Joe needed an idea, and fast.

The sound of a dialtone and then ringing awoke Joe Campbell from his deep alcoholic sleep, the back of his throat tasted like dog shit... and he looked like it too, letting out a belch he rubbed his purple bagged red bloodshot eyes and picked up his cell phone.

"The fuck... hello?"

Try again.

Joe tossed his cell phone to the ground and picked up his desk phone.

"What?"

Not even warm.

Joe slammed his phone down furiously.

"WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT FUCKING NOISE COMING FROM?" Joe screamed punching his fists into the air, finally his eyes wandered over to the Fax machine, which buzzed with activity.

"Aha... modern technology... the textamagig is picking up a message." Joe sneered... stumbling over to the Fax machine across a floor littered with empty pizza boxes and curry trays.

Joe tore the paper from the Fax and narrowed his eyes.

For the attention of: Joe Campbell

"Err... yeah?"

Regarding: Immortals.

"Right..."

From: Mark Knight.

"CUNT." Joe sneered, continuing to read.

Hello there Joe, I trust all is well... hope things are going as well as expected with your recent shows, I was informed that you had a few staffing issues, but not to worry... I'm sure that the arrival of a 21w related PPV will garner a little interest for you.

"You fucking cheeky ape... staffing issues my arse, none of them want to work because of you... fucking cunt... eat shit and die." Joe growled.

But less of the chit chat, business is business... I'd like to propose a special match for the upcoming Immortals PPV... a battle of wits you might say.

"Feh, you don't have much chance then you fucking spazza." Joe said chuckling to himself.

A test of integrity, knowledge of ones own players... what I propose as a very unique matchup... an Iliad match.

"Ilithefuck? What is this french wanker on about?" Joe grunted.

Allow me to explain... Iliad is the Latin term for, war.

"Eh... I knew that, fucking smart arse."

War which, I plan to wage upon you Joe... here's what I ask... six of your best fighters, Joe. And six of mine, strength Vs strength, agility Vs agility, technique Vs technique... the list goes on, a battle of selection... with the winner, obviously... being he who picks the most effective team.

"Fuck." Joe snorted... teamwork wasn't a term often used around the Asylum.

Anyway, I shall leave you kind sir... I would imagine you have a very busy Sund... ah yes I forgot... you don't have a set date for your shows, such organization... anyway, let me know which six you'll be entering.

Thanks,
Mark Knight.

"Fuck your nice, stick it up your jaxie." Joe coughed... spitting on the paper and throwing it across the room.

He struggled up to his feet and kicked a few of the boxes across the floor in a small tantrum.

"Fuck this! What the fuck am I saying... this little fucking beret boy doesn't own me... I fucking own the world, I fucking own him and I fucking own 21w... who does this faggot think he is sending me fancy textamagig messages... cunt, he doesn't call the fucking shots around here.

I do.

I call the fucking shots.

And its about time I started fucking calling them, fucker." Joe spat... picking up a snapped pencil from the floor and dragging out a wad of paper from the Fax machine, the time to note down some ideas was upon him.

The frantic Asylum fans in the arena glanced up at the superscreen above them. They looked on as the scene revealed a room, but not one in the actual arena. It appeared to be within the same warehouse that P&S and The Bullies fought in just last week.

Clayton walked into the room with the 21w tag team titles draped around his shoulders.

"Never thought I'd be holding these things," Clayton said sarcastically. Drake nodded as he sat down on the nearby bench. "Nope. The 21w tag team titles. all ours, now. Maybe not officially, but, we've never followed the rules anyway."

"Yeah, Clay… but," Drake said, taping his wrists up. "I don't think it'd be very wise if we went out there tonight with the Asylum titles, I mean… we don't want ours stol--"

"I'm miles ahead of you, Drake." Clayton said, walking over to a locker in the corner. "I know what The Bullies are planning on doing - stealing our titles. They have revenge on their minds, but it's not going to happen."

Clayton opened the locker up. "Just lay both titles down here, in the bottom of this locker and throw a few towels over them or something. No one will ever find them."

Drake thought about Clayton's suggestion. "Are you sure about that, Clay. I mean--"

"YES I'M SURE!" Clayton shouted. "Don't question me, Drake." He said, throwing one of the 21w tag titles in Drake's direction.

"Now, let's spread some more wisdom." Clayton said, exiting the room.

"You know baby, I worry about us!" Booty Brown looked up at Lotus, she had the women’s title over her shoulder. She looked at him and waited for him to continue. "I just, I just don't think you're bein' loyal to me."

Booty Brown frowned, "I know I'm not the man I once was but damn bitch..." Lotus glares at Booty Brown. "Don't ever call me a bitch!" She snapped back at Booty Brown, grinding her teeth together as she spoke. Booty Brown stopped talking for a moment, "I can't be handled dis shit... you pressurin' me and all!"

Lotus's headed bowed down, she was sad and confused. "Baby, I do have one more question... I thought we had a date on Thursday!" Lotus couldn't reply, she knew she was guilty of setting him up.

Booty Brown adjusted himself in his bling-blingin' wheel chair. "I waited so long baby... I pulled out all the stops. The rose pedals, the crystal, but yet you go to Uncut to Satake?" He pauses, "I know I aint the man I once use to be, being in this chair... not able to function like I once did... but I'm all the man I was before and will always be!"

Lotus grabbed Booty Browns hand, "It's not you Booty... it's just..." Booty cuts her off, "I'm going to ride into Uncut and take care of Masafumi myself... I'm to take him OUT! I will KNOCK HIM OUT!" Booty Brown tried standing up but fell back into his wheel chair.

"Matta of fact, if I eva see dat nigga again I'm gonna run his ass over with my mobile chair. Now come give Booty some lovin' my arm iz hurtin'!" Booty Brown reached out to Lotus, she bent over and gave him a hug. She rolled her eyes as a little smile cracked up across her face.

Joe Campbell had invited all of the fighters on his team with the exception of Providence.

Inmate, Carnage, and Hans Krueger all sat in chairs in front of the TV in Joe’s office. The tape was playing Nerva and Providence’s sexual encounter.

Nerva sat on her knees in front of them with her back to the TV and her head down.

Zoe sat on Joe’s desk, looking down at Nerva. “Listen to the fucking whore scream. ‘Oh, please don’t stop, Providence!’ Fucking whore.”

Inmate nodded at the action and kept his hands on the Asylum Championship belt on his lap.

Carnage sat in his chair staring blankly into the screen. He tried to make eye contact with Nerva, but her eyes were glued to the floor. Hans Krueger smiled and kept nodding his head.
“Dis is very good, Joe,” said Hans. “Very good.”

Joe reclined in his chair and took a drink from his whiskey. “Employee benefits, Hans.

Employee benefits.”

Marc Baiden and Seth Kard, collectively known as The Bullies, prowled around the huge warehouse, both carrying wooden baseball bats. Seth disappeared off screen for a moment while Marc Baiden continued to talk on his cell phone.

“No, no Knight… no… hey… hey, would you shut up for a minute?” Baiden said, stopping for a moment to rest his bat over his shoulder. He continued, “Look, you gave us your word that you would do EVERYTHING in your power to get our matches to take place on Uncut, in a REAL arena… not… hey, can I finish…? You said you’d get these matches on Uncut, and not in this stupid warehouse, and yet, we’re still here! Look, I’m extremely pissed off, Knight, and you of all people should know what happens when you piss Marc Baiden off…” he smirked to himself as he brought his baseball bat down, “yeah that’s right, he and his buddies run riot on your federation…”

After quickly checking out the other side of the warehouse, Seth came back to where his tag team partner stood. He signaled for Baiden to hand him the phone, “Come on man, let me talk to him…!”

Marc just swatted Seth away like an insect, “Piss of Seth, I’m on the phone… no… no, I wasn’t talking to you, Knight. You’re name isn’t Seth is it? Yeah, that’s right, it isn’t… idiot…”
Kard didn’t piss off; instead, he extended his hand, calling for the phone, which Marc eventually (and unwillingly) handed to him. Seth cleared his throat obnoxiously before speaking, “Hey, now look you pommy bitch - I don’t like this warehouse deal, okay? This isn’t the sort of place a guy like me should be hanging out… I deserve much better and you know that, don’t you, Knight…? Knight…?” Kard acted perplexed after he received no response, “Hello…? HELLO?!”

Seth Kard then stared at the phone for a moment, before he slapped it closed carelessly, “He hung up on me… That little BITCH! Can you believe that?”

“Yes, I can actually,” returned Baiden before turning his focus onto the reason they’ve been snooping about, “but look, that’s not important. Did you find their locker room? I’m sure they built some makeshift rooms in this here warehouse somewhere, so their belts should either be in there, or still with them.”

“Well no, I didn’t find their locker rooms, but I really didn’t get to look far, y’know?” replied Seth before noticing someone he found several feet away. “Let’s ask this guy here, eh?”
The two coolly strolled up to a guy, probably a fighting fan, who was pouring himself some water from a nearby dispenser.

“Have you seen Clayton Richler or Drake Kerrigan?” Marc asked, resting his bat over his shoulder. The guy looked up confusedly, so Marc elaborated. “You know, one really tall, scruffy-looking guy and another smaller guy with a pony-tail?”

“Nope, can't say that I have seen them,” The guy said, pouring some water into his Styrofoam cup. “Sorry.”

“Little bitches.” Seth stated, tapping the bat in his hand and clearly losing his patience.
“Yeah, right, of course you didn’t see them. Okay then.” Marc said peacefully, looking at Seth. “Then where the hell is their room?” demanded Marc as he hovered over the unknown man.

The man shook his head, drinking out of the cup now. “Ugh. I'm sorry, I'm not authorized to divulge that sort of infor--” Marc cut the man's reply off by smacking the cup out of his hand, causing it to splash all over his shirt and face.

“LOOK,” Marc grabbed the man's shirt-collar. “I don't give a shit about your authorizations. Where is their fucking room?!”

“Jesus!” The guy yelled, trying to squirm free. “OKAY…! Okay… Let… let me go and I'll tell you.”

Marc simply twisted the man's collar, causing him to choke, “You tell me. Now.”

Gasping for air, the man said, “. Take… take a right on the second turn-in near the back of the warehouse. Then, take a... a left turn on the first turn-in. It's the third or fourth door on the right down that hall. Third, I'm... I'm pretty sure.”

“You better be right, or else... bitch.” Seth threatened as Marc let go of the man's shirt and they walked off.

He's a tall man, for someone who's just watching the show (Which he isn't, mind you.) around six three or six four...

He takes a couple of sips from his coke, and takes a fast look around. He's waiting for someone to appear. This is where the fans go to see their fighters before the show. They sign autographs, and shake hands. It's all business to them. Promoting what they do best, and that's fighting. This man is here to promote a much more important cause. It's like manifest destiny, you could say.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spots the man he's looking for. He's awful big, isn't he? No matter, they all fall the same way. He takes a couple of steps forward, making sure he's not noticed. The giant wouldn't even expect it coming...

The man in the hood pulls out and brandishes a Walter nine-millimeter, he tucks it under his arm so no one would scream, or make a big fit over it. It'd be a clean job, really, walk past...

He wasn't as tall as the hooded man was, but he sure was built bigger. He was built a lot bigger. The man in the hood shuddered, and mumbled under his breath "I'm glad I don't have to wrestle around with that..." He was so close he could feel his heart beating. The gun was lying silently underneath his arm.

And then... A crowd of people surrounded him, and they moved slowly away. Too many people... There's plenty of time, though. He turned around, and walked away...

Gwen Vs DVD

Dawn Van Dammage.

And boy, did she look pissed.

Nord walked out in front, not looking particularly pleased either. Together they stepped into the Asylum, and Nord checked Dawn's gear in preparation for her upcoming, must-win match. Dawn didn't hear the cheering crowd. She didn't see Nord. All she saw was victory...

at any cost.

"Good Rats".

Gwen O'Reilly.

Ready for a fight.

Gwen stepped into the Asylum and looked across at her opponent. She had a 2-1 advantage over Dawn, but she wasn't about to let that go to her head. It was time to finish the series, and finish off Big Red. Nothing was going to stop her tonight. Tonight, her post-match drink was going to be a toast of victory.

Dawn's arms went up in a defensive posture as she advanced on Gwen. She snapped two kicks in succession at Gwen's mid-section, but they were easily swatted away. On the third kick, Gwen managed to trap the leg under her arm and counter with a stinging left hook. With the intense battles these two had fought, injuries had yet to heal properly. With a single blow, Dawn was easily opened up.

With blood trickling into her eye, Dawn's vision was momentarily limited. Gwen took advantage, landing several more punches to the bloody gash above Dawn's eye before kneeing her in the stomach. "Time to fix that nose lass," Gwen said as her knee smacked Dawn square in the face.

With stars in her eyes, Dawn staggered back. But as Gwen stepped forward, Dawn rallied with a stiff roundhouse kick out of nowhere. This time, it was Gwen's turn to stagger back.

The dazed look in Dawn's eye was gone, replaced with a predator's stare. Gwen charged, grabbing a handful of red hair and throwing Dawn to the mat. Dawn kipped up and kicked Gwen in the stomach. She jammed the Irish brawler's head between her legs and pulled her up, cradling her leg.

Van Dammager.

Dawn didn't wait for a count. She moved in quickly, driving her knee into Gwen's head in rapid succession. The thud from the impact could be heard several rows back. Before she even got to her feet, the bloodstain on Dawn's knee told the fans that Gwen was bleeding, and bleeding badly.

Now it was a real fight.

Gwen started to recover, wiping the crimson from her eyes. Another stiff knee to the face knocked her off balance, but she managed to get her legs under her. Off-balance but standing, Gwen managed to duck another kick to the head and slip behind Dawn. She spun Van Dammage around and hooked her arm.

End of the Rainbow.

The crowd roared as the floating suplex took Dawn down hard. Nord began shouting at Dawn, demanding she get to her feet. Dawn had no intention, no desire, to stay down. It was getting her body to respond that was the problem. Gwen wasn't about to let her get up though. All Dawn could see was the bottom of Gwen's foot.

Emerald Synthesis.

Or would have been, if Dawn's head hadn't moved.

Dawn rolled to her feet, blocking a kick to the face. Gwen wasn't letting up. She wanted this win, and she wanted it bad. But so did Dawn.

The two women stared at each other. Both wore the crimson mask of battle. Both were aching from injures from previous encounters. Neither one would allow themselves to feel the pain.

It was about the fight now.

Gwen kicked Dawn in the shin. Dawn retaliated with a kick of her own. Gwen started throwing punches. Dawn counter punched. Style and finesse were set aside as the two stood toe to toe, blow to blow. A red mist formed after every blow. A kick. A punch. An elbow. Finally, Gwen saw an opening and she launched her elbow into Dawn's windpipe.

Unlucky Charm.

Dawn saw it coming and slipped behind her.

Heaven Opener.

A ten count later, it was over.

Dawn slumped against the cage. She didn't hear herself being awarded the victory. She didn't see Nord coming in, concerned that Dawn might collapse. She just clutched the steel, and began thinking about the next fight.

She won the fight. But the series, the war, was far from over.

Gwen-2 Dawn-2

She popped her quarter into the machine and turned around. “Hello, Hans.”

She turned around to choose her drink, but Hans grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her around.

“I vasn’t done talking,” he said, flashing a grin of missing and chipped teeth. “You know, since Joe is revarding his fighters nowadays for vorking hard, why doesn’t he revard me? I think I deserve a revard, don’t you? I don’t think dat Joe will mind if I take my revard.”

He pushed her against the machine, causing a can to roll down. She turned away from him and pushed his face as far away from her as possible. “Don’t be a bitch,” he said. “You don’t disrespect me like dat. You understand?”

She threw his hands away from her breasts and pointed a finger in his face. “No, YOU understand this. I’m Joe Campbell’s property. That means I’ll do what he says. That doesn’t mean I’ll do what you say.”

Hans tried to pull at her tank top, but she pushed him away again.

“Stop it,” she said. “Do you understand me? Stop it.”

“I’m afraid not, porno whore.” He grabbed her by the hair and tried forcing himself on her again as she squirmed against the pop machine. “Stop… being… difficult!”

Suddenly, Providence came around the corner and rushed to the situation. “Hans! Get off of her, man.”

Hans turned to see Providence and immediately got off of Nerva. “What can I say?” Hans said. “She was being a bitch to me!”

Providence put himself between Hans and Nerva. “Back off from her. Leave her alone. She’s got enough to deal with, okay? Just go away. Back off!”

Hans shook his head and grabbed the can from the pop machine. He handed it to Nerva and smiled. “I hope you like Dr. Pepper.”

As Hans walked off, Providence put a hand on Nerva’s shoulder. “You okay?”

She nodded, keeping an eye on Hans.

“That guy better've been right, y’know?” Seth said as he stopped next to a large wooden door. "Ugh, why do these Asylum bitches always have to hide?” he asked.

“They're pussies, that’s why,” Marc said, knocking on the door with his bat. “Now… get
ready,” he told Seth.

A few seconds went by, and there was no answer, so Marc went for the doorknob.

“Damn it,” Marc said as he struggled to open the door. “Locked.”

Seth smiled and lined his bat up with the doorknob. He then gave it a few smashes, finally snapping it off. Marc then kicked the door open and they walked inside.

Marc sniffed the air. "This has got to be their room… it smells like shit." He said, and both Bullies laughed.

Seth surveyed his surroundings. “What now?” he asked.

“Just go through the stuff. Look under their benches,” Marc said. "There’s a good chance those titles are in here."

Seth rummaged through the two gym bags lying on the bench, throwing random apparel all over the room as Marc went through each locker one-by-one. Most of them were empty, but he found something interesting in one near the door. He was about to close it until he noticed a black piece of leather sticking out beneath a few towels.

"Well, well, well," Marc said, kneeling down and picking the towels off of the Asylum tag team titles. "Jackpot!" He yelled, throwing one of the titles over to Seth and keeping one for himself.

"HAHAHA!!!" Seth laughed hysterically, throwing the belt over his shoulder. "I can't believe we... you found them! Little too big for me, though."

Marc smiled and looked down at the Asylum tag title in his arms. "Two can play this game, boys." He mumbled to himself, and left the locker room with Seth following closely behind him.

to release some of the heat which hurt him so…

And finally that moment came.

"Joe Campbell… the man who had driven me from this very place. The man, who had tried his very best to destroy me, is now the only reason I stand before you. Contrary to what most of you are probably thinking, I'm not here to attack Joe or even disrupt his show. You see… Joe and I are like day and night. Sure we have our differences, but it is the bond between us that has brought me back to this place. Every day when Joe wakes up, he has to face the day knowing something he hates with every ounce of his body exists. Well, I too have to face every day bearing this hatred, knowing my life was torn apart by something I'd once loved… Wrestling."

He struggled to swallow, as his mouth had gone dry. He took the time to gather his thoughts once again, and took a mouth full of water from the small plastic bottle he held in his left hand.

"Together… Joe and I will get our revenge. Like Borst before us, we will destroy wrestling."

In an act of anger, the microphone was thrown to the mat where it shattered and sent small fragments of plastic scattering throughout the Asylum. With nothing left to say, he swiftly made his way out of the Asylum, his mission had begun.

Through the graveyard, .desolate walked, his footsteps muffled by the grass and dirt under foot. In the bright light of the sun, his skin stood out pale, and against that the scar, still fresh but healing, showed in stark contrast. As he wandered between the rows and columns of the dead, his eyes flickered back and forth, lighting on each gravestone as he passed, discarding each moments later as the light of recognition failed to strike. Finally, however, he stopped. Before him stood a small marker, uniform in design but clearly rough-hewn, something made by the hand of man rather than machine.

Rich Mader, the father of Daijah.

The name and dates of birth and death showed on the stone, and he stared at it for long moments. A distant flash of light brought .desolate’s gaze up, and he lifted his eyes, and stared towards the entrance. Grinning slightly, he watched as sunlight glinted off the windshield of a car. He stared hard at the car for several long moments, as it slowed to a stop and the door opened. As he caught the slight reflection of light shining off of the trench coat that Daijah Mader wore, he turned away from the tombstone and walked beyond it, further from Daijah.

Kneeling down, he pulled a small, tight fitting knit hat out of a pocket and put it on his head, tucking his long hair up into it. It wouldn’t do, he knew, to have Daijah recognize him immediately. And so he knelt, his long, distinct hair hidden up in the hat, at a random gravestone. His back prickled as he crouched there, knowing Daijah, a man who, he knew, rightfully enough wanted to kill him. As he knelt at the tombstone, he reached slowly into his pocket and grasped the switchblade he kept on him wherever he went. His hand toyed with the button as he crouched, his head down and his duster tight over his shoulders.

The dull, muted thud of boots on grass reached his ears, and he refused the desire to turn around. The promise of violence filled his chest with a fluttery, thump-thumping of his heart against his rib-cage. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in awhile. It was the feeling of being alive.
Gravel shifted behind him, as Daijah walked up the path towards his father’s grave, and where .desolate crouched, seen but ignored by Daijah. Waiting for the right moment, .desolate shoved his right fist into his pocket, sliding his fingers into the brass-knuckles. After several long moments, the footsteps stopped, and Daijah spoke.

“Father,” he said softly, staring, .desolate was sure, down at the plot where his father’s decomposing and insect ridden body rested. As he heard the words spoken, .desolate stood up, keeping his back to Daijah. Turning sharply, he kept his head down as he walked past Daijah who, so consumed in paying his respects to the deceased, didn’t notice him as he past.

And then he went into action. Pulling the knife out of his pocket, he depressed the button swiftly as he turned, his duster billowing out behind him as he spun, the click of the switchblade extending accompanying. He grabbed Daijah by the collar of his trench coat with his brass-knuckled fist and yanked him backwards and, as Daijah yelled out in surprise, he pressed the blade firmly against his throat.

“say a word, and i’ll kill you,” .desolate whispered against Daijah’s ear. “you think you can get me? you think you can threaten me?” he asked softly, his voice ghostly as he spoke. “i could cut you open like i did your vagrant friend, and you couldn’t do a thing about it . . .” Daijah tried to speak, to say something, but as he opened his mouth, .desolate shoved him forward.

“here’s your warning,” he hissed, slamming his right fist out, slamming the brass-knuckles into the base of Daijah’s skull, sending the other man crashing to the ground. Kneeling down, .desolate rolled Daijah to the side, checking his breathing. He nodded as he felt the mans’ breath against his palm- he was alive. Looking down, he noticed three black roses that had been placed on the gravestone. Smiling to himself, he shoved a single black rose into his pocket and grasped the grave marker.

He lifted it easily, holding it in his hands as he moved it around for several moments, trying to get a better grip on it. Finally deciding on a way to hold it- under his arm, held with his right hand -he gave one final glance at Daijah. Blood stained the grass in light crimson where Daijah’s head lay, not enough to threaten his life, .desolate knew.

It wouldn’t do to kill him, .desolate thought as he made his way out of the graveyard, the hand-hewn marker under his arm. Afterall, there were to many games to be played until the end.

She twisted the knob without thinking, slamming the door against the wall as she made her entrance. Cheno was on the opposite side of the room, but spoiling it with his clothes. Where was the embaressment in this, where was the fun.

"Ya ever hear of funken knocken wo-mang?" Cheno said while putting down the magazine he was flipping through, and then staring at her puzzled.

Nicole stepped toward him. "You never knocked on my door."

"Oh yeah, dat be a funken mistake mang. Sorry bout dat."

She moved even closer to him, grabbing him by the arm. "You know, if I was stupid then I would have thought that was an accident. You came in exactly when I was getting out of the shower too."

That made Cheno look like a pervert. He wasn’t anything like that and things were far too weird for what she suggested with her hand. So he shrugged her off, taking two steps backward. Dissapointment crept over Nicole’s face.

“You saw me. Now I see you.” Carson smiled.

“No way mang, dis ain’t no funken way to be. You know dat was a funken accident, so just be with it.”

The dissapointment was there again and Cheno couldn’t help to feel a little sorry. “Listen, I aint doin it.” He said as he stood back a little more, for the final time.

”Puhhleeease.”

”No.”

“Yes.”

”No.”

“Yes.”

”No, and dats it!”

She begged, “Come on!”

“YOU BE FUNKEN PERSISTENT! FINE, WO-MANG! YOU WANT IT, YOU GOT IT!” A bit annoyed over this, he dropped his pants in one swift motion. There was a moment of silence, where Nicole looked as long as she could. Then after the awkward silence, Cheno put Eddie Jr. back into his room.

Carson nodded in approval, a big grin on her face.

”Happy now?”

”Yep.”

"Watch where you're going, asshole." as Milo falls a few steps back. With closer inspection, Samus couldn't even see his face. What's even worse is the guy was standing right there in front of him, without moving. Milo just gives him an odd stare, and walks past...

"Hey!" the man shouts, as Milo barely has enough time to turn around as he's staring down the barrel of a nine-millimeter. He takes off running, almost at sprint. Samus can almost hear the shots ring throughout the arena, as he knows he is about to get shot. He turns his head and the figure is swiftly on his heels. Milo takes a sharp turn down a corridor.

No help here, as he stops to turn a knob. Locked, he takes off once again. The man is a deal behind, but is catching up quickly. Now is the time he wished he would have taken stacker 3's when he had the chance. A swift turn, and yet another down another hallway which was on his immediate left. He barges through a door and ducks beside the wall. The man runs by, not noticing that Samus turned the extra hallway. Milo runs back and takes a sprint the way he came.

He was in the clear, but the man had a gun. He was breathing very heavily trying to balance the oxygen back into his lungs, his heart racing like the Indy 500. All he could do was bend over and let the saliva run out of his mouth. His head was clouded, as he could only wonder what lie ahead. The man hadn't fired at him, but perhaps he wanted to save his gratification by having Milo's head in his hands when his brain fluids splashed against the wall.

Something was wrong here, and Milo knew it.

Not least... much that wouldn't get him thrown in prison.

So he pulled a few contractual strings, he lined a few federale pockets and he generally corrupted and swayed anyone official that presented themself as a problem, but as much as he liked to believe it... Joe wasn't above the law... and he couldn't get away with offing Knight unless it was specifically and contractually agreed to on Asylum ground.

A bunch of screwed up papers lay on the floor, scribbled on.

Remove Beret, shit in it... place back on head.

Sedate, tie up... place in flowered dress... leave in dark room with Ravestrial Comprende.

Shoot.

Smear genitals in honey, leave for ants.

Stab.

As Joe scribed down "CRUCIFY" he hurled the paper to the ground and held his head in his hands... it seemed as though the idea would never come.

"Problems Campbell?"

Joe looked up to see Asylum champion, the Inmate... pacing through the door.

"Nothing Pete, go away." Joe replied... he might've been pissed off, but he still remembered that a deal was a deal.

Inmate paused for a moment... he was never going to get used to hearing the name Pete.

"Say, I gotta ask you man... it'll sound wierd, but you and me... we've been here since day one, you're kind of the only guy I'll ever trust around here... so I gotta ask you...

What's the deal with this Williams guy? I can't remember shit since I took the hit on the head, did I help him out or something, did he help me?" Inmate questioned Joe, who looked up.

"You guys go way back... you're best friends, trust me... you can trust him, Token wants nothing but the best for you Pete... he'll watch your back, he's a good man." Joe said, almost regretting his every word... even he struggled to bend the truth.

"Aight... just needed to know." Inmate grunted, turning and leaving the office.

Suddenly... from nowhere... an idea formed in Joe Campbell's head... he quickly picked up a pen and scribbled on the paper before him.

This idea, was a keeper.

Dope's "Fuck The Police" blasted throughout the warehouse's makeshift sound system and Pain & Suffering walk out onto the large wooden stage simultaneously. They wore the 21w tag team titles around their waists, instead of the usual around-the-shoulder look and huge black pads engulfed their elbows and knees. The fans chuckled a bit as Clayton Richler and Drake Kerrigan entered the cage in the middle of the warehouse, carrying their microphones.

Clayton took his stance in the center of the cage as Drake stood in the corner.

"Hello!" Clayton shouted out at the laughing fans. "I know what all of you are thinking. This is a new look for us, right? Massive elbow and kneepads and wearing our titles around our waists like true wrestlers do, right?" The fans laughed as Clayton tried to pace around the ring with his large kneepads on.

"Well, you know, since we're the new 21w tag team champions, we figured that we'd honor their federation by at least wearing their attire, right?" Clayton asked the audience.

Clayton nodded. "Right. So, here we are: styling as true wrasslers!" He yelled out mockingly to the small crowd of random fans around the warehouse.

Drake then raised the mic to his chest. "You're killing them, Clay."

Clayton turned to Drake. "I know, I know! Alright, I'll cut to the chase. I fucking hate 21w, therefore I hate wrestling, and I disowned the wrestling business for a reason. It treated me like shit, and I think Drake can say the same. The time that we spent in federations, sure, we did well. We were very prosperous, but that's only because we busted our asses. Wrestling never gave anything to us in return!"

Clayton then attempted to pace around the cage again. The pads once again hindered his path, so he reached down and tore them off. "And I never thought much about the fighting business either, until… well, until this war commenced. I can safely say that, even though Joe Campbell has put both Drake and myself through hell on numerous occasions, we've generally been treated well here. I can't say the same for wrestling. So, basically, what I'm saying is…

"Fuck wrestling. Fuck 21w. Fuck The Bullies and fuck these pathetic titles!" Clayton shouted, ripping the 21w tag title off from around his waist. Drake then did the same, and they threw the 21 tag titles down onto the mat of the cage.

That's when “Born of Desire” by Mushroomhead cut into the large speakers on the top of the ramp and Seth Kard and Marc Baiden walked out onto the stage with the Asylum’s tag team championships in their possession. Clayton and Drake's jaws dropped as they saw what they thought they saw their bitter rivals wearing around their waists.

"Whe-H… HOW the FUCK did you FUCKING GETS THOSE TITLES!?" Clayton yelled maniacally.

Marc Baiden chuckled and said, "You couldn't have concealed them more idiotically, guys. Simply lying under some towels in your locker! You really thought that'd fool us? You idiots!"
Seth Kard chuckled as well. "Yeah, little bitches." He added, leaning in on Baiden’s microphone, before shining his stolen tA tag title up with his forearm.

Clayton turned to Drake, who was still staring down at The Bullies in disbelief. "You. Fucking. Fool!" Clayton shouted at Drake.

Drake turned to Clayton, clearly angered. "Shut the fuck up, Clayton! You told me to hide them there!"

"That doesn't mean that you follow everything that I say! Be intelligent for once!" Clayton yelled back.

"You're such a fucking hypocrite!" Drake retaliated.

Meanwhile, The Bullies were standing on the ramp, belly-laughing at Pain & Suffering. "Look, it's a lovers quarrel!" Seth said, laughing.

Clayton turned back to look at Marc. "Why... you fucking prick! I'll get you!"

Marc and Seth took a few steps forward. "Clayton, you can crack as many jokes and insults about 21w as you like, because the truth is, neither of us give a fuck about 21w either. We just want our fucking titles back," Marc said, nearing the cage. "NOW!"

Drake glared down at Marc with fury in his eyes. "Then why don't you come and get them, asshole?" He asked.

Marc and Seth then made a run for the cage door, but Clayton quickly pump-kicked Marc in his head, sending him back to the floor outside. Seth managed to get in though and nail Clayton down with a solid clothesline. Seth then made a run for the 21w tag titles lying on the mat, but Drake put a stop to him by smashing a big boot into his head.

Marc ran into the cage and kicked Drake in his gut, then suddenly planted him down to the mat with his DDT variation "Deep Impact". Drake rolled around on the mat, holding his head. Marc then grabbed his 21w tag titles and made a run for the cage door, but Clayton was too quick and smashed the door closed and then punched him in his nose, causing Marc to fall back to the mat. Clayton then turned around, only to be nailed with a spinning heel kick courtesy of Seth Kard.

Drake then tried to grab Seth, but Seth was too quick and ducked. Seth then scrambled to the door, hauled it open and he and Marc jumped out of the cage. Drake and Clayton then grabbed the 21w tag team titles, rushed out of the cage and chased The Bullies all the way backstage.

Inmate & Token Weed Vs Hypnosis & Ricky Wasp

A sight that no Asylum fan thought they would ever see.

Asylum Champion, the Inmate... standing side by side with one of the sickest individuals in the game, Token Weed... it was the most unlikely of pairings... and it went without mention, that Inmate was entering behind Token, to Token's music.

As the two reached the Asylum... they discussed tactics.

"Alright Pete." Token snarled.

"You go in hard on the big guy, I know you and he have beef... meanwhile, I'll take care of that no good nigger." Weed sneered.

Inmate nodded his head... failing to see the irony in the fact that he'd just been sent in the direction of a 6'9 282lb wall of hate.

Which, as "The Shawshank Redemption" by Thomas Newman hit the pa system, started to make its way down the aisle... the crowd gasped, hissed and booed as the monster parted the curtain alongside his father whom never left his side, the two made their way down to the Asylum... unpelted by trash, it seemed as though even the fans knew where to draw the line with Ricky Wasp.

Without fear, without trepidation... Ricky Wasp clambered up into the Asylum and stood before his two enemies, the Inmate and Token Weed.

Before the tension could erupt into violence, "Brutality" by Urban Voodoo hit the speakers as Hypnosis tore through the curtain to a good reaction from the crowd... rushing down the aisle, he wasted no time in jumping the Asylum rim and rushing straight at Token Weed, blasting him right a right hook as the bell rang.

And Inmate rushed at Ricky Wasp.

Surprisingly... Inmate held up his part of the bargain, as a bloody Token Weed crumpled under the furious boot of Hypnosis, Inmate tore into Ricky Wasp with everything he had, right hooks and left hooks, uppercuts... elbow shots, knees to the kidneys... but Wasp was almost like a machine, no specific area of his structure was weak or prone... he was almost immune.

CRUNCH!

Burton went for the jewels... an area which he'd often floored even the biggest of men with... he was greeted however, by the most disturbing snarl he'd ever witnessed... likened to a bear which was hurting, but way too pissed off to face.

SNAP!

A wicked bear like paw from Wasp snapped Inmate's head back, sending a steady stream of blood coursing from his mouth and lip, tainting the canvas red... as Wasp stood over Inmate and cannoned into him with rights and lefts, the tides between Hypnosis and Token were quickly turning.

Hypnosis stooped down to land yet more sadistic blows to the already bleeding and bruised face of Token, but found himself trapped in one of Token's more effective holds... what could only described as a full body vice, gripping Hypnosis and pulling him in so close that he couldn't possibly draw back and land a good enough show.

Coupled with sinking his teeth into Hypnosis' shoulder and drawing blood, it worked.

Hypnosis struggled in agony... only granted freedom by much to his surprise... Ricky Wasp, who send a hard to end into the temple of Token, stunning him into motionless on the canvas, as Hypnosis got up, he continued to drive boots into Token... who also found himself quickly saved.

By the Inmate.

Who rushed in from the side and connected with the side of Hypnosis' skull, lashing out with a wicked jab... as a stunned Hypnosis staggered back... Token struggled up to his feet battered and bleeding, he managed to duck the advancing Ricky Wasp who lunged in like an animal preparing to devoir its prey.

BLAM!

Hypnosis took a huge clothesline from Burton. Dropping to the ground and hurting down and hurting as the Inmate measured his next move. Burton turned around in time to see Token Weed nail an off balance Ricky Wasp from no-where with the pump-kick! Wasp goes hard back into the cage, and in doing so hits the ref. The refs goes down but isn't out.

Disbelief gradually filters through the crowd... Token's finishing blow only knocking the big man to a crouching position, gasping for air none the less.

Wasp, on one knee and holding his chest was furious. He grabbed the cage and pulled himself up. But not before the Inmate was once again upon him and trading with him punch for punch. Inmate appeared to be losing ground, but was quickly pushed aside. by Token Weed.

WHAM!

A steel chair was driven into the forehead of Ricky Wasp. But the monster doesn't go down! The crowd continued to murmur in shock at what they were witnessing... as an agitated Token Weed grew further impatient.

"Borst!" Token snarled, only a select few would ever know who he was shouting at.

Token looked at Inmate, and tossed the chair at Wasp.
But Hypnosis, getting to his feet, was pulled in front by Wasp, only to catch the chair. That's all it took.

Fuckhead!

the Inmate knocked Hypnosis clean off his feet... prompting a shocked eruption of cheers from the crowd, the mere nostalgia factor of the hold being enough. Wasp quickly realized what he'd done, as he smiled and looked to his father.

Looking for praise from his father? Probably. Dumb move? Definitely. Because in the time it took him to look at his father, Token had tossed Hypnosis out of the Asylum, and won the fight.

the Inmate, Tyler Burton... stood in the cage. Why had he reacted with that specific move given all the things he could've done? He didn't have a clue what to do now, until Token grabbed his arm and Inmate noticed that Wasp was about to get some post-fight retribution.

But Wasp wasn't quick enough, Tyler and Token were on their way up the ramp to the Boo of the fans and the sound of Soil's "Halo". The fans wanted blood. The fans wanted fighting. They didn't want the Champion and his 'friend' walking away from a fight.

But that's what they got.

While the camera switched back to the Asylum, Rick Wasp and his father both stood inside the cage looking down at Hypnosis on the outside.

"You lost the match for us you lousy half-breed!" shouted Richard Williams as Hypnosis was just starting to get off the ground. "You're pathetic! Come on Son, leave that bastard where he is!"

And with that Richard lead his Son up the aisle, leaving Hypnosis beaten... and betrayed.

"Fuck yeah, the way you nailed Hypnosis with your finisher was great Borsty... I'm buying the beers, because tonight is an important night Borst, its the beginning of our time calling the shots in the Asylum."

Token Weed smirked and backed away. "Meet me at the car Pete, we're celebrating tonight."

Celebrating? How could Tyler celebrate? He had won the fight, and done it only days after getting some retribution on Biggs, but something else had happened.

Something moments ago that maybe the fans didn't exactly notice.

the FuckHead.

All of his thoughts. All of his memories. Nothing made sense at the moment. Every jumbled together like mush. He had only a split second out there to make a decision on what to do, and he choose to do something he knew he'd regret. He hit the chair. Now even trying to decide why he had done it was driving him insane.

Was he Borst? Was He Burton? He didn't know who he was anymore... all he knew was one thing...

He needed a drink.

Celebrating? Maybe not, but he'd definitely be getting pissed.

"HUH?! WHA..Where...."

Campbell was jolted out of a sleepy haze. He looked down at the pencil that was still lodged between his thumb and finger...then down at the paper, which adorned the many ideas for Immortals that his brain had generated over the past couple of hours...He'd forgotten everything since his nap and, just as he was about to read over the notes he'd scribbled, a member of security decided to let himself in...

"Hey Mr Campbell...I've been knocking for the past minute. Didn't you hear?"

"I, err. Sorr...." Campbell snorted, then scowled... "Hey, get the fuck outta my office!...And take that...THING with you, whatever the fuck it is."

"Oh this." The man looked down at a finely crafted blamange that sat on the plate he was holding. "Yes, this is what I came for...I'm just delivering. It's called....Kentucky Jello."

Joe's stomach growled...All that writing and sleeping had made him hungry.

"Eh...Put it on the table."

The security guard obliged, setting the jello down beside Joe.

"Hey, not there!...Almost put it on my fucking paper you cockmonger. Now...get out of my office before I call security..."

"Err, I arm security."

"......Do you know who I am?!" Campbell threatened to jump out of his seat and flatten the man opposite.

"I'm gone." He replied, leaving Joe alone with the blamange.

"Pssh...Why the fuck am I being sent a blamange?" After breathing a loud sigh and stretching his arms out behind his head, Joe's eyes swam around, over to the jello and, more interestingly, the note that resided beside it...

"Hmm..."

*Picking up the note and reading*

hALO MiSTRE campbelL...zOtan oF GRibbLfr!"itz here....I ju)(ST wanTed to OfFer my Appolojeez FoR tAkIng YouR mOnEy flo$£wing Lastw ekks SHOW!!!.....YeAh....aNd so I prE£$seNt to You ThIs, my vEry SPecIal Kentu"£cky Jello as A Piece MAY-KER....ENJOY^%!!!

ThaNk yoU Plz.

zotaN.

Joe upturned his top lip in disgust, at the barely coherent note sent to him by 21w's Zotan...

"Fucking freak..."

Joe leant over and sniffed.....

"Smells alright..."

After picking up the spork, Campbell tucked in and quickly began eating away...

"Mm."

Still desperately hungry, Joe began ravaging the jello, shovelling as much of it down his gut as he could, before there was a knock on the door...

"FUCKING HELL!.....WHAT IS IT?!"

The door swung open to reveal the same security guard who had just left...

"What the fuck do you want?! Can't you see I'm eating?! I told you to PISS. OFF!"

But the security guard shook his head... "No, no!...Mr Campbell, I just realised...Kentucky Jello....Think of it...Kentucky Jello?!...Ring any bells?"

Being an Englishman, Campbell had no idea what the idiot was babbling on about.

"Yeah, FOOD. Now FUCK. OFF!!!"

"It's obvious!" The guard beemed... "Kentucky Jello...KY Jelly..."

Joe gave him a quizzical look...

"Over here in the US, KY Jelly is the brand name of a type of sex lubricant! That could be KY Jelly that you're eating!"

Suddenly Joe went blue...He bent down and held his stomach, as a sickly feeling came over him and he staggered waywardly over to his desk, before dropping a hand down and starting to convulse.

"Mr Campbell?" The guard peered over.... "Are you OK?"

"Eurgh...Eurgh....Eurgghhhhhhhhh!!....*SPEWW*"

Campbell ejected some of the KY Jelly, vomitting all over the desk....Then again...and again...and again....The foul liquid flying everywhere...

"Awww....." The 'guard' grinned... "Not feeling too well, HUH?" He chuckled, patronisingly.

Campbell staggered to one side, holding his stomach, arched over. He then shot a look over at the desk that he'd just puked over and then darted forwards, grabbing the papers he'd been scribbling ideas onto for the entire night...

"NOOOOOO!!!"

...Yep. He'd spewed all over his devious plans...All of which he'd forgotten. And the 'guard' just laughed, as Campbell swung around, so sick that he was seeing triple...

"Who the fuck are you?"

The guard took his jacket off to reveal a black 21w t-shirt with the 21w logo stitched onto the right breast...

"Name's Schaeffer...Don Schaeffer. I work for Mark Knight........Soooo, we just keep getting one over on you, don't we Campbell?"

Joe's face turned from blue to a bright shade of red, as his body was instantly filled with rage. But he felt as if he was about to collapse...

"Ah, well..." *Throwing on cap and jacket* "I've got to be off now, Joe, before you can buzz for any legit security......Don't eat it all at once!"

With that, Schaeffer exited the room and slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Joe alone with the soaking, ruined papers...

He wanted to cry...

Again.

...Then, as he fell into his chair and held his stomach in agony, before passing out, Joe was just able to read the note that had been flipped over to the other side...

--¿wANT mORE?--