak on his shoulders. The Freak struggled to be released… as Christ smirked.

“You can’t kill what doesn’t die… fuck.”

Then, with an almighty throw… The Freak was sent flying down, over twenty feet, and into the fans’s chairs… the plats of steel smashing and shattering as he plunged into them like a rock falling from the sky. His body remained crumpled and messed, as Christ watched on like a vigil from high above the fans. High above the smashed body of The Freak, and the EMTs that were flocking towards him.

He extended his arms in a double-bird crucifix as ‘Antichrist Superstar’ hit the speakers…

As the scene cut out to a commercial break, the question was… in a battle between two men that are deemed indestructible, how far will each of them go just to prove their point?

Providence continued taping his wrist, he began to realize, Karen wasn't a joke. She could actually step into the cage and fight, Providence would actually need to try against her, no excuse for losing to a lady.

Providence quickly jerked to his right as the door to his locker room swung open, Token Weed came flying through it chair in hand. He took a huge driving swing and drilling Providence in the back of the head. Instantly Providence's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he went forward smacking his head off of the little table the Asylum had provided for him.

Token repositioned the chair and drove the end of it into Providence's mouth area, Token lifted up once more driving the end of the chair directly into Providence's nose. Token's grin kept growing, the more and more carnage, the larger the grin.

Token cocked the chair back and swung forward one last time, bashing Providence in the face with the cold steel. Token then took a step back and kicked the chair driving it into Providence's face once more. Token pushed Providence over and left the scene of the crime. He had done enough damage for one night.

Kali Saturos Vs Cara Dyconin

A mixed reaction to the beginning of "Head Like a Hole (Clay Remix)" by Nine Inch Nails, because it brought out the psychotic, suspended fWo wrestler, Kail Saturos.

On one hand, she was a psycho.

On the other hand, she was a psycho who was about to attempt to murder someone who was utterly annoying.

Thus, a mixed reaction. See?

Kali made her way down the rampway and entered the cage, knife fully visible. She was ready to fight it out with her longtime enemy, the former .Two, Cara Dyconin. After almost a year of searching and then fighting minions, she was finally ready to go head-on and take Cara on one-on-one.

And then, the lights went out.

"Arcus harum acerbus caelestis fas tibi""

That sentance in Latin faded into "We're In This Together" by Nine Inch Nails, and the fans recognized this as the entrance of Cara Dyconin, and thus began booing the self-proclaimed Dark Goddess.

However, after a few minutes of that, the fans- and Kali- began to get restless, as there was no sign of Cara.

The music finally stopped playing as Kali demanded a microphone.

"What the hell is this? You challenge me to a match, Cara, and then don't even fucking show up for it? Get your ass out here!"

Still nothing. Kali grew more impatient, and thus angrier.

"If you don't get your ass out here, you delusional whore, I'm going to come back there and-"

"Arcus harum acerbus caelestis fas tibi""

And then "We're In This Together" started up again. The fans once again started booing, and once again there was no Cara Dyconin.

Now, it was just getting ridicolous. Once again Kali started to speak as the music faded.

"Cara, I'm going to say this one last time. Bring your cowardly ass out here. NOW."

"Arcus harum acerbus caelestis fas tibi""

An audiable grown from the crowd as the music started up....for the THIRD TIME. And STILL there was no Cara Dyconin.

But there were, however, The Servants.

They came in through the crowd, and the larger Servant A entered the cage first. Kali turned around just in time to get leveled by a clothesline-like manuver by the near-seven-foot tall Servant A, and then Servant B followed him into the cage, carrying a steel chair. As Servant A picked Kali back up, Servant B rammed the chair into her gut, and then slammed it over the back of her head as she leaned over. Servant A picked her back to her feet, and lifts her into a powerbomb position. As she sends Kali crashing down onto the canvas, Servant B smashes her into the face with the chair in mid-air.

The Eternity of Nothingness.

The crowd booed as The Servants raised their arms in the air in the center of the cage. On that night, there was no Cara Dyconin, but her servants had completley obliterated her enemy in the middle of the cage.

It was obviously a message that was being sent to Kali.

And she got it loud and clear.

Willis picked up Thompson’s leather jacket and showed utter disregard for his reluctant partner’s property by spitting on it and then shaking it so any contents would fall out. However, it was a major disappointment in their search for dirt as a canister of chewing tobacco fell onto the floor: “What the fuck is that?”

Michael waved his hands around: “Nothing. John, check the pockets.”

He concurred with his comrade’s commands and unveiled the object all thieves wanted to find - a wallet “Ah. Now you’re talking!”

Unfortunately, the climax was as flat as a ten-year-old can of Coke: “No fucking money in it!!”

D’Alessandro rolled his eyes: “Typical.”

Thereafter, just as John was about to place it back into Sebastian’s coat, Michael’s keen eye spotted a pile of papers in a different compartment of the wallet: “Hey. Pass me that.”

As usual, the behemoth had a blank look on his face but did as D’Alessandro asked and promptly handed the item to the Italian: “What’s this then?”

His discovery seemed to be a series of pictures, around five or six in total, of men he didn’t recognise… until the last one: “Why has this sick fuck got a picture of Joe Campbell in his wallet?”

John grinned, which wasn’t a pretty sight, but still. D’Alessandro deposited the pictures on his pocket just in case they could be used in the future as they rearranged the furniture once again.

‘The Germ Gestapo’ Miles Blunder© Vs ???
(U.K. Title)

And out came Miles, still in his Batman cape, strutting down the ramp. He looked extremely cocky... and that didn’t seem too real at all. Nevertheless, Miles entered the cage, took the microphone, and was once again going to speak.

“I’m Miles Blunder!” He shouted. “The U- UK Champion!”

The Fans booed.

“And now I’d like to introduce M- MY new bodyguard...” Blunder lifted his head. “THE FREAK!”

The UK Champion pointed to the back, but when no theme song came, he turned around to ask the Referee what was going on.

The Ref asked for Miles’ mic, as Blunder looked at the Referee like he was insulted. But in handing Freddy Parsons the speaker, he told Miles something he did not want to hear.

“Um... sorry to disappoint you, Miles.” He started. “But The Freak was thrown off the stage just before the break... he’s been taken to the hospital.”

And just like that, Miles’ eyes widened in fear. There he stood, Batman cape on... Title on waist... and, well, he did hold his scepter, but it fell out of his hands and onto the canvas floor from the shock.

“W- w- w- wh- wh- wh- wh- wha- wha- wha- wha- what?”

The Ref nodded. “Sorry.”

And as the Fans just cheered, Miles slowly took back the mic, now with a nervous hand, as it shook like mad. Bringing his trembling arm back to his face, Blunder replied.

“T- t- th- th- th- the- the Ma- Ma- Matc- Match i- is o- o- o- of- of- of- off t- t- th- th- th- the- the- then.”

The Fans booed as Miles dropped his mic, turning as fast as possible to the door of the Asylum... about to exit it when...

“The third coming...” A voice was heard over the PA, as the Crowd joined in to state the last part of it. “HAS ARRIVED!”

All Blunder could do, was stand there... his body now shaking like made.

Out came Steve Christ.

To hell and back went the people.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

As for Blunder, he could only mutter one word to himself... ever so softly.

“Christ.”

Steve paced forth, his eyes locked on Miles. He had beaten him so many times before... defending his Extreme Title, facing him in Non-Title Matches, like the last time at ‘Mind Games’... but the one battle that stuck in his head, was the time back at ‘Pain’, where Blunder had won the UK Title in beating Faith, while Christ and Token Weed fought on the outside.

Christ walked up to the side of the Asylum’s door, taking a microphone out of his tights.

“Pray to your God, Miles...” Steve said as he entered the cage. “Because I- I- I- I’M your opponent.”

The Fans popped like mad in hearing Christ’s statement and mock towards Miles, as he rushed forth at the Champion when the bell sounded.

WHACK!

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

Clothesline from hell.

And the Challenger wasted no time in grabbing Miles Blunder’s Batman cape, throwing it into the stands.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

Steve waited for Blunder to stand... as he looked coldly into the Champion’s eyes... while Miles just stared back, absolutely horrified at what his opponent had just done.

Almost breaking down in tears, a quick meanstreak rose in the current UK Champion, as he ran towards Christ.

WHACK.

Clothesline two.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

Steve pulled back his head and shouted into the stands, along with the Crowd replying as well. “Thou shalt not mess with Steve Christ!”

Blunder rose once more, trying to look for a right hand, but it was blocked.

Christ returned the favor.

Right... RIGHT... RIGHT...

Into the mesh, and the Challenger had just landed a dropkick.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

That’s when Steve asked them to get louder.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

So they did.

And that’s when Steve asked them to get even louder.

“CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST!”

So they did.

And that’s when Steve asked them to get even louder!

Smack.

Low blow Miles Blunder.

And the UK Champion rose, standing overtop of his Challenger with wide eyes. He didn’t just do that. He didn’t just take down Steve Christ!

You mean Miles Blunder was actually going to have a chance to win... even without The Freak!?

Whack.

Right hand.

And then... ‘Save Yourself’.

Okay, so maybe not.

Christ stood, taking Miles Blunder by his hair, turning him to the mesh... and ejecting him right out of the ring.

“YYYEEEAAAHHHH!!”

The bell sounded, the Fans went wild, and Steve Christ was the new UK Champion.

Being handed his Title, Steve walked out of the cage before walking backwards up the ramp. And there Miles Blunder laid. Out cold. Made a fool of. And Title-less.

“If you only obeyed the eleventh commandment.” Steve stated, before going backstage. “Thou shalt not fuck with...

Steve Christ.”

Too bad Miles Blunder didn’t.

Keegan was in the building and had a smile on his face in spite of last week’s humbling at the hands of The Freak. And he wasn’t alone either. Alongside him stood Lharn Huscroft, who had a chair in either hand.

They made their way to the ominous battleground that they loved and loathed in the same instance and as Lharn carried the household items into the cell, Carrahar procured a pair of microphones from nearby and then threw one at Huscroft before he sat down. As he did, the noise level increased and Special K put his hand up: “Thank you very much.”

Suddenly, everything went quiet but nothing was said. After fifteen seconds had passed, Lharn looked at the Latin Luminary, who had a few wise words for him: “It’s cosy out here isn’t it? Not reckon?”

Huscroft didn’t know what to make of his comrade’s comments and just shook his head. Meanwhile, Keegan put his microphone on his lap, folded his arms and smiled prior to glancing up at the heavens. Lharn, who was situated on the right, stared at the floor but after a minute had passed it was The Real Deal that had had enough: “So what the fuck are we doing out here?”

The Yardstick gazed at his accomplice: “I could ask you the same thing. Do you realise you’ve just wasted precious air time that could have been occupied by someone who had something significant to say such as Miles Blunder?”

“Me?”

Carrahar nodded: “Yes. You. You said you wanted to come out here and do all of the talking, which I’m fine with. So do it. But do it quickly as Campbell will be doing his nut backstage. Get yourself away then for fuck’s sake.”

TRD went red: “What should I do?”

“Anything. Tell them a joke.”

Lharn scratched his head and then exchanged glances with the Geordie Genius before addressing the audience: “What does Julie Malone do with her arsehole after sex?”

A pause prior to the punch line.

“Send him out for eight cans and a kebab.”

A share of the supporters found this quip to be very amusing and, although it was about his primary antagonist at the moment, Keegan wasn’t one of them. He’d heard the joke so many times before but without Jeff Garvin’s name. In actual fact, he’d originally told Huscroft the joke though he used the word ‘Mackem’ in place of the Submission Champion’s name: “That’s bloody ancient. Honestly. And to think you used to run your own organization. You cannot even run your mouth anymore. You’re a has-been Huscroft,” Special K stated in a rather harsh manner and as he uttered the final sentence he moved in for a close-up of his fellow Englishman’s expression.

On that note, backed by the masses too, Lharn stood up and threw his jacket at The Height of Humanity, who was seated and instead of budging just exerted his trademark grin towards his mate: “Howay then son… what are you going to do about it?”

To be brutally honest with you, Keegan was being hypocritical in labelling Lharn a ‘has-been’ but it was all to test him. He wanted a reaction from his sidekick and while he had warranted one from the thousands of spectators it remained to be seen whether or not Huscroft would detect that this was a challenge: “Jeff Garvin. Get your arse out here right now.”

Everyone seemed to be stunned with the exception of The Zone member who retained his smug smile throughout. Lharn was certainly determined to prove himself to the Prince of Palermo who was seemingly soaking up the atmosphere while those around him had had their expectations heightened due to Huscroft’s personal request to The Host of Wrestling 101.

“Keeg, what the fuck are you laughing about like? Eh?”

Clutching at his microphone, Carrahar stood up and looked down on his right hand man: “You.”

“Well we’ll see if you’re laughing when I’m going home with the Submission title won’t we?”

The crowd weren’t sure how to perceive this predicament and that was hardly surprising as this had really appeared to have became ugly pretty quickly: “We’ll see… won’t we?”

Another sixty seconds or so slipped away, so fuck knows what Joe was thinking if he wasn’t already bladdered, and it became clear to all that Jeff was not going to answer Lharn’s assertive order, which obviously wasn’t authoritative enough.

“He’s just like you Keegan. A fucking bottler…”

And, just like that, Lharn left. He had walked out and the promo, which had gone on long enough, and it ended with an unexpected and abrupt ending.

Maybe they had just been papering over the cracks…

And in strolled Ty Hughes like he owned the place.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re do…”

“Shut it… Campbell… I’m here to take your help. I need police immunity, and from the shit that happened in this place, I think you can guarantee that for me, right?”

“I could… but why the fuck would I want to he…”

“Because I, and biggest draw you got right now. Have a listen.”

Campbell looked pretty pissed off at not being able to finish a sentence, but even he could not deny that the cheers coming from the crowd, were huge. Well he could deny it… in fact, he probably would deny it.

“Whatever Hughes, I can make another “Ty Hughes” in 4 weeks. You ain’t special, and you never wi…”

“That’s were you wrong Campbell.”

Joe now glaring at Hughes for not letting him finish a single statement,

“I am the future of this place… I am the future of fighting… and I’ve got something that will reel the viewers in. What does that mean? More cash, to you.”

“Will you fuck off if I give you this police immunity?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Joe reached his hand out, and Ty shook it. He couldn’t ask for more, and Joe was occasionally a man of his word, especially if it meant more money. As Campbell was shaking Hughes’ hand he couldn’t help but notice a book in his back pocket… a book that looked eerily familiar. And then there was the bag he’ brought in. Why not leave it in his locker room.

“What’s with all the get-up Hughes?”

“It’s just a book… and a bunch of tapes.”

“Tapes?”

Tapes.

Tapes!!!

“You didn’t.” Campbell murmured.

“Oh, I had always planned on being around here a long time… and what better to way to learn how to gain immortality…

than from the forever champion.”

Hughes turned and walked out, getting all that he wanted from Campbell for tonight. Campbell however was left standing in shock. He‘d just been visited by a ghost from his past.

The ghost of Kenny Rock.

Karen Pembridge Vs Providence

"Faultline" by Salive began playing over the Asylum sound system, as Karen Pembridge stepped out from behind the curtain. The fans gave her a few cheers, more out of pitty. She was going into this fight against Providence, and he handled Token Weed last week. She stood no chance...

"Stinkfist" by Tool kicked up... the song played on and on, Karen sat on the rim of the Asylum, the fans looked towards the entrance. The song stopped... and started over, Providence pushed the curtain to the side. He looked towards the ring, he was in a daze, he was dizzy, and he was a bloody mess. Blood still seeped from a cut on his head, and from his nostrils. Karen looked at him and smiled, this was too good to be true.

Providence stumbled down to the cage, pushing his bloody hair out of his eyes as much as possible. Karen was quickly on the offensive, drilling Providence with three sharp rights to the face, following it up with a sharp thrust to the throat. Providence quickly fell over grasping at his throat. Karen followed that up, delivering a sharp downward heel kick to Providence's exposed face. Providence rolled to the other side of the ring, the move caused his nose to begin pouring blood again. Providence slowly got up and took a wild swing with his right hand.

Karen countered, sliding out of the way and hit him with a hard outside axe kick. Providence had felt the same feeling the week before, and just as the week before, the kick caused Providence to hit the mat.

1...

2...

3...

Must stand up

4...

5...

Can't lose

6...

7...

Providence slowly made his way to his feet. He looked over, feeling his mouth, his lips were re-split. Providence charged, hitting Karen hard in the stomach with a kick. He followed it up looking for a brain buster. Karen drove a foot into Providence's crotch, Providence instantly crumpled and let Karen go. Providence turned his back towards Karen as she set-up. Providence spun around just in time... to catch the end of a hook kick. Providence was instantly floored, he looked up towards the sky, a bloody mess, as the ref counted the ten count.

Nicholas Quaid shifted angrily in his seat as a solitary light shined in his face, before him stood several detectives and FBI agents.

"I'm afraid we can't do that Mr. Quaid... the cuffs stay, unfortunately it hasn't yet come to your attention but I'm sure you're putting the pieces together right now, let me give you a big chunk... we know." One of the agents said sternly.

"Listen man, I don't know what the fuck you're saying... this is one huge mistake." Quaid's concerned voice replied.

"We know Quaid... the sooner you catch onto that and start talking the better."

The despair in Nicholas Quaid's eyes grew.

"Alright man... alright, you got me... I took a few backhand deals okay? The odd skipped parking ticket here and there you know? Maybe now and then let some kids get away with a little weed... standard practice my friends, you can't charge me shit."

The FBI agent standing before him sighed.

"Denial Mr. Quaid, you appear to be very well acquainted with it... let me try and break the relationship a little... does the name Joe Campbell ring any bells?"

The despair in Quaid's eyes plunged into a sheer look of defeat.

"Fuck." Quaid uttered under his breath.

"Murders Mr. Quaid, rapes... tortures... shootings... assaults... stabbings... these are all words that should help you put that little jigsaw together a lot quicker, for a long time now we've been tracking the movements of Joe Campbell but we can never seem to nail him with something concrete, the son of a bitch has killed people on national television yet for some reason we can't charge him for that." The agent continued.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Quaid replied defiantly.

"Oh I think you do Mr. Quaid, I think you know more than well what I'm telling you about because you're the sole reason that the above criminal acts have gone unpunished, evidence goes missing... people see nothing... witnesses die and everything always seems to rectify itself for Mr. Campbell conveniently, we know Quaid... we know that you've tampered with evidence, we know that you've paid witnesses and we know that you were involved in the death of Michelle Campbell."

"Fuck you, prove it."

THUD.

A set of photographs hit the desk before Quaid... images of him entering buildings, shaking hands with Campbell... exchanging documents. Quaid handing money to civilians, and even images of him removing evidence from the labs.

"You're looking at twenty five to life Quaid, you're a cop... you know what happens to cops that go inside, they'll eat you alive Quaid... after they've inserted themselves into every hole in your body, now you know how this works Quaid... you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, if you can get me the goods... enough to send Campbell away for good, I'll do the trade, he goes down and you walk... your life for his.

You don't have many choices Mr. Quaid... I can have you in a cell getting rowdy with the inmates by the end of the day or we can do this... are you in or out?"

Quaid put his hands on his head and sighed.

"In."

Let the hate begin.

Drums, Two guitars and bass all fought against each other until a singers voice started to breathe heavily into his microphone.

The drums kept the beat until...

Dundun~dundun-dundun.

Dundun~dundun-dundun.

Pyros went boom.

Everyone in attendance went "Boo"

Must have read a thousand faces!
Must have robbed them of their cause
Sickened thirst, sickened thirst, Keeps it together!
Soft white glow in the cranium
A bulls eye made sedated

BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE!

"Arcarnsenal" by At the Drive In

You know it's Villam Ender, so start booing.

But, before the people got a chance to get a good headway of hatred going, Villam came out from behind the curtains yelling for his music to be cut. Villam walked down the ramp and into the Asylum in relative silence. While in the cage, Villam threw his Asylum Championship title to the mat and pulled his mask back...

"Fuck this shit.

I'm serious.

Fuck it.

It's over.

I'm done."

The crowd in attendance lifted into an uproar of cheers as Villam got out of the cage, leaving the microphone behind, leaving his Championship behind, leaving his mask behind and most of all leaving the cage behind.

"I've had enough" Villam said as he shook his head and walked up the ramp...

Then.

He stopped.

And turned around.

The people jeered with a renewed strength.

Villam walked up the steps and went back into the cage, picking up his microphone...

"FUCK YOU, BORST!" the eunuch screamed as he pointed into the camera. Villam began to pace the cage, his feet working mechanically to hide the fury he felt.

"I'm not leaving! That's what you want, isn't it? Isn't it, Borst!? Hell, that's what you all want...you all would like nothing more than to see the man you hate....gone from your flawed sights. But guess what?

Nuh-UH. That ain't happenin'.

So, ladles and gentlespoons...if you're waiting, with your dick in your hand for a celebratory jerk for the time ol' Ender packs up his 9 inch Dildo and makes tracks, your dick is going to be is going to be in your sweaty little palm for a while."

This set off another round of boos and trash.

"So, apparently...Borst...

Borst is the Masked Brawler?-"

Before Villam could continue on with his rant the Asylumtron popped on. And with it...a face. A masked face. The people started to cheer - thinking it was Borst. But, the face of the Masked Brawler just shook his head. Villam's head jerked behind him and looked at the super screen which held the digital image of his nemesis.

Villam sneered.

"GRRR...BORST~!!"

"UM. NO. I AM NOT BORST, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKING TWINK."

Villam put his hands on his hips. "Oh? Then how do you explain what happened-"

"IT WAS A FUCKING DECEPTION, MR. TICKLE DICK. YOU THINK BECAUSE SOME FLYING VAGINA HEAD PUTS ON THE MASKED MASK OF THE MASKED BRAWLER AND THEN PULLS IT OFF AND THEN PEOPLE ARE ALL "WHOA!" LIKE JOEY FROM THE SHOW BLOSSOM THAT THE PERSON IS IN-FACT THE MASKED BRAWLER? YOU'RE DUMBER AND FAGGITIYER THAN YOU LOOK. AND SEEING AS HOW YOU LOOK LIKE THE CREATORS FROM THE HALLOWEEN MOVIES JUST SAID "FUCK IT, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE - GIVE THE ROLE OF JASON TO BUSTA RHYMES" THAT MAKES YOU PRETTY FUCKING DUMB...AND FAGGOTITY."

Villam face went from confused to insulted to angry to pissed in the time it took for the headless man to scratch his head with his penis.

"Ok, so...who the fuck was that last Friday then? How the fuck would Borst even know about the Friday tapings anyway?" Villam questioned.

"THE FUCK WAS BORST, DUMBASS. BORST PROBABLY KNEW ABOUT THE TAPINGS THE SAME WAY YOU KNEW.

THROUGH JOE.

IT WAS NOT ODD TO YOU THAT TAPINGS WERE SWITCHED TO FRIDAY JUST AFTER BORST SLAMMED YOUR FAGGOT-IN-TRAINING OF A KID IN THE HEAD WITH THE SEXY ASYLUM CHAMPIONSHIP?"

"Fuckin' Joe..." Villam muttered.

The Darth Vader/Dennis Miller wise ass voice of the masked brawler made a "Muhubooobeldlediddle" that could only be discerned as laughter.

"THAT'S RIGHT TITTY MOUTH!

I AM THE MASKED BRAWLER! I AM SOMEONE YOU KNOW VERY WELL. BUT NOT LIKE YOU KNOW BORST. YOU KNOW ME WELL...IN A WAY NOT MANY HAVE. OR EVER WILL. BUT I WILL NOT REVEAL MY ALL-IMPORTANT IDENTITY UNTIL I AM READY TO DO SO. SO, PLEASE....ENJOY THESE LONG LIST OF IMPOSTORS.

CARY COLEMAN.

KIM DEAL FROM THE BREEDERS.

CHRIS ROCK.

A USED CONDOM.

AND A TOE NAIL CLIPPING THAT I FOUND IN MY ZOOBURGER WHEN I WENT TO ZOO LAST WEEK."

Without another word, the floating (yes, it was floating the entire time - don't you feel out of the loop?) head of the Masked Brawler blipped out.

Villam shrugged.

"Ooooooooooooookkkk....

So...Borst isn't the Masked Brawler.

Bully for the real MB then.

That still doesn't let old Borstostine off of the god damn hook! I'm still pissed about that!

And now that I know Joe had something to do with Borst showing up, I'm double fucking pissed like two toilets full of urine."

Villam's pissed? Guess what? No one cares! And for that...the eunuch gets booed.

"Borst, I don't know if you fucking heard me the first time.

But, you are NOT.

GETTING.

A.

MATCH.

FOR.

THIS.

BELT.

You can attack me all you want. You can slam chair after chair after fucking chair into my head until it's misshapen and gangrene. You can pry apart my ass cheeks and spray them with a fine cheese mist and seek mice on my bunghole. You could shit on my no-dick and dip your dick in Thursday's armpit.

But, you are not.

Ever.

Ever.

Getting a shot at this title."

A round of jeering was set off by that comment and sudden realization that Villam was dead serious. Villam paced the ring until he stood over his title starting down at it longingly.

"You people think that I don't want to face Borst because I'm scared. Or because I might get beaten and make you fuckers happy or some shit. But, that ain't the case.

You wanna know what the case is?

The case is that I've worked hard for this belt. I've crawled up from the shit, the streets...fighting off 40-year old porn watching drug dealers and their track mark ridden whores. I've walked a long and arduous road. I've faced everyone that could possibly be faced in this world.

Wrestlers.

Fighters.

Sluts.

Motherfuckers.

Sane and Insane.

Honkeys and Niggers.

Sane and Insane.

Chinks and wetbacks.

Wops and Poles.

Pathetic weaklings and Kung Fu Masters.

I don't call myself the strongest fighter in the world because I think so highly of myself that I come to the ego-powered conclusion that I'm the strongest fighter in the world. I don't call myself the God of Fight because it sounds nice on t-shirts and sounds great in the mush mouths of idiotic smart mark youths.

When go into great deliberation about my greatness...

...I'm speaking from fact.

I've reached into the dirt this title was buried in and I gave this title renewed life..." Villam pleaded with hands outstretched.

"...people used to talk about the greatness of this belt in the past tense. I yanked out their tongues and now they speak of this title with a present day reverence.

*I*

*Me*

I was the one who shined off the shitty stains of the turd-like residue from this title and turned into something that everyone, this ENTIRE industry, could look to as a standard. The holy light from my title reign outshines the last year of knee jerk title matches, paper weight champions and just flat out World title division mistakes. The future holders of this belt will be living in my shadow for a long time to come, people.

So, why.

Why.

Why.

Why should I give Borst a shot at a title, a belt that I single-handedly made worth something? This title is worth a hundred times it's own weight in gold bullion because of me.

Therefore.

It would be logical to assume that I, myself, am on an entirely different level of existence.

I am on an entirely difference level of athleticism.

So you people have to understand me - more than ever before - when I say that to face Borst now...

...would be beneath me."

Booing, cups, swear words, homosexual chants and fag callings galore. Villam just shrugged.

"Hey, hey, hey now...I kid - I kid...

No, but seriously.

I'm not facing Borst."

More booing. Villam continued to pace the ring..."To face Borst now would mock all the work I've put into this UNSTOPPABLE REIGN OF HOLY GREATNESS that I-"

"Fuckin' in the Bushes" by Oasis

Women began diddling themselves, children sprouted pubes and discovered masturbation, old men - who's collective penises haven't worked in years - started putting their old wives over the barriers and start fucking them silly. A pig grew wings and a cow jumped over the moon. George W. Bush discovered iteration. But, most of all...there was cheering. Cheering. Loud, loud displays of affection and Borst looked unphased by it all...save for a few nods in the direction of the audience.

These people were simply elated that Borst had returned and was standing at the top of the ramp...making his way down with a microphone in his hand.

Borst stopped half way through...

"Dickhead." Borst said bluntly.

"I don't want a fucking match. I don't want the fucking title. You can keep the title for all I care, you've forever ruined and tainted that thing, so it might as well be worthless now. All I want to do Vickram, is hurt you. Lots and lots, for ruining all that hard work I put in years ago. You're a fucking disgrace. You with that title is just like spitting in my face, after all the work I put in to help establish this promotion. All the pain, blood, sweat and tears I went through to make that title mean something. And now... you have it. I just want to knock your fucking block off."

Villam shook his head.

"Motherfucker you keep saying that I'm tainting the title, but the fact is...this title is the best it's ever been in a hell of a long time. Of course you think I've fucking tainted it, you little dicked brit. You hardly did anything to hold onto this title. You didn't train, you didn't even fucking defend it. Before me this belt was exchange through screw jobs and backstabbing backstage deals. It was a rare occurrence that you stepped into this cage and answered a fucking challenge.

So, then along comes me. I defend, defend, defend and prove to the world that I am the great fighter that's ever lived. And all the while I make you look like a piece of fried shit on the sidewalk. So, if that's what you called tainting. Then I guess I'm guilty as fucking charged, gentry."

Borst sniggered to himself. "I love the way you try to use the term 'dicked' as an insult. I think that alone could sum up where I'm coming from. Besides, I don't ever remember refusing a challenge from someone for that title. I took on anyone thrown at me. Fucking look at that poll on the website. I, Pete Borst, was voted the greatest Asylum Champion ever. Funny that. They must be wrong since I'm just some lager louting dicked Brit that rules this whole industry.

While you've been setting a great example for the title, with ass raping, dick chopping, dildos... and you wear some fucking bondage mask to the ring. People just look at you and laugh, while people look and Pete Borst and see the greatest athlete to ever step in any type of ring, anywhere. The only reason no-ones took that title off you in your first week of the reign is because...

...well fuck, I wouldn't want touch you. I know where you've been."

Villam cracked a smile. He shook his head again almost in pity. For whatever reason, Borst saw fit to walk down the rampway and step into the cage...

Face to face with Villam.

Villam rolled his eyes. "Whatever Grand-ass-master, B.

I used the term "dicked" as a fucking joke. Especially when yours is so fucking useless. You call *me*...a freak? Motherfucker...you don't sleep. You don't fuck women. All you do is go on about your pathetic passé war on wrestling. You're like George W. Bush without the fucking cocaine addiction to explain your stupidity. You're always going on about people being inferior.

You know what I think?

I think you don't fuck women because you don't like the smell. I think that vaginas repulse you. And I think the reason you don't sleep is because every time you close your eyes you seeing men butt fuckering it up like a motherfucker. So, don't even blink, Boris. It always comes back to the ass raping for you. Because that's all you see...you fucking queer.

I don't give a shit what people think.

"People" ain't the fucking Asylum Champion.

"People" ain't the Strongest Fighter in the world.

"People" ain't the God of Fight.

All I know...is that you've lost to Nerva and Token fucking Weed. Two of the shittiest fighters to step into this ring since...Token Weed.

Oh, wait.

Well...you get what I'm saying right, gentry?

I'm saying you're a faggot and you fucking suck. Not only are you a fag, but you're a repressed fag who doesn't know he's a repressed fag and that's the worse kid of fag.

Basically, yellow-belly.

You're acting like a bit of an American.

ZING, BITCH."

Borst just shrugged.

"You're just resorting to insults that a 12 year old would use now, so I'm not gonna stoop to your level... I'll just get my dad on you, I hear he's bigger than yours." replied
Borst with a smirk.

"And those losses show just how fucking great I am. Token Weed bases his whole fucking career off of beating me, even though it took me being hit in the head with an axe by a mental lesbian for him to do so. The most tainted loss I've ever fucking had, and that guy uses it as the pinnacle of his career. It's heart warming, really, it is. But if someone beats you, it's just like... ugh, they had to touch you. I don't want to even think about it."

Villam shrugged as well.

"Alright, granted. We both agree that Token is an ass and he sucks hard. Even more than you.

But.

I want you to note what you just said, prince.

If.

Someone.

Beats me.

See, gentry...that's just the thing.

No one.

Has.

Beaten me.

There are no tainted losses in my career. There are only wins and title defences. You have nothing to judge me on except my outward appearances. Don't get caught up in the horror film wrappings. The hockey mask, the dildos, the general jovial nature.

Underneath is a real life monster.

I've fucked and killed better men than you, Borst.

And that goes for your little fuck puppet of a wife, as well."

"No tainted losses, no. Just losses. Lots of them. You were losing week after week while I ruled this place. And I remember you losing that title briefly a few weeks ago... to a wrestler. Short-term memory? I'm sure I could go through the old records and find looooooads of losses. Fuck man, we all lose sometimes. I'll admit I've lost once or twice before. It happens to the best of us. There's no need to lie about these things Vickram. I know you're having trouble defending yourself, but it's always gonna be hard for a guy with no balls, but..." Borst shook his head.

"Look at you. Everyone... just look at that guy. Think about all the extra curricular activities he has and does partake in. That guy is just sick. A disgrace. Look Vickram, all I want to do is slap you around a bit. Teach you a lesson, make you buck up your ideas a bit. But you go and looooower the tone, making up stories to make yourself look cool..." Sigh. "Sad."

Villam's ears perked up.

"MAKING UP STORIES!?

MOTHERFUC-...no, you know what...

Look in my records. You'll find maybe 3 or 4 losses, tops. I don't know what all this "we all lose sometimes" business is about, mark. But...*We*...doesn't include *me*. Because like you seem to love to point out...

*I* am different from *you*.

Different meaning BET-TER.

We can flap our yaps until the mad cows come home to London. But the only thing that's going to solve this is me putting my boot so far up your ass that you're going to have floss with my shoelaces.

As a matter of fact.

I'll bet you that it'll only take me 10 minutes to do it.

Open your eyes. I don't mean 10 minutes to cum in your ass. I mean 10 minutes to knock it out."

Borst crossed his arms while rolling his eyes. "I'm listening, Vickram."

Villam nodded. "Right. A 10-minute challenge. Here.

TONIGHT~!

If I beat you in 10 minutes...then you can fuck off back to Fuh-Whoa. And I can go back to being the strongest fighter in the world.

If you win."

Villam burst out into a fit of laughter.

"I mean...if you survive the 10 minutes with me. Then I'll fight you at the PPV. Deal?"

Borst shrugged. "Deal."

"NO DEAL!"

Enter: Joe Campbell.

Joe ran down the ramp and got into the cage, standing in-between Villam and Borst.

That's something you shouldn't do.

"You guys can't fight right now, you'll ruin the bloody main event. Save it for the fucking match you guys. Please?"

Villam took his mask off from around his neck.

"I've got just the answer for that, Campy old buddy....

...Catch."

Villam faked like he was going to throw the mask at Borst, but threw it at Joe.

Joe caught it.

Borst grabbed the mask and slammed it into Joe's face.

Then he did what comes natural.

He punched him.

Borst raised his fist to the sky while the fans cheered.

Villam looked down at Campbell.

"Stay out of my way, fuckhead."

Carnage© Vs Hypnosis
(T.V. Title)

Two men were born across the Atlantic Ocean from one another. One was born that day in West Chester, Pennsylvania, the other in London, England. Both men during their time in the Asylum have won over the fans. Both men are former Extreme Champions, both me have held the title that now adorns Carnage’s waist. Both men have lost a parent, both men had their very family foundations rocked. Both men.. are acknowledged as warriors, for the things they put their bodies through..

Both men, want to leave the arena tonight with a victory..

“It Doesn’t Really Matter,” by Confidential. The crowd exploded, as the bandaged Ty Hughes made his way out to the arena, no matter how much they cheered others, it seemed that they loved Hughes more than any other fighter on the roster, but to him, it no longer mattered. Not as much as it used to, as he marched his way down to the Asylum cage. He hopped into the ring, and the longest reigning TV champ ever, was ready to show the people that he was worthy of winning the fan vote over the likes of Token Weed, Karen Pembridge, Fatts McGarron, and Miles Blunder. Hughes’ music faded out, as he continued to walk around the ring. The crowd calmed but the chant started up..

“HUGHES!”

“HUGHES!”

“HUGHES!”

“Adrenaline Rush,” by Twista. And the “Hughes” chants subsided as the crowd cheered on the youngest Corteia as he made his way down to the ring. Carnage stopped at the top of the ramp and looked down at the fighter formerly known as Hypnosis, and with a simple nod, he charged down to the ring full speed. Carnage sprung himself in one motion up over the Asylum rim. He unstrapped the belt from his waist, and handed it to the ref while looking up into the eyes of Hughes, Carnage’s music faded out, and a portion of the crowd had their say..

“CARNAGE!”

“CARNAGE!”

“CARNAGE!”

The crowd noise rose to a fever pitch, as both men stood nose to nose, and finally the bell rang. Carnage shoved Hughes in the chest, sending him a few steps back. Hughes charged in for a punch, but the blow was avoided by Carnage who grabbed Ty by the waist and began to lift him in the air for a Belly-to Belly suplex, but it was blocked as Hughes who raked Carnage across the eyes! Hughes grabbed Carnage’s hand, and sent him in for an Irish whip, Carnage attempted to counter the flow but he went right into Hughes for a Hip toss.

The ring shook as Carnage jumped back to his feet, charging at Hughes with a shoulder block, the longest reigning Asylum TV champ ever nailed a DDT! The ref went for a count..

1...

2...

Carnage was back up on his feet, he charged in, but smartly backed up and watched Hughes across the ring. As if one, both men started round the ring at the same time, suddenly both men charged towards the middle of the ring, Hughes up high, Carnage down low. Carnage swept the legs from underneath Ty, stood and dropped a empathy drawing head butt to the nether regions of Hughes, causing him to scream in pain. Carnage climbed onto Hughes’ chest, and began pounding him with violent rights and lefts, as he attempted to break back open the wounds from Hughes’ feud with the Freak. Finally Carnage eased up and stood, the ref came in to make a count..

1...

2...

3...

Hughes was back to his feet. Hughes climbed his way to his feet using the mesh as an aid, Carnage measured him up and charged in with an elbow smash, but at the last second Hughes moved! Carnage slammed his side hard on the Asylum rim. Hughes was behind him now and had a grip of Carnage’s thick hair and began to slam Carnage face first into the rim, the repetitions hit ten, and Hughes tossed Carnage back hard onto the mat as his face was bloodied. The crowd exploded with cheers for Carnage as another count ensued.

1...

2...

3...

Carnage jumped back up to his feet, and went for a kick to Hughes’ midsection, but the former Tornado Wrestling Hardcore champ jumped back dodging the blow. Hughes moved right back in, tagging Carnage with a right and then a left, as Carnage went for a wild blow to Ty, his arm was caught, and Hughes nailed Stone Head injuring Carnage’s nose even more! Blood ran from his nose, and the river ran all the way to his chin, and some dripped down to the floor. Hughes released as Carnage took two steps back, and as he spotted the blood on the ground, he stopped looked Ty Hughes in the face and the entire viewing audience heard Carnage loud and clear.. “HAhAHAhahAHaAHAhahAhahAHAHA!” as he began to laugh insanely at his blood that was spilled.

If Hughes was unfamiliar with Carnage, such a sequence, would have disoriented him, but knowing Carnage, Hughes charged in for a clothesline, but narrowly missed the ducking Carnage, who darted behind him and locked in a rear waistlock. Lift and.. German Suplex! Carnage climbed back up with his arms locked around Hughes’ waist.. Lift and.. German Suplex! Carnage stood again.. Lift and.. German Suplex!! For the fourth time Carnage got up with his arms locked tightly around the waist of Hughes.. Lift and… overhead release German suplex!!

The crowd did the only thing they could manage to do, and that was cheer on the Television champion loudly, as the ref went in to make the count..

1...

2...

3...

4...

5...

And an even louder ovation was heard as Ty Hughes stood up. He breathed deeply, trying to get his bearings, he held the back of his head as he began to walk off the fog in his head. But Carnage didn’t seem to be in favor of giving him the time to recover, as he grabbed his hand and sent him in for an Irish Whip, and Hughes’ back hit the cage hard. Carnage stood and charged in for the spear, but he was knocked back by a boot to the face from Ty!

Hughes charged in and nailed an inverted bulldog! The ref began to count, but it was disrupted, Ty wanted to finish Carnage off with something he knew would put him out, he hoisted Cornelius Corteia up on his shoulder and the crowd cheered as they foresaw Knockout coming. As Hughes pushed Carnage up right ready to nail the Knockout.. But missed?!

Carnage pushed himself back allowing him to land behind Hughes where he sent a harsh elbow to the base of Hughes’ head knocking Ty down to the ground! Hughes fans all around the arena feared what was going to happen to Hughes after the concussion problems he has had as of late. The ref began to count..

1...

2...

3...

4...

5...

6...

And Hughes was up, yet again! The chants began again, as the crowd repeated his name over and over, Carnage rushed in with a double axe handle.. SUPERKICK! Cutting through whatever fog that resided in his head, Hughes with laser like precision cut through and hit Carnage right in the jaw, knocking the champ down to the mat. Fans were jumping up and down cheering loudly, because no matter how much they might like Carnage, they loved Hughes, Hughes was their champion..

1...

2...

3...

4...

5...

6...

7...

8...

9...

Ten?!

Not this time! Carnage crawled up to his feet, and the crowd let up a huge empathic noise. Hughes went to pull Carnage up to his feet, but he walked right into a rocking uppercut which sent Hughes stumbling backwards into the cage. Carnage walked methodically over to Hughes, and grabbed onto the back of his head, but before he could do anything, Hughes had his arms wrapped around Corteia’s waist. He began to lift, but the Ringout was blocked, he tried again.. But this time he received a knee down low causing him to double over. Carnage grabbed onto his head and spiked Hughes with a DDT!

1...

2...

3...

4...

5...

6...

7...

8...

9...

POP!

Hughes seemingly had to have a bullet placed in his head to be finished in this one, the crowd was going absolutely nuts, as Hughes stood, fans were now jumping, pumping their fists, and chanting his name all at once, this had to be his day. Carnage charged forward right into..

Kick..

WHAM!

Stunner! Carnage stumbled, Ty Hughes rushed under grabbed a hold of him, Rock Bottom! He bounced off the steel cage, leg drop! It’s WRESTLEMANIA!~ The crowd cheered loudly as Hughes pulled Carnage into a standing head scissors, and he yelled out loud to the crowd in mocking fashion, “POUR-BOMB!” He had Carnage up for the power bomb, but..

BAM!

Carnage nailed Hughes with a hard right, rocking Hughes backwards, Carnage followed with a left, and then his blows came in more rapidly. Carnage grabbed a hold of Hughes’ head, and shifted the weight back nailing another DDT! No matter who the fans wanted to win, they cheered, and cheered hard. Carnage was back up to his feet, and he grabbed Hughes by the side, he stood close to the cage wall, and he lifted Hughes up, and Carnage jumped up enough to push himself off of the rim.. And he nailed a jumping Backdrop Driver!

Carnage crawled up on all fours as the ref began to count Hughes down, Carnage grabbed the rim, and stood on it watching Hughes from above..

1...

2...

3...

4...

5...

6...

7...

8...

What Carnage didn’t notice was the cage door swinging open because of Karen Pembridge, and as the count closed in on ten, she yanked the former Extreme champion out of the ring. The crowd was confused as she lead Hughes to the back, but they knew one thing as “Adrenaline Rush” hit, and that was that for the second time in as many weeks, Carnage beat the person who was put in front of him by Campbell. The only question now was, who was next?

“Hello.”

Special K cut off Sebastian straightaway: “Hang on mate. Erm… I think you’ve got the wrong room. Sorry.”

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it: “No. You’re John Willis’ brother aren’t you?”

“Fuck’s sake man. What is it about Wor Johnny the night like? What aftershave is he wearing? Aye. I am his brother. Well stepbrother.”

“What do you know about him?”

The Height of Humanity stood with his hands on his hips and stared at Sebastian: “What do you want to know about him?”

“Well I’m meant to be teaming with him so I just thought you’d be able to pass on any tips and hints.”

“Look son. This isn’t Grand Theft Auto. He’s a big bastard with hardly any teeth and an even lower IQ.”

It wasn’t exactly what Thompson wanted: “Thanks for fucking nothing.”

As he was opened the door to depart, the Newcastle native shouted something: “Watch D’Alessandro though. He’s a snake. Believe me. John’s a pussycat in the head. Michael isn’t.”

He may’ve been stating the obvious but it clarified what everyone, including Sebastian, had thought all along.

Sebastian Thompson & John C. Willis Vs Legion of Dairy

“Sellout” by Biohazard hit, and the crowd went crazy as the Asylum Team Champions, cHEESE and egg NOG, the LoD made their way out into the arena. But after their dealings with Splink the expressions that adorned their faces, were those of anger. But back in the ring, Sebastian attempted an Irish Whip on John C. but was unable to send the 315 pound man across the ring. Willis’ massive club struck Sebastian down to the mat. But the Phoenix jumped right back up, but this time he gave Willis some room, before starting to go around the ring in a circle, Willis participated as the two began to feel each other out. They both charged forward, but the larger man fell down with a boot to the right knee, making him collapse down on the mat. Sebastian was up, and administering boots to the knee he had just attack, but right into his fifth stomp, his onslaught was stopped.. He was nailed with a diving reverse DDT by cHEESE!

cHEESE and egg NOG yanked Sebastian up to his feet, and both men sent him in for an Irish Whip, which caused the former Smilthy fighter crashing into the cage wall. LoD charged in and nailed Sebastian with a double clothesline! As the Team Champs began to pull Sebastian back to his feet, the three men were splashed into the cage wall by John C. Willis! Willis reached down and pulled NOG to his feet with a grab of his blond locks, and sent a hard knee to the gut doubling the champion over, he pulled NOG’s arm between his legs preparing for a pump handle slam, but the moment he lifted egg NOG off the mat, cHEESE sent a shoulder block into the same knee of Willis knocking him back to the ground.

NOG bounced off the top of Willis, and began to gain his footing, but immediately he was grabbed up by Sebastian who locked him in for a DDT. But with all his for NOG charged forward sending Thompson’s spine into the cage rim forcing him to relinquish the grasp of NOG’s head. NOG was up and grabbed Sebastian’s hand whipping him right into a Drop Toe Hold from cHEESE. cHEESE rolled through and locked in a single leg Boston Crab. Forcing the ref to get down and ask Sebastian if he wanted to quit, but each time he yelled a resounding “No!”

NOG got a chair from outside, and charged forward and nailed a diving dropkick with chair into the face of Sebastian, busting the 30 year old man wide open! NOG stood up with chair in hand but now he faced Willis who was charging forward, NOG stuffed the chair into the abdomen of Willis, and nailed a chair shot to the back of the former TFZ champion, he dropped the chair to the side, rear waist lock by NOG and he lifted the larger Willis in the air.. German Suplex! The ref stopped questioning whether or not Sebastian was willing to submit, right after cHEESE relinquished the hold.

Sebastian struggled to get to his feet, and crawled past the competitors as the ref administered a count to the downed Willis, but it was stopped at only five as the big name was getting back up to his feet. Not for long! Sebastian leveled him with a solid chair shot rocking the toothless stalwart’s body and dropping him down to the mat. Sebastian looked around the ring, and NOG was in his crosshairs, he lifted the chair and charged forward.. Into a VAN DAIRYNATOR~!

The count was up to six and at the same time both Willis and Sebastian were up to their feet. As Sebastian charged forward to Willis, cHEESE came from behind locking in a crossface chickenwing, low blow by Sebastian making cHEESE about the five hundredth person to be doubled over during this match. Uppercut by Sebastian, rocking cHEESE back a few steps, Sebastian followed up with a right, but cHEESE gripped onto his arm and threw him to the mat and locked on the Government cHEESE! Sebastian fought the hold valiantly, but he was being brought near his breaking point, until for some reason unknown John C. Willis came in from his conflict with NOG and sent a stiff boot to his back breaking the hold. Maybe John C. Willis wanted to become a Team Champion?

Well his wish wouldn’t come true, if NOG could help it, as he loaded the chair up and then he leapt into the air hoping to take Willis by surprise. The dirty dreadlock having monster, grabbed onto NOG and slammed him back down feet first on the mat. Then his hand darted in locking around NOG’s throat, he lifted and nailed one half of the Team champs with a powerful chokeslam.

Sebastian and cHEESE were back up to their feet, as the ref administered a count to the fallen NOG in the background. Sebastian and cHEESE traded blows, cHEESE grabbed onto Sebastian attempting to turn another errant punch, into a submission hold, but this time Sebastian rolled with it and ended out behind cHEESE, he locked on for a Cobra Clutch. He tried lifting cHEESE up and into the “Third Degree Burn” but cHEESE blocked it, and finally reversed the maneuver by throwing Thompson over his shoulder and hard into the steel mesh.

NOG got up before seven, and Willis charged towards cHEESE with a chairshot, but the Dairytown native darted through the legs of John C. NOG was running straight at cHEESE, and cHEESE dropped down on his knees and boosted egg NOG high into the air.. And NOG landed a bulldog onto John C. Willis! The chair in Willis’ hands narrowly missing Sebastian Thompson.

Sebastian charged forward and was nailed with a hip toss by cHEESE. Sebastian’s body was bent in half as he was placed in both a Camel clutch from cHEESE, and a Carton of egg NOG, by.. You guessed it, egg NOG. The count was broken at six, as John C. Willis got back up to his feet, swiftly the ref was over asking Sebastian whether he was willing to submit. But the answers were the same a before. Willis watched the action, as Michael D’Alesandro was demanding him to leave Sebastian at the hands of the two time Asylum Team Champions.

Willis ignored D’Alesandro’s calls, and he bent down and grabbed the steel chair that had random use in the matchup.

SMACK!

SMACK!

Hard chairshots to the heads of each of the Team Champs causing them to break their hold of Sebastian. The ref began a count, but amidst the ruble of human bodies, was Sebastian who after the combination of maneuvers struggled to get to his feet. The count reached five and Willis defying all prior John C. Willis logic and lifted Sebastian up propping him up against the rim. Perhaps one of the biggest upsets in the Asylum was about to happen, as the LoD was going to lose…

Wait, I messed that up, one of the most expected things was happening as the LoD lost their chance to loss as the two got up to their feet to a standing ovation from the fans in attendance, and most likely those at home were cheering as well.

egg NOG went for Sebastian, and cHEESE went for Willis. cHEESE was mugged to the face hard by Willis sending him down to the mat, but quickly Willis charged forward and was tripped by cHEESE making him fall face first down onto the mat. Sebastian charged for NOG, but was hit with a boot to the gut, followed up by a Tornado DDT! Meanwhile on the other side of the ring, cHEESE had Government cHEESE locked onto Willis! The giant oaf forced his way to his feet, but the hold cHEESE had locked in was taking a lot out of John C. Slowly Willis base was taken from him as he began to stumble.

NOG brought Sebastian to his feet and as he prepared to set him up for his finisher, Sebastian shoved him hard into the chest, Thompson geared up and went for Cinders!.. But NOG dived out of the way and Sebastian connected with the 360 elbow smash right into the face of Willis busting his nose open. After he nailed it Thompson shrugged and sent a boot to Willis’ body dropping him the rest of the way down to the mat. NOG stopped and charged towards Sebastian, as Government cHEESE was tightened on Willy. But before NOG could get to him, Sebastian leapt over the railing leaving Willis all by himself. Sebastian looked into the ring at NOG, but as he ran around the ring he had a different target altogether, and it was proven as he smacked the unsuspecting Michael D’Alesandro with a right to the face! The blow dropped D’Alesandro down to the mat, and Sebastian began to frisk him finally coming up with his black wallet. Sebastian began to breathe heavily then he charged to the backstage area..

In the meantime in the ring, Willis finally passed out due to a lack of blood flow, the bell rang giving LoD the win, and the fans in attendance rejoiced as “Sellout” blared over the speaker system of the arena.

The Freak© Vs Eddie Cheno
(Extreme Title)

The fans began to cheer, jumping to their feet and pounding their fists in the air in time to the music. The curtains were brushed aside as two blue pyros shot into the air from either side of the ramp, and rocketed to the rafters… as the entranceway became a haze of grey and blue smoke. Down the ramp strolled the somewhat stoned form of Eddie Cheno, who raised a single fist (holding a bong) into the air as he trundled up the steps and climbed into the cage.

Little fanfare for Cheno. He was done with fanfare. He was all about FIGHTING, now.

Fighting for a title… to be a player of the promotion again, to attain the respect that he deserved for his tenure in the Asylum and to prove himself a better fighter than his opponent. That is… if his opponent showed. After taking a vile beating at the hands of Steve Christ earlier in the night, it was a wonder if The Freak would even show.

The fans certainly hoped that he wouldn’t. Eddie Cheno, on the other hand, came here tonight for a *fight* and wouldn’t leave until he got one.

Eddie stretched his shoulders against the rim of the cage as the lights dimmed down to black and the fans prepared themselves to unleash an inundation of boos and hate.

The bell chimed.

The lights began to flicker a red and black as the fans booed, screamed, and jeered. Trash was thrown prematurely towards the ramp… but nobody came out. ‘Carpe Diem’ never began to play.

The bell chimed again. But once more, there was no Freak in sight. It seemed that Christ’s brutal assault had taken it’s toll and the reigning Extreme Champion wouldn’t be able to make it to the cage for a single defence against the ex-TV Champion in Eddie Cheno. The flickering red lights only agitated the fans more, as Cheno began to stamp his foot…

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Soon the whole arena were stamping in time with him… their feet banging against the floor and causing their disappointment to be broadcasted to people that were fucking *miles* away from the arena. An old woman in Utah dropped her knitting needles and had a heart attack whilst her great grandson is Australia was eaten by a dingo.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

The bell chimed again. This time louder than the first…

The fans waited with baited breath.

‘Carpe Diem’ by Will Haven.

Time how much have I wasted
I never grasped a clock
'Till he passed away
Greed rules what we make of ourselves
From the beggar to the chooser
Who survives at the end of the trail

THE TRAIL!
THE TRAIL!
THE TRAIL!

The curtains were pushed aside and the fans reacted with a an absolute wave of heckling and hissing, before hurling their garbage in The Freak’s general direction. He stumbled out onto the ramp, and EMT by his side urging him not to go down to the cage… and his trenchcoat absent. Bandages were wrapped around his face and head, and one of his elbows was set in a frame to support it… he staggered down the ramp with a limp, holding his neck, with his Extreme Title strapped around his waist.

Cheno smiled cunningly as The Freak slowly stepped up the ring steps and dragged himself over the rim and into the cage. He began to pace around, whilst unbuckling his title from his waist… his eyes dead set on his stoned enemy. His blood began to trickle from under his bandages as the referee called for the bell.

ding. ding.

Cheno instantly made the first move, charging at The Freak and wrenching at his legs with his powerful arms, slamming him up against the cage. The Freak fought back with punches to Cheno’s back as Edward locked his arms around The Freak’s waist and dragged him away from the rim…

CRACK

Before slamming him back into it as violently as possible. These men had battled before but only briefly and that match came to no avail… now they were ready to prove who was truly the worthiest fighter. Eddie brought The Freak backwards, manhandling him, and spun around again with the Emasculator locked tightly in his arms…

CRACK

Slamming him into the cage once more. Eddie then released his grip as The Freak placed a hand on his aching, semi-broken back… and stepped back. The sensational stoner raised a single fist into the air to a halo of cheers from the audience, before burying his fist in The Freak’s abdominals… as The Freak keeled over, Cheno struck upwards with a powerful uppercut that almost removed the Freak’s head from his body and in the process caused him to flop face-down on the canvas.

As the Bulldozer, who was looking FAR from a bulldozer at the moment, was counted on… Eddie reached over the rim of the cage and came up with a little friend of his.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8…

The Freak was on his knees. The fans booed… but those boos soon turned to cheers as Eddie slammed a steel chair down across The Freak’s skull, almost breaking it in half in the process! Eddie snarled ferociously, reached back…

CRACK!!

And another. The Freak’s hand was reaching out, attempting to grab the steel mesh that surrounded him in a dire effort to bring himself back to his feet… but he was totally fucked, physically. Cheno stepped back to allow the Blackblood to stagger to his feet with a fresh gash, a clean cut of flesh removed from his scalp and pouring blood down his raggedy features. Cheno took another step back and reached forwards with his left hand, grabbing a clump of The Freak’s damp hair, and using his free hand to hold the chair by it’s cross-bar…

Oooh!

Eddie then sadistically jabbed the edge of the chair into The Freak’s neck, causing the Red Ripper to cough and splutter, flecks of blood finding their way over his lip and glistening like stray strawberry seeds in the arena lights. Cheno’s face was etched with resentment, his lines showing a competitiveness that only a fight in the Asylum could display… as he brought the chair tearing through the air once more, the hard irony surface of the household object steaming into The Freak’s forehead and full force.

CRR-AA-RR-AAACKKK!!

The Freak buckled under the sheer power of the chairshot, Cheno’s muscles tensing and his fingers gripping the chair legs with a sprinkling of perspiration. Eddie snarled, baring his teeth and his eyes curling upwards, as he brought the chair down again, causing blood to spray up his arms like comet tails from Fenn-Grail’s lacerations. A win seemed not too far away, as the referee made another count.

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9…

10--

?

…

Just nine.

The Freak gripped the rim of the cage like a lifesaver, his bloodied hands smearing a thin metallic residue of scarlet over the mesh. Cheno still had the chair held tightly in his hands, and his brown eyes showed confidence, he knew that he was on the winning side tonight. Steve Christ had already done The Freak over… he’d already had the main meal, now all Eddie had to do was eat the scraps. The chair was flung high again…

*-SMACK!-*

And clocked The Freak upside the head, causing him to fly backwards over the cage and topple down to the outside to the fans’ joy. The Freak landed directly on his head, crushing his skull against the untiring hard concrete, and causing his consciousness to flicker from on-to-off-to-on.

Eddie jumped down out of the cage, leaving the dented steel chair on the canvas, and gave The Freak a playful kick to the head… as if testing the waters for signs of life. The Freak hissed under his breath, his face stained red, and began to push himself up from the mats…

THWACK!!

Only to meet Eddie Cheno’s heavy fighting boot straight to his eye socket. The fans were experiencing sheer euphoria right about now, as Eddie was butchering The Freak before their very eyes… destroying him and tiring him out. The Freak leaned back against the ring steps, his back arching over as his chest rose and fell rapidly… he couldn’t take much more damage. Cheno reached under the apron of the cage… and pulled out a wooden baseball bat made of grizzled wood. The Freak leaned forwards over the steps, trying to get to his feet…

Only to find a baseball bat snapping over the back of his head, sending him face-first into the steel. Blood sprayed once more, and Eddie was showing his animal side… as he didn’t just leave The Freak there. He picked the Red Ripper up by his hair, then hauled all two-hundred-and-sixty pounds of him onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry… before charging towards the commentary desk, and diving forwards… slamming The Freak neck-first into the side of it!

Eddie got to his feet and spat on the floor, before throwing his arms into the air…

“EDD-EE!”

“EDD-EE!”

“EDD-EE!”

“EDD-EE!”

“EDD-EE!”

1!
2!
3!
4!
5!
6!
7!
8!
9…?

The Freak was up.

Eddie was pissed.

Eddie charged in… and slammed his elbow into The Freak’s face, knocking blood and spittle flying into the fans. He repeated the process a further two times, before rolling The Freak onto the commentary desk… and heading back to the cage, reaching under the apron, and pulling out a ladder.

Wasting no time walking back over to The Freak, Cheno hopped onto the commentary desk and turned his ladder upside-down so that it was now pointing down towards The Freak’s stomach… then let rip. He slammed the steel top step of the ladder into the Red Ripper’s stomach once.

Twice.

WHOO!!

Thrice.

WHOO!!

And kept going until The Freak had been struck with the weapon fifteen times, before dumping it to the other commentary desk and raising his fists into the air.

“CHEE-NO!!”
“CHEE-NO!!”
“CHEE-NO!!”
“CHEE-NO!!”
“CHEE-NO!!”
“CHEE-NO!!”

He had the fans behind him.

He had his confidence behind him.

He had the referee counting, behind him.

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

6!

7!

8!

9!

.

.

10!

…Nah.

Just nine, as The Freak got to his knees and spurted a globule of blood out in front of himself… before dragging himself all the way to his feet. Eddie was waiting with a right hand---

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!

But The Freak blocked it. His first offence in the match had finally made itself known as The Freak grabbed Eddie’s fist before it made contact and squeezed it, twisting it around so that Eddie’s eyes were wide with pain… Cheno threw out his other fist but that was met with the same fate via Freak’s alternate hand. The Freak then smiled, and shot himself forwards… slamming a brutal headbutt into Cheno’s nose and causing it to practically mash across his face. Releasing Eddie’s hands, the Emasculator jumped…

Hurricane Kick. The Freak didn’t have the energy to stay standing and dropped to his knees, as Eddie flew backwards, his jaw wrenched out of place and his eyes rolling in his head as he slumped over the edge of the commentary desk. The Freak continued with his assault as he got to his feet, falling backwards and slamming an elbow into the back of Cheno’s head… before hopping from the commentary desk and picking up the ladder.

He set it up… and looked at Cheno. He picked Cheno up under a single arm, wrapping it around his stomach, and like Quasimodo clambering up the towers to the bells, he hauled Eddie up the ladder with himself.

The fans booed endlessly, almost drowning out the commentators… as the two fighters were suspended on the top of the ladder. The Freak slumped Cheno over the top, and rested… puffing and panting as Cheno slowly remembered who he was and began to place his feet on the steps only second from the top… unfortunately. This was exactly what his opponent wanted him to do.

The Freak jumped… he leaped onto the top of the ladder… and then jumped down, wrapping a single arm around Cheno’s skull… and pulling him from the very same ladder.

All the way down.

The ladder toppled… Cheno and the Freak fell.

Through the commentary desk, with a tornado DDT from the ladder itself.

The wood exploded in a pile of splinters and broken boards, Cheno’s head smashed through the desk and one of the monitors in the process. The Freak lay flat on his back on top of the crushed wood, as Cheno rolled onto his stomach and reached for his head… his features wracked in pain. The Freak began to slowly stagger to his feet, using the alternate commentary desk for leverage… he reached upwards and dragged himself to his feet as Cheno lay in the debris. The fans booed excessively… culminating in:

“KILL-HIM, EDDIE!”
“KILL-HIM, EDDIE!”
“KILL-HIM, EDDIE!”
“KILL-HIM, EDDIE!”
“KILL-HIM, EDDIE!”
“KILL-HIM, EDDIE!”

The Freak waved off the fans with his bloodied right hand, and began to lurch away from the scene of crime… snapping up the commentator’s chairs, one in each hand, and standing a yard or so away from Edward. He set up the first one on all four legs, and gripped the second in both hands… as Eddie staggered back up to his feet at the count of seven, The Red Ripper jumped onto the first chair and hurled the second towards Eddie…

… …Eddie caught it…

The Freak somersaulted forwards, and smashed it into his face with a flipping Scissor Kick~!

Cheno rocketed backwards with blood streaming from his lip, almost in slow motion as he slammed against the guardrail and almost smashed THROUGH it with force. The chair was dented by the heavy kicking power of The Freak’s boot, and The Freak himself dropped onto his back before kipping up to his feet awkwardly.

The referee made the count as The Freak snapped up the chair from which he jumped from originally and leaned back against the guardrail…

1!

2!

3!

4!

5!

Cheno was getting back up…

CRACK!!

“Stay down, don’t make a fool of yourself son.”

BOOOOOoooo!!

6!

7!

8…

Cheno was back up, leaning against the Spanish Announcer’s desk. The Freak threw the chair forwards and jabbed it towards Cheno… but Eddie caught it this time, and wrenched it away from the Red Ripper. The Freak ducked the initial chairshot and popped back up to send a powerful uppercut into Eddie’s sternum…

Eddie keeled over, coughing a few stray droplets of blood… before reaching deep within himself and connecting with a powerful chairshot to The Freak’s back anyway. The Freak dropped to one knee, and Edward dropped the chair… before spinning, and slapping his bootlaces into the side of The Freak’s head, Buzzsaw style!

As The Freak dropped onto his face… The Big E-C grabbed a handful of his hair and began to drag him, with one arm… past the cage. Cheno eventually reached the opposite ringsteps to the ones used in the bout earlier, and threw The Freak up against them… before reaching under that apron once more.

Barbed Wire.

“I ain’t playin’ no funkin’ games wit you mang. I want that there title, and I’m gonna funkin’ get it,” Cheno said… as he stretched the barbed wire out in his palms, and began to roll it from the tube that it was wrapped around. The Freak staggered to his feet on the steps, his hand just about grabbing the rim of the cage…

Then he felt Eddie’s hand reach around his front. With the wire.

Cheno wrapped a thin line of spiked, vicious wire around The Freak’s waist, and began to pull him backwards… the needles and pins sinking into The Emasculator’s stomach as Cheno wrenched back, the wire digging into his palms as he wrapped a second sadistic line around The Freak…

Then, he wrapped his arms around The Freak and stepped up onto the ringsteps beside him… before…

THUUUUUUUUD~!~!!!!

German suplexing the barbed-wire encased monster all the way from the ringsteps… and onto the roll of barbed wire itself. The fans practically orgasmed as The Freak’s neck and head were spiked into the metal barbs… and Cheno was instantly on top of him, grinding his face into the wire and spitting, snarling for The Freak to quit.

The Freak’s reply?

SMACK

An elbow to the eye socket. Cheno reeled back, as The Freak got to his feet, slowly… tearing a long strand of wire from the roll, and turning to Eddie with fire in his crimson eyes. Eddie’s eyes grew wide as he turned… straight into a running uppercut, The Freak’s hand wrapped in wire. Eddie stumbled back against the guardrail, as The Emasculator took a step back of his own and gored his shoulder into Cheno’s sternum, causing the guardrail to topple over and the buckles holding the frames to snap!

The fans were swarming closer to the cage as a huge hold was knocked through the guardrail, the security rushing in to stop anything getting out of hand… as The Freak pulled on Eddie’s blue hair ferociously, dragging him to his feet…

“Come on child… I thought you wanted to play?” The Freak hissed, as he grabbed onto Eddie’s ears and smashed his forehead into Cheno’s eyesocket… once… twice…

He wasn’t stopping.

The Stoner’s eye was becoming a tattered mess of blood and gore as The Freak continued to slam headbutt after headbutt into Cheno’s face, the fans around him growing frenzied and crazed as blood splattered and mingled on the concrete. Cheno dropped to his knees, The Freak’s fingers still clutching his ears…

*CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK*

Wherein, The Freak smashed his knee into Cheno’s face. Repetitively. A pair of fans that were obviously not Freak supporters tried to intervene, but the Emasculator sent a single hook kick to each of them to show that he was not to be fucked with… knocking out them.

And.

The fans behind them.

Cheno began to stumble up, the blood in his eyes causing his vision to become blurred and reddened… as he did so he shot out a fist, but unfortunately for Eddie The Freak was in the zone now. He grabbed Cheno’s wrist, and whipped him over one shoulder with an O Goshi, keeping a hold of the same wrist… and dropping down onto the floor besides Cheno, as security held back the raging fans.

The Freak scissored Cheno’s arm… and reared his fists back across Cheno’s face.

A perfect Exxa Deathlock. With Cheno face-down on the broken guardrail… his neck being cranked up at a ridiculous angle, and his teeth grated together, blood pouring from his battered eye socket.

The referees, who were fighting the crowd back with security, asked Cheno if he wanted to tap…

“NO, FUNK NO… NOOOO!!!”

The Freak tightened his grip, as Eddie reached out… grabbing a bar of the railing and pulling on it. He tried to drag himself forwards, away and out of the hold… but The Freak’s grip was far too tight. Cheno could feel the pain building in his eyes… the blood and the tears.

“Tap. Tap Cheno… can you feel *cough* the pain burning at the back of your head, enveloping your brain… can you feel the fire in your belly slowly being extinguished? Come on Cheno… you have to admit it now. You’re a nothing, a loser… a pissant. You dare to lose the title… CAMPBELL’S title… OUR title to Carnage? CARNAGE? You inadequate FUCK…”

Cheno’s hand gripped that one steel bar… his biceps clenched and his triceps contracted, as his wrist yanked on that bar…

“FUNK… YOU!” Cheno roared, as the bar was torn from the frame of the guardrail… and sent back into The Freak’s cheek! The Freak finally released his grip on Cheno, as Eddie crawled forwards across the ringmats… leaving a trail of blood behind himself. The Freak quickly kipped to his feet… but by this time Eddie has somehow found the courage inside himself to fight back. He swung that metal bar like a sword of light towards The Freak…

        CRACK!!

      CRACK!!

    CRACK!!

The Freak’s forehead was lined with another deep cut, and his skull was surely ruptured by the sheer POWER of Eddie’s strikes… The Red Ripper, who was now most CERTAINLY red all over, snarled and charged forwards again only for Cheno to jab the bar up and under The Freak, jamming it into his stomach and almost stabbing it through him.

Cheno then dropped the bar… and grabbed The Freak’s hair, before hauling him up the ringsteps and into the cage.

Cheno prepared himself, as the fans were behind him… chanting his name. “Eddie. Eddie. EDDIE.”

The Freak began to stumble back to his feet… blood causing little circles, like red coins, to form on the grey canvas…

Eddie threw a foot upwards and towards into The Freak’s face, knocking the Emasculator up against the cage with a hefty footprint on his features. He leaned back against the mesh… he… he…

He charged forwards like an animal, as Cheno threw a fist out towards The Freak’s face. The Freak was far faster… powered mentally by some unintelligible force, as he could almost predict Cheno’s every movement. He ducked under the stoner’s arm and delivered a knee to his chest, before hooking his arms behind his back and kicking him in the backs of his legs. Cheno was lifted into the air like a rag doll with a military press…

And thrown, face-first, across the rim.

The Freak watched Eddie’s face muscles contract and heard them creak as Cheno’s breaths escaped his lips in slow motion spurts of oxygen… Eddie’s sweat was growing more and more in quantity and the blood tasted bitter on the air…

The Bulldozer grabbed Cheno by his hair and his belt, and turned with him, spinning him around…

CRACK!!

And smashing the top of his skull into the cage door. Without relenting, he did so once more… forcing Cheno’s head into the cold, hard mesh and causing the cage wall to dent slightly. Then, one last time… he picked up Eddie so that his feet weren’t even touching the floor, and smashed Eddie’s skull into the door like a battering ram.

The door came off of it’s hinges, and Eddie’s face smashed onto the ringsteps… the door lying in a twisted heap beside him as he hung, half-in, half-out of the Asylum.

The Freak grabbed one of Edward’s ankles, and reeled him back in like a fish on a hook. He dragged him into the centre of the ring… before picking up that steel door.

He looked down on Edward… watched him breath. Watched him live.

He hated it.

CRACK!!

CRACK!!

CRACK!!

CRACK!!

CRACK!!

CRACK!!

CRACK!!

The Freak smashed the hard edge of the door into Eddie’s jaw, knocking it practically out of place… Cheno’s teeth were loosened and his blood formed oceans under his head, as the door buckled and snapped apart, The Freak continuously tearing the steel apart over Cheno’s face. Once the door was too mangled to use… The Freak looked around the cage.

Eddie was motionless. The fans were hurling trash into the cage… booing and hissing. But The Freak wasn’t done.

He picked up a strand of barbed wire from earlier, and began to twist it around his arm… the pins digging into his flesh, but he was so out of it by now that he simply didn’t care. Within seconds his whole arm was completely wrapped in wire and smeared with blood… then, he turned back to Cheno with a smirk on his face.

He grabbed Eddie’s head and arm, as Cheno tried to struggle away groggily… but it was no use. The Freak’s arm found it’s way around Cheno’s neck… the barbed wire squeezing into Cheno’s fleshy tissue and piercing his throat as he gasped and coughed for air, blood rising in his throat. The Freak had locked in the Statistical Dehumanizer, plus barbed wire.

“SAY IT, SAY IT… YOU’RE A TRAITOR, A WORTHLESS WASHED UP… YOU…” The Freak rambled, as Cheno’s eyes grew bleary and his jaw rattled, spluttering claret all over the mat. The referee got into position, as Cheno’s arm flailed… but there was no escape. If he didn’t tap… he’d die.

*tap tap tap

The sound of Eddie’s hand slapping against The Freak’s arm, admitting defeat. Just as the referee called for the bell, Cheno dropped into unconsciousness like a lemming off a cliff.

But The Freak still kept the Dehumanizer locked on, shaking Cheno from side to side like a pit bull with a stuffed toy. The fans booed ad infinitum, as the referees crowded around the Bulldozer… screaming for him to release Cheno.

“REPENT! RE… REPENT! Human filth… you deserve only DEATH!” The Freak hissed, as the referees finally tore him away from Cheno.

‘Carpe Diem’ hit the speakers, and the EMTs began to storm down to the cage… the Bulldozer had once again smashed through an opponent.

If he was even the same person anymore.

“Where are you going?” A voice asked, causing Sebastian’s chest to pound even harder, but when his head turned to it’s side, he saw Carnage who came off a successful title defense earlier in the night. Finally Sebastian stopped and looked Carnage right in the face.

“I’m getting the fuck out of here,” Sebastian paused as he began to suck for air, “They’re gonna tell Joe, I’m fucked, I’ve gotta get out.. I’ve gotta get out of here.”

“So you’re still a part of the plan to take Campbell down?” Carnage asked as his arms folded firmly across his chest.

“Whatever man, whatever.. I don’t care anymore, I just need to get the fuck out of here.” Sebastian said as his hands rested on his kneecaps as he was bent down at the waist breathing heavily.

“Let’s go, I’ll drive.” Carnage aided the fatigued Thompson with him and the two exited the building. Far behind Michael D’Alesandro stopped also breathing very heavily, even after being nailed heavily with the blow from Thompson, even after having that key evidence stolen back from him, a smile crossed D’Alesandro’s lips, he could see that he and John C. Willis weren’t going to be in Campbell’s doghouse for too much longer.

He marched down to the cell, one arm thrust in the air, as the fans roared and cheered his name. But there was no time for niceties, cuz it was all business for now… apparently.

Hughes held the mic to his mouth, and waited for the seemingly endless chants to die down.

“I got a note saying someone wanted to meet me out here…

So, uh, come on out… I’m waiting.”

Nothing.

The crowd were murmuring, and still pretty pumped at the thought of seeing Hughes in action again… but there was no one coming.

“Play fucking games with me?! When I find out who this is I’ll…”

The Asylum-tron flickered to life, and this time Hughes was cut off mid-sentence.

The camera was obviously hand held, and held by someone in Anthony Hughes’ hospital room. The card Ty had given his dad earlier that day was still resting unread on the table next to him.

A trench coat covered arm reached out as a gloved hand picked up the card, and placed it on Mr. Hughes’ forehead. Before the arm disappeared… and re-emerged with,

A gun, with a silencer attached.

Ty Hughes in the cell could do nothing but watch, transfixed by the transpiring events.

The hand wavered, momentarily… before the index finger contracted. The gun fired. The card, pierced, along with Anthony Hughes’ skull. The blood started to trickle from the card as the camera fizzled out.

Ty stood perfectly still and dropped the mic to the canvas.

His face the picture of nothingness, as in total disillusion, he tramped his way back up the ramp and backstage.

The crowd, left in shock.

"Alright Quaid." A voice crackled in his ear "We're going to go silent now... you know the word, as soon as you get what you need from Campbell say it and we'll come in and do the rest."

"Peachy." Quaid sniffled "Stupid word if you ask me."

The static in his ear slowly faded down and he took a deep breath, before knocking on the door to Joe Campbell's office and making his way in.

Just in time to catch Joe doing a line of cocaine.

"Such good habits Joe... I never knew you were into crack."

Campbell's eyes blinked frantically as he wiped the remains from his nose.

"I'm not."

Inside a piece of Nicholas Quaid died... a drugs charge would've been a perfect platform to nail Joe with the rest of his crimes but now he had nothing.

"So what do you want Quaid? It's not my Birthday." Joe sneered.

"I just thought I'd drop by... see if any business needs tending to." Quaid replied, taking a seat.

"Nah... my Gran did the laundry this week, thanks though." Joe answered in an arrogant manor.

"Come on Joe... no need to be unpleasant, not after all of the favours that I've done for you." Quaid answered.

"Nope, I don't recall any of those." Joe shot back with a grunt.

Quaid was breaking inside, all of his leads were going nowhere.

Shockingly, his earpiece crackled with the words "Push him Nick."

Quaid jumped for a moment in a startled manor, Joe hadn't heard the noise but he'd seen the reaction.

"You look a bit jumpy Quaid... what's the matter, you killed someone or something?"

Quaid's eyes widened.

"No... have you?"

Joe smiled.

"Never... I don't kill people Quaid... I'm a business man." Joe began "So what's up anyway... you come in here wanting to hear about what I'm up to, how about you? I hear that the shit is about to hit the fan, that girl that one of your cop buddies raped a few weeks back is the daughter of a pretty nasty son of a bitch, word on the street is that he knows your name... surprised that you still have all of your fingers." Joe finished with a chuckle.

A bead of sweat rolled down Quaid's head.

"So... do you need anything done, does anyone need to be taken care of?"

"Get out Quaid, I call you... you don't call me, we can talk business when I want to, this small talk bullshit isn't my thing... I'll see you later."

Quaid slowly got up from his seet, feeling the cold stare of Dez Aragon in the corner of the room as he did... he'd failed, and now he was going to jail.

As he slowly brushed through the doors, a tear rolled down his cheek.

"What do you think Dez... piggy got wired?"

Aragon cracked his knuckled.

"Yep... shall I deal with him?"

"No..." Joe said with a sick smile.

"... I've got a better idea."

Villam Ender Vs Boris Borst
(10 Minute Challenge)

A lot can happen in 10 minutes. You can have an orgasm if you try really hard. You could peak on a line of coke. You could die in ten minutes from hanging yourself. Sometimes it takes 10 minutes to take a proper shit when you're constipated. You could approach to some girl at some party that seemed pretty dumb at first and then fall in love within the first 10 minutes of talking to her. In that amount of time you can begin to hate someone too.

10 minutes was all that Villam asked for. 10 minutes to show Borst precisely why he was the greatest Asylum Champion ever - despite what the polls said. 10 minutes to introduce Boris to the world of pain that is fighting the "strongest fighter in the world." And in Villam's own words...it would only take 10 minutes for Borst to become a believer in the God of Fight.

Joe was surely backstage, fuming and healing from the fuckhead given to him earlier. Joe didn't want this match to even take place, not only because of the obvious reason of not offering the people a preview of what was now slated to be the 'match of the century'. But, simply because Joe felt...no...knew...that once you get an inhuman monster like Villam in the ring with a Big Bad Motherfucker like Borst...the likelihood of either man coming out uncrippled, unmaimed or unscratched...is slim to nil.

Which for him meant...

...no Pay Per View main event.

"Fuckin' in the Bushes" by Oasis

Noisy guitar echoed throughout the arena as Borst came through the curtains and back into the lives of everyone in attendance. Borst nodded at his own standing ovation and climbed into the Asylum for the first time...in a long time. Borst leaned against the rim lazily...waited for "that queer's" music to play, signififying his entrance.

chuckachuckachickachickchuckachucka

Let the hate begin.

Drums, Two guitars and bass all fought against each other until a singers voice started to breathe heavily into his microphone.

The drums kept the beat until...

Dundun~dundun-dundun.

Dundun~dundun-dundun.

Pyros went boom.

Everyone in attendance went "Boo"

Must have read a thousand faces!
Must have robbed them of their cause
Sickened thirst, sickened thirst, Keeps it together!
Soft white glow in the cranium
A bulls eye made sedated

BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE!

"Arcarnsenal" by At the Drive In

Villam tore through the curtain with his mask firmly on his face. Yelling nonsensical things and pointing proudly to his Asylum Championship, reminding Borst who he was. Borst seemed non-plussed by the entire show and beckoned Villam closer. Villam handed his title to an official and climbed up the steps...

!!!

Borst swung!!!

Villam ducked and climbed back down the steps complaining to the ref about Borst's behaviour.

"Come on, man! He's acting like a fucking savage!" Villam whined.

Villam seemed completely unaware of the "Pot. Kettle. Black." chants.

The ref order Borst to back off and give Villam a chance to step in, while the people booed Villam's cowardice on the outside of the cage. Borst gave the ref Billy Two-Fingers but obliged all the same.

Villam hopped over the rim and shadow boxed a bit, while Borst was held back by the ref. Villam gave Borst the finger, mooned the crowd and just generally made an ass of himself. Borst was less than pleased...

...and showed it by punching the ref in his fucking face.

*Ding*

The clock started.

Villam looked completely unprepared as Borst came charging from the opposite side of the ring...Borst swung with a right hook and Villam ducked out of the way only to re-duck two more of Borst's punches.

Villam and Borst had now switched positions and Villam was backing away...with Borst swinging furiously at the eunuch. But Villam just kept moving and Borst just kept swinging...and all the while the people booed Villam.

QUIT RUNNING AND FIGHT, FAGGOT!

YEAH, FIGHT LIKE A MAN!!

Villam scoffed at the chants as he and Borst circled each other.

Borst swung with the left and Villam dodged off to the right.

Borst swung with the right and Villam dodged off to the left.

Villam stood on Borst's left side and Borst enveloped in his grow frustration tried to backhand Villam.

Villam ducked down low...

...and roundhoused the toe of his boot right into Borst's crotch.

Borst went down and the people started to boo Villam some more. Villam paced around a floored Borst pointing down at him and yelling "This is your hero!? This is your savior?" Villam angry now that the people still supported Borst, gave the fWo US champ a hard boot into the Borst's ribs causing him to fall over onto his back. Villam wasted no time in continuing to stomp away at Boris, knocking the air out of his lungs.

[Time - 8:03]

Villam finally ceased his relentless stomping and called for Borst to get to his feet...

...but the moment Boris propped himself up onto one knee...

SMACK~!

Villam gave Boris a deadly Taijiri-style right kick to the left side of the face.

Borst's head flew off to his right...

SMACK~!

Villam's left foot slapped off of the right side of Borst's head...

It seemed to be a repeat of the infamous match with Eli Flair as Villam waited until Borst's head drifted off to the left side again and...

SMACK~!

His right foot shot out like a snake, biting the already swollen left side of Borst's face.

The people are in awe as Borst seems not able to counter Villam offence at all. Villam pulls Borst to the mat and drags him over to the nearest rim and with a laugh he repeatedly rams Borst's face into the rim and keeps on until a cut appears in the Borst's forehead.

Villam then pulls Borst around - face to face...

...and slams the back of Borst's head into the rim!

The crowd starts hyperventilating as blood now drips from the back of Borst's head. They can't believe it. Borst is mounting zero defence and zero effective offence.

Was something wrong?

"What's wrong, indestructabitch?" Villam said as he twisted Borst around and slammed his face into the rim again...this time holding it there.

Villam began to slap the back of Borst's head as the people began to throw trash in...this time actually hitting Villam with cups and popcorn. Villam shrugged it off as the flexible eunuch lifted his right leg and set his foot on the back of Borst's head. Then, with a disrespectful yawn...

...he stood up.

One foot on Borst's head. The other on the rim.

Villam seemed balanced, relaxed...and even a bit...bored?

And the people hated him even more for it.

Villam gave himself a moment to wink at Yalenchka and tug on his absent crotch. As if to say, that even without a dick he could "satisfy" her. She just spat in his general direction and called for Borst to get to his feet.

"STRONGEST FIGHTER IN THE WORLD!!" Villam yelled.

Jeering was the crowds only reply.

"Fuck y'all then." Villam said as he hopped down and began to shadowbox in the center of the cage...leaving Borst to slump over the rim of the Asylum.

Villam took a look at the clock...

[Time - 4:16]

...the eyes behind the mask lit up with surprise.

He had to put Borst away.

"Well, I hate to say I told you so, mark." Villam said as he approached Borst cracking his knuckles...

"But-"

Villam was cut off mid-sentence by a chair flying his way while the crowd cheered "YEAAAAHHHHHHHHHH" very loudly.

Then there was the disappointed "Aaaawwwwww" sound that came just after the sound of...

*Whiff*

Villam had nearly bent completely backwards.

The crowd was near silent as Borst turned over the left side of his shoulder to look at Yalenchka who handed him the chair in the first place.

Borst tried to swing the opposite direction...

CLANG!

Villam's foot came down on the chair.

Borst cocked a fist back...

...and let 'er rip.

Right into Villam's face!

The crowd was on their face again as the sheer force from a Borst right hook knocked Villam's mask half off of his face.

Borst's recharged confidence turned into disbelief as a smiling and laughing Villam greeted him.

Boris looked down at his fist as if it was broken and he didn't have a warranty on it. Villam threw his second face off and...

Smash.

A very slow a deliberate head butt into Borst's nose, causing blood to spray from it all over the place.

Borst dropped to the ground and the ref began to count...

1.

2.

"That wasn't even my match ender!" Villam said walking away dusting his hands.

[Time - 2:52]

3.

4.

5.

6.

.

.

.

7.

.

.

.

Borst was up!!!

Huge cheers rocked the arena as these people, for whatever reason, were still in Borst's corner. Villam turned around and cursed in frustration...but soon Villam's demeanour changed back to being arrogant...as a punch drunk Boris swung at thin air...making his way towards the eunuch who stood in the center of the ring.

Villam kneeled...

...locked.

...loaded.

...fire!

One Winged, Angel Kiss!

Borst was back down.

Villam spat as he once again checked the clock.

[Time - 2:12]

The ref counted.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

No.

9.

And Borst was back up!!!

Villam shook his head in that *Main Event* Triple H "NO, NOT POSSIBLE" sort of way as he looked at the clock. Villam picked up the steel chair and slammed into the top of Boris's head. Again and Again and Again. Then with a laugh he threw the bloody chair out into the crowd.

He looked at the clock.

[Time - 1:50]

The ref counted, yet again.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

Borst was up again.

The crowd was going crazy now...chanting Borst's name, throwing trash at Villam...the works.

Villam yelled, ran and then jumped...

Hearthunter Kick.

Borst - who hadn't even gotten an chance to fully get to his feet - flew backwards his back meeting with the cold on forgiving rim.

There was no doubt in anyone mind that Borst was absolutely being taken to school and back home in this match. But the people were supporting him on sheer determination alone. The crowd was on the edge of their seats...each of them knowing that Borst just had to survive for bit over a minute...

Borst struggled to his feet...

Slam!

Boot right in the teeth.

Villam wasn't playing anymore and now it was a race to end the match. Villam flew into a fury of punches and stomps, pulling Borst to his feet he locked him in appeared to be a set-up for a suplex. But that wasn't what it was at all. The eunuch locked Borst in a front headlock and lifted - one arm - wrenching Borst's neck.

He kept lifting until Borst was at a 45-degree angle...and then he dumped Boris onto the rim stomach first. With Borst's head facing him and his leg dangling out of the ring
Villam took a step back and ordered the ref to get ready to count again.

Villam lifted his left leg straight up...

...and held it there.

...he looked like a straight line almost...

...and with a twist and a jerk he brought his heel down across Borst's head in a devastating axe kick.

Borst fell over into the cage, looking like...well...

...shit on a stick.

The ref counted.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Borst was up!!

Borst was slowly making it to his feet again.

"ARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!"

Villam let out a guttural scream and charged into Borst, spearing him and knocking him down to the mat.

[Time - 42]

Villam and Borst rolled around on the canvas exchanging blows back and forth. Villam finally got the upper hand...mounting Borst and laying fist after fist into his face.

Berserkergang-style.

Villam kept pummelling and pummelling as the clock ticked down.

[Time - 25]

24.

23.

22.

21.

20.

Punches landed harder and faster now.

19

18

17

16

15

14

13

12

11

10

Fist fell like raindrops, Villam just couldn't stop himself now.

9

"You fucking BITCH. TAP."

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

"TAP, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

1.

*Ding, ding, ding*

But, Villam kept going.

The ref tried to pry Villam off of Borst, but the full burnt of his hatred had control of him. The ref went flying into the canvas with a busted lip for his troubles.

The people were booing around him, but Villam didn't care.

Borst however?

Put a thumb in Villam's eye.

Villam jumped off of Borst holding his eye.

Borst jumped to his feet.

"BORIS!" Yalenchka yelled as she tossed in another steel chair.

Borst caught it

Borst threw it.

Villam caught it.

Borst damn near punched through the chair causing Villam to drop like a sack of doorknobs.

Borst gives Villam two fingers, jumps out of the cage and makes his way up the ramp, rubbing his bloody head wounds.

"Wait! Wait-wait-wait!!" Villam said as he got up...

The eunuch was handed a microphone just as Borst was heading backstage...

"Turn around Borst! You motherfucker. Turn the fuck around when I'm talking to you."

Borst wouldn't turn around.

"Turn around you, you, you...YANK!"

"OOOOOOHHHHH" the crowd yelled.

Borst slowly turned around, blood still running down his face.

"Thanks. I just got one thing to say, then you can kick rocks backstage and celebrate your little "victory".

Alright, I admit it. I didn't beat you in 10 minutes. You're a tough little bitch. But just because I didn't beat you in 10 minutes doesn't mean that I didn't beat your ass, homeslice.

Tonight the record books will show a "W" under your name. But, the camera will paint a different picture, I think. *huff* The picture of a washed up has been that couldn't hang in the cage with the strongest fighter in the world. Face it, jerk...you got worked. You got one punch off on me and it didn't even hurt. Do you see now...why I don't want to face you? *huff* It would be a horrible match. And an insult to fighting in general.

But, hey.

Whatever.

I'll fight you.

I'll fight you...

...because I hate you.

But, you better take me and this match seriously, Boris-cakes. Because as I proved tonight...I'm damn serious about beating the piss and shit out of you.

So you better be ready to for a serious fight, mate.

Or at the PPV...

.

.

.

...not even a 10-minute limit will save you from the wrath of the God of Fight."